Bird-Notes :: :: University of Virginia Library

Flowers are born and die
In the field,
Some sweet, some odourless,
Some made to heal and bless,
And some to slay no less,
But all are heavenly,
And heaven in all revealed.

Worlds are born and die
Throughout space,
Suns and circling spheres,
And comets wild as tears,
That fill the stars with fears,
But all are heavenly,
And run one heavenly race.

Loves are born and die
In the soul,
Loves innocent and wild;
Pure as a laughing child
Some seem, and some defiled,
But all are heavenly,
And seek one heavenly goal.

IV. Greeting.

I send my love to you,
And sweet repose,
A snow-white dove to you,
A fan, a glove to you,
A crimson rose.

The dove shall brood while you are fanned
By singing maids to rest,
The glove shall clasp your gentle hand,
The rose lie on your breast.

What will you bring to me
Lest I despair?
A flower, a ring to me,
A ribbon-string to me,
A lock of hair?

The flower in music shall be pressed,
The ring shall make me brave,
The ribbon lie on my living breast,
The hair-tress in my grave.

V. Sphere-Music.

Musical ecstasies
Star-born of glittering skies!
Spiritual symphonies,
Immortal melodies,
Mystical rhapsodies
Of souls in Paradise!

Star-galaxies that shine
About the lucid pole,
Your spirits speak with mine,
Your myriad minstrels twine
A harmony divine
About my listening soul.

Is it your song that steals
Along the enchanted air?
Is it your soul unseals
The silence, and reveals
A speech that calms and heals
The tuneless hosts of care?

My dazzled eyes are dim
With gazing on the sky.
By the horizon's rim,
At the sea's shining brim,
The planets reel and swim
Frenzied with melody.

Heaven's beating heart will break,
It teems with magic songs;
The waves tremble and quake
And pulse with wild heart-ache;
The love-tunes, as they wake,
Burst forth in wingéd throngs.

Seraphs, come down to me
Out of the silver rack
From the moon's pearl-gate, ye
Who cleave the clouds, oh flee
Far, far o'er the dim sea
Along the moonbeam track.

Oh come, quicken my tongue,
I too, I too would sing,
As ye but now have sung,
Of love that is ever young,
Of the Heaven high o'er us hung
And the soul's angel-wing.

VI. The Mystery.

What is it I know, I feel,
At moments blind with tears,
Voices from Paradise that steal,
Glimpses beyond the spheres?

What is it like a melody
At which the whole heart aches,
Neither within nor out of me,
That suddenly awakes?

Upon a woman's flushing throat
I hear it pause and sing,
I feel it in a sky-lark's note,
Aud in a swallow's wing,

The mellow purple hills afar,
The moonlight on the lea,
The passage of a shooting star
The silence of the sea.

What is it that we call love,
Worship, and art, and song?—
A music soft as chorus of
A gathering angel-throng;—

A whisper, as of seas and streams,
From distant planets borne;
An utterance like the voice of dreams
Upon the verge of morn;—

A brush as of swift seraph-wings
That through the twilight pass;
A sigh as of the murmurings
Of the night-wind in the grass—

What is it that is all unknown
But is the soul of us,
That comes, that leaves us quite alone,
So vague, mysterious?

What is it for which we yearn?—
Stars, sky, and sea are dumb.
Ah peace! for we shall never learn,
But wait and it will come.

VII. From Soul to Soul.

What was it but now that sped
Through the solemn dusk?
A keen a wingéd odour shed
Of mignonette or musk?
What was it that made us start
In the quick moon-beam?
The message of a human heart
A spirit, or a dream?

You turned your eyes; you moved your lips;
I saw a sweetness spring,
A vision, an Apocalypse
Of angels on the wing,
Like kindling flame, to your soft gaze;
And in my inmost breast
I felt an answering frenzy blaze
Miraculous, mixed with rest.

