Flower Pieces and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise
The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[Hear you now a throbbing wind that calls]

Hear you now a throbbing wind that calls
Over ridge of cloud and purple flake?
Sad the sunset's ruin'd palace-walls,
Dim the line of mist along the lake,—
Even as the mist of Memory.
O the summer-nights that used to be!

An evening rises from the dead
Of long-ago (ah me, how long!)
Like a story, like a song,
Told, and sung, and pass'd away.
Love was there, that since hath fled,
Hope, whose locks are turn'd to gray,
Friendship, with a tongue of truth
And a beating heart of youth,
Wingèd Joy, too, just alighted,
Ever-welcome, uninvited;
Love and Friendship, Hope and Joy,
With arms about each other twined,
Merrily watching a crescent moon,
Slung to its gold nail of a star,
Over the fading crimson bar,
Like a hunter's horn: the happy wind

Breathed to itself some twilight tune,
And bliss had no alloy.

Against the colours of the west
Trees were standing tall and black,
The voices of the day at rest,
Night rose around, a solemn flood,
With fleets of worlds: and our delightful mood
Rippled in music to the rock and wood;
Music with echoes, never to come back.
The touch upon my hand is this alone—
A heavy tear-drop of my own.

Listen to the breeze: ‘O loitering Time!—
Unresting Time!—O viewless rush of Time!’
Thus it calls and swells and falls,
From Sunset's wasted palace-walls,
And ghostly mists that climb.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?]

What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?
O what is lost that never may be told?—
We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve
Until the perfect closing of the night.
Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,
Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds
Are broken into melancholy gold;
The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs
Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light;
Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shrouds
Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold,
Which once, or so it seem'd, were full of might.
Some power it was, that lives not with us now,
A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.
O sweetly, swiftly pass'd!—air sings and murmurs;
Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough:
O sadly, swiftly pass'd!—air sighs and mutters;
Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.
Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.
O what is gone from us, we fancied ours?

AWAKING.

A Golden pen I mean to take,
A book of ivory white,
And in the mornings when I wake
The fair dream-thoughts to write,
Which out of heav'n to love are giv'n,
Like dews that fall at night.
For soon the delicate gifts decay
As stirs the miry, smoky day.

‘Sleep is like death,’ and after sleep
The world seems new begun,
Its quiet purpose clear and deep,
Its long-sought meaning won;
White thoughts stand luminous and firm
Like statues in the sun;
Refresh'd from supersensuous founts
The soul to blotless vision mounts.

‘Sleep is like death.’ Is death like sleep?
A waftage through still time?
And when its dreams of dawn shall peep
What strange or alter'd clime
Will they foreshow? No man may know;
Though some few souls may climb
So far as faintly to surmise
The master-secret of the skies.

AN AUTUMN EVENING.

Now is Queen Autumn's progress through the land
Her busy, sunbrown subjects all astir,
Preparing loyally on every hand
A golden triumph. Earth is glad of her.

The regal curtainings of clouds on high,
And shifting splendours of the vaulted air,
Express a jubilation in the sky,
That nobly in the festival doth share.

With arching garlands of unfinger'd green,
And knots of fruit, a bower each highway shows;
Loud busy Joy is herald on the scene
To Gratitude, Contentment, and Repose.

Lately, when this good time was at its best,
One evening found me, with half-wearied pace,
Mounting a hill against the lighted West,
A cool air softly flowing on my face.

The vast and gorgeous pomp of silent sky
Embathed a harvest realm in double gold;
Sheaf-tented fields of bloodless victory;
Stackyards, and cottages in leafy fold,

Whence climb'd the blue smoke-pillars. Grassy hill
And furrow'd land