Ay, there are things we know not of,
Spirits half-felt at whiles,
Immortal messengers of love
That visit us with smiles!
Else what was it, so fair, so fast,
So formless, so divine,
So splendour-winged, but now that passed
From thy soul into mine?

VIII. Song in the Light.

In the light of the crimson even
The wild birds float and sing.
Out of the depth of heaven
They issue on the wing;
And all the air is choral;
And the long fields fresh and floral,
And the mountains many-folden,
And the rich cloud purple and golden
Seem, and the forest olden,
To join their carolling

In your smile's twilight spaces
Sweet thoughts will sing and float.
Out of the soul's hid places
They issue with glad note;
And the rills, and the streams, and the rivers,
And the stars, the sweet light-givers,
The fading twilight, the grasses,
The golden and red cloud-masses,
The ridges the mountain-passes
Sing from one throbbing throat.

IX. To One Beloved.

What is moon or star to me
By night, or sun by day?
What are storm and shower that flee
O'er drear coast and angry sea,
Cliffs under the tempest's lee,
Cataracts at play?

Thou art moon, and sun, and star,
Joy by day or night.
When thy cheering smile is far,
On the lake, where lilies are,
Vainly lures nenuphar
Void of grace and light.

Thou art glory on the cloud,
Light upon the hills,
Bird-notes in the forest loud,
Gleams that break the arches bowed
Of the beech-trees tall and proud,
Silver on the rills.

Thou art splendour to the day,
Softness to the night,
Tenderness in the moon-ray,
Freshness in the ocean-spray,
Grandeur on the tempest's way,
Courage in the fight.

X. A Complaint.

What have I done
That thou shouldst slight me?
Star, moon, sun
No more delight me.
What have I done
That thou shouldst slight me?

How far, how far
Wilt thou still try me?
Sun, moon, star
Seem to deny me.
How far, how far
Wilt thou still try me?

How soon, how soon
Is love ungrateful!
Sun, star, moon
Are hideous, hateful.
How soon, how soon
Is love ungrateful!

What have I done
That thou shouldst forget me?
Star, moon, sun
Sicken and fret me
What have I done
That thou shouldst forget me?

IX. Light Within.

Lady mine, the faint year sickens,
The leaf turns yellow, and falls, and dies.
But my heart revives and quickens
Though but fed with tears and sighs,
Not till spring the tree recovers;
Ever it is spring with lovers
Who can dream of loving eyes.

Lady mine, though dull cloud saddens
Mount and sky with heavy gloom,
Thy remembered presence gladdens
Wasted garden, lightless room.
Wintry storm the country covers;
Ever it is spring with lovers
While the young heart is in bloom.

XII Absence.

Tediously the hours creep on
Fraught with many miseries.
Glad am I when each is gone
With its sad monotonies.
Dismal, dismal is the rain
Beating on the window-pane.

I am here alone, alone;
She who was, sweet day by day,
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,
Heart of my heart, is far away.
Dismal, dismal, the wind's flight
Moaning round the house all night

I am lonely, life is void,
Restless fever preys no more.
Poesy, music, half-enjoyed,
Leave the craving heart so sore.
Dismal, dismal the stirred leaves
Rustling vaguely 'neath the eaves.

Like the soul out of my soul,
Like the life out of my life,
She is gone, and to one goal
All my thoughts wing weary strife.
Dismal, dismal the watch-dogs bay
In the farmstead far away.

Why am I so prisoned here?
Why is she away from me?
Is it duty? Is it fear?
Or the harsh world's cruelty?
Dismal, dismal, my thoughts prey
On my tortured breast alway.

Yet be peaceful. Wheresoe'er
Stray her steps by this moonshine,
Still her thoughts, her love, her prayer,
Her soul almost, all are thine.
Dismal dismal, the harsh fate
To be loved but desolate.

XIII. Doubt and Certainty.

What is it the future bears
In the womb of pale to-morrow?
Hopes or fears, or joys or cares,
Anguished griefs, or dull despairs?
Love me, love, through joy and sorrow.

What is it the present gives?
Brief delights we can but borrow?
Ours the present while it lives;
Love is love while it forgives;
Love me, love, through joy and sorrow.

XIV. Wisdom and Power.

We are wise, for we have known
Mutual love, the angels' feast.
What is there that is not shown
To that spirit whose wings have flown
Past the earth-cloud to Love's throne,
And burned incense t'ward the east,
At his altar a pure priest?

We are calm, for we have found
Mutual love, the angel's quest,
Who are they sit robed and crowned
With a starry peace around?
Souls that suffered and are sound,
Love-completed, passion-blest
With the holiness of rest.

We are mighty, we have slain
Life and death, and hopes and fears;
We have known love, joy, and pain.
Whatsoe'er in its domain
The grim future holds, we reign
With our feet upon the years—
Though our crown be gemmed with tears.

XV. Tears.

When boyhood is sowing
In hope to reap,
Their grace bestowing
The sweet heavens weep.
When crops are sowing
Let rain be cheap.

Boyhood's warm and generous tears
Augur well for the coming years.

When youth is growing
His golden grain,
Love-tears flowing
Are fruitful pain.
When corn is growing
Men welcome rain

Heroes wept: in early years
Gentle feelings are fed with tears

When youth is mowing
His early hay,
The rain-storm blowing
Is wished away.
When grass is mowing
Give me a dry day!

Deep is the well-spring of holy tears,
Shallow the brook of the laughing years.

When manhood is strowing
Its ripened corn
And summer glowing,
Tears meet but scorn.
When the sickle is strowing
Tears cannot be borne

Heroes wept: but the busy years
Leave now no leisure for wasting tears.

When age is done stowing
Its garnered store,
Raining or snowing
It matters no more.
When wheat is done stowing
All care is o'er.

Memories, and regrets, and tears,
These are the solace of useless years.

XVI. Song.

What is the meaning of the spring
If I may not love?
The stirring life in everything,
The kindling lights above!

How shall I join the song of spring
If I have no love?
The birds at early dawn that sing,
The cooing of the dove?

What shall I send her in the spring
To mind her of my love?
A hair-fillet, a jewelled ring,
A garter, fan, or glove?

XVII. Song.

[_]

(Motive from Hood.)

Gold leaves on the tree,
Red fruit in the garden,
Storms out at sea.
Since the summer dies, pardon
If human hearts harden.

Gold sheaves on the plain
A few still remaining.
If the harvest-moon wanes
How profits complaining
Of human love waning?

Blue ice on the lakes,
The plains white and cheerless!
Ah but my heart aches.
Nay, cold hearts are fearless;
Love is dead, I am tearless.

XVIII. The Foes of Love.

Love hath many evil foes
Lurking ever near
Bent on mischief, but of those
He fears most is Fear.

Fear! Nay love is strong and brave.
Wherefore should he fly
Hunger, pain, disease, the grave?
He fears more a lie.

Lies! From Love's long-suffering
Falsehood cannot hide.
Truth from the furthest star he'll bring.
Rather he fears Pride.

Pride! Nay, Love, if Love be strong,
Humbles Pride in the dust.
Love forgiveth every wrong.
Rather he fears Lust.

Lust? From lust and treacherous deeds
He hides his tortured face—
Infatuate he forgives, and bleeds.
More he fears Disgrace.

Disgrace? Though Love must weep at sight
Of aught that shames his prayer,
His charity is infinite.
He fears only care.

Care! Ah yes the mighty things
Lightly Love can bear,
Not the daily bickerings
Of insidious care.

XIX. Hypocrisy.

What will you say to me,
Queen of my heart?
Meeting, good-day to me,
And, when we part,
Farewell, good-night, good-bye?
Which are we, you and I,
Shy hypocrites or sly,
Wretch that thou art?

Say rather, meeting me,
“Chance willed it so!”
As your guest greeting me,
“How bold you grow!
Who bade you come to-day?”
Ah, but still choose, I pray,
When I would leave, to say
“Why must you go?”

XX. To the Spirits of Dawn.

Fires of the orient,
Heralds of golden dawn,
Over the mountain sent
Hill-slope and river-lawn!
How in my breast ye wake
Love-leap and sorrow-ache,
As from one instrument
Sweet sounds and sad are drawn.

Spirits of day that blow,
As upon breathing flutes,
Love-melodies that glow,
And on immortal lutes!
Faint are the waves with love,
The blue sky swims above,
Sweet passions ebb and flow
In herbs, and flowers, and fruits.

Angels of morn that ope
Sun-gates of Paradise,
River-lawn mountain-slope
Gleam in your kindling eyes.
Fire-flocks of golden wings
Soar like a flame that springs,
Leap like a splendid hope
Up and up through the skies.

Warriors of light that urge
Chariots of flaming fire,
Over the dazzling verge
Nigher ye come and nigher,
Up the long clouds in streams
Rolling, like glorious dreams,
Like bright winds on the surge,
Higher ye sweep and higher!

XXI. The Language of Love.

You speak to me, my gentle one,
In the tongue of woods and birds,
Winds, waves, and clouds, and moon and sun,—
Melodious mystic words.

Vague utterances of the spheres,
Hints of the gliding streams,
A language holier than tears
And lovelier than dreams.

I seem to hear the murmuring leaves
Caressing neath the moon,
The converse sweet the forest weaves
Under the stars in June,

Voices of lovers by mute waves,
And notes of nightingales,
And the long ripple that laps and laves
The sea-shore after gales;

And far into the past I see
By vague or vivid gleams,
And my old thoughts come back to me
And my forgotten dreams.

Feelings of sweetness and desire
That visit earliest youth,
Uplooking visions that aspire,
Resolves that reach at truth;

And then my whole rapt soul falls down
In one adoring trance,
To touch the hem of your white gown
Look in your countenance,

To meet your downward-bended eyes
As o'er a child asleep,
And in their light of sweet surprise
To kiss your hand and weep.

XXII. What shall I Sing?

Sing, sing to me, and give me joy,
A bird-note wild and strong,
The music I loved when a boy
To hear the whole day long,
A lark aloud, above the cloud,
Sing to me, child, of joy.

Sing, sing to me, and give me woe
A plaintive cadence sweet,
The music I loved years ago
Sitting at your dear feet,
A nightingale, in moonlight pale,
Sing to me, dear, of woe.

Sing, sing to me, and give me pain,
A note of keen desire,
Music that enters in the brain
And sets the heart on fire,
A woman's note where night-winds float.
Sing to me, sweet, of pain.

Sing, sing to me, and give me peace,
A still, a quiet strain,
The music I shall love when cease
The throbs of love and pain,
A seraph-song where angels throng,
Sing to me, love, of peace.

XXIII. A Moment.

For a day we two were wed,
One day in the year!
Wind, and sun, and rain were shed,
Sigh, and smile, and tear,
On our happy bridal bed;
But we felt them near
Hovering o'er thy nestling head,
Death, and Pain, and Fear.

For an hour we two were wed,
One hour in the day!
Death, and Pain, and Fear were fled
Miles and miles away.
Lips on lips were sweetly fed,
Heart on heart; but say,
When those evil three were sped
Why did Sorrow stay?

For a moment we were wed,
A moment in the hour!
Death itself was buried, dead,
Grief a blossoming bower.
All I knew was splendour shed
Into me and power,
Your eyes the sunshine overhead
My soul an opening flower.

XXIV. Why?

What hast thou done to me
That I should love thee?
That moon and sun to me
Grow pale above thee?
Thou hast made glorious
Life, cold, laborious.
How is it wonderful then that I love thee?

What can I find in thee
That I should love thee?
Soul, heart, and mind in thee
Glory above thee,
Joy as a goal for me,
Love, a new soul for me,
How is it marvellous then that I love thee?

XXV. Again Why?

If I say the flower grew,
Must I give a reason too?
If that water is a boon
In the heavy heat of noon,
That the heart is light in youth,
Will you question of my truth?

If I say the hour is sweet
When sunset and twilight meet,
If birds voices I may call
Delicate and musical,
Moonlight pleasant on the sea—
Will you ask how this can be?

If I speak of cold in snow,
Will you crave how came it so?
If I chcerless call the rain
Terrible the hurricane,
Must I give with each a cause
Why the thing was as it was?

If I tell you, you are fair,
Must I add when, how, and where?
Stately mien, voluptuous form,
Eyes so large, and dark, and warm—
Love I these as all men would,
Must I show you why I should?

XXVI. Night Sounds.

Noises of the night!
Mystic sounds of sadness!
Whispers of delight,
Sobs, and sighs take flight,
Mixed with yells of fright
And wild howls of madness

Tempests of the night!
Echoes of the billow!
The moon pale and white
Sheds a sickly light,
And ye moan the plight
Of my lonely pillow

Memories of the night!
Singing, sighing, sobbing!
Wild regrets that blight
Slumber, will ye quite
Blind with tears my sight
Break my heart with throbbing?

XXVII. Growth and Decay.

Life is in me,
Power onward flowing.
Herb, flower, tree
Are ever growing.
What we shall be
There is no knowing.

Death is in me,
Forever preying.
Herb, flower, tree
Are aye decaying.
What we shall be
There is no saying

XXVIII. Love-Song.

Come to me by greenest lanes
White with hawthorn-flowers,
Woodland nooks where from the rains
The frail violet cowers,
Cottage-porches by the plains
Where o'er latticed window-panes
Tenderly the peasant trains
Arches of rose-bowers.

Come to me by dreamiest lakes
In the forest's keeping,
Where the nightingale awakes
While the world is sleeping,
Where each ripple whose heart breaks
Is a melody that aches,
Like a soul which love forsakes,
Weeping, weeping, weeping.

Glad or mournful be the scene,
Day or night, my dearest,
Sunlight gold or moonlight green,
Joy or grief be nearest,
Thou of all things heard or seen,
Things that shall be or have been,
Lark and nightingale, art queen,
Cloudiest and clearest.

XXIX. Love grows by Love.

Love that is born of fire
Is lulled to death by pleasure,
But love, the soul's desire,
Increases out of measure.
On thy soft lip's caresses
It grows as flowers by dew;
Thine eyes between thy tresses,
Like sunlight shining through
Leaves and boughs and flowers,
Feed it from above,
And thy tears like showers—
True love grows by love.

Love, that the lovely earn,
Is like a miser's treasure.
The more of thee I learn,
Love grows in equal measure.
The debt I owe thy beauty
By that sweet usury

Which makes delight a duty
Would make an end of me;
But leaf's and flower's renewal,
And voice of lark and dove,—
All nature is love's fuel—
True love grows by love.

XXX. Death.

O'er none he passes,
The poor man saith,
Wild flowers and grasses
Escape not Death.
No place is holy,
However lowly:
Quickly or slowly
It feels his breath.

On all he closes,
The rich man saith,
Lilies and roses
Are food for Death.
No palace-splendour
Can make Death tender.
Some day all render
To him their breath

None he refuses,
The leper saith,
Foul weeds have uses
For this same Death.
Nothing so rusted,
So loathsome-crusted
That Death disgusted
Flees from its breath,

At all he reaches,
The lover saith,—
Apples and peaches
And flowers for Death.
Nothing so gracious
But this audacious
With lips rapacious
Feeds on its breath.

XXXI. A Child's Death.

The little hands clasp thee,
And tenderly tighten,
To keep thee, to grasp thee;
The little eyes brighten.

What is her vision?
Of Paradise portal,
Meadows Elysian
And rivers immortal?

She is gone:—her white finger
Unlocks and uncloses.
Why should she linger
After the roses?

XXXII. Song.

Gentle be thy word!
In so sweet a sky
Only sweet things, heard
Or unheard, should fly—
Voice, and lute, and bird,
Bee and butterfly.

Tender be thy mien!
At so sweet an hour
Only sweet things, seen
Or unseen, have power—
Soft scent, and sigh, and scene,
Love, and light, and flower.

XXXIII. Flower of my Heart.

Thou flower of my heart,
I have set thee where no sun sears
In the innermost part:
I have watered thee with my tears.
My own thou art;
Blossom for many years.

Thou gem of my breast,
I have casketed thee in a shrine
Choicest and best,
I have bought thee with blood, thou art mine.
Take thine ease, be at rest,
Thou hast nought now to do but to shine.

XXXIV. A Question.

From what sick soil grows
The sorrow of the years?
From what sad source flows
The spring of all our tears?
Alas! who knows
The limit of the spheres?

On what sad shore sounds
The sigh of the lapsing hours?
What vague sea surrounds
This dim isle of ours?
Alas! who bounds
Man's sufferings or his powers?

XXXV. Spiritual Irradiation.

When the smile is on thy lips—
As the fair moon from eclipse
Naked forth and shining slips;
As the prisoned music, pent
Deep within the instrument,
Issues if thine aid be lent;—
'Tis thy soul I seem to see
Come forth from its sanctuary.

When the love is in thine eyes—
As the solemn stars arise
Soft and clear without disguise;
As the yearning sounds awake
From the country at day-break,
Forcing the full heart to ache,—
'Tis thy soul I seem to see
Come forth from its sanctuary.

XXXVI. Endurance.

Lights upon the grasses,
Shadows on the moss,
Where a bird's wing passes
Or green branches toss.
Forest, field, and meadow
Live through shine and shadow,
Man through love and loss.

Ah but I have founded
All my hope on thee;
With thee my life is rounded
As with sky and sea.
Leaf, and fruit, and flower
Survive the storm and shower
But not the parent tree.

XXXVII. Nature.

River, forest, stream
To my spirit are
As a distant star,
As a dream within a dream.

Mountain, valley, plain—
The world's beauty appears
As the relief of tears
To an unknown pain.

XXXVIII. Aspiration.

Wherefore do our spirits pine
With a yearning so divine
For the distant dim sea-line?
Why so deeply strangely crave
For the furthest leaping wave
Of millions that together rave?

Why wet we with tears our cheek
At sight of the far mountain-peak?
With hushed voices wherefore speak
In the presence of the stars?
Wherefore watch their shining cars
As captives look through prison-bars?

All things radiant and remote,
All sweet sounds that seem to float
From the distance, the sad note
Of a bird, of wave, of wind
Seem as if they would remind
Of a life we have resigned

Seem as if they would awake
Musings, memories which partake
Of a hope that we forsake.
'Tis thus on the doubtful spheres
We can scarce look without tears.
Were they our home in vanished years?

XXXIX. History of a Flower.

I saw a golden flower
Its bright petals ope
In a sunny hour,
And I called it Hope.

Hope whose life hath any length,
Must be fed on pride and strength.

I saw the rude wind play
With its petals sere
On a stormy day,
And I called it Fear.

Sere had not the petals grown
Vainly had the tempest blown.

Then the freezing rime
Clutched the fragments torn
At a chilling time,
And I called it Scorn.

Had the leaves clung to the stem
Frost had ne'er laid hold on them.

But soon they hard and cold
As frost itself became
Long ere they were old—
And I found no name.

Hard but weak the poor shreds were;
Courage is not like despair.

Last, a small green thing
I saw sprout and ope
In a second spring,
And I called it Hope

Strength and weakness meet on earth;
Courage hath such second birth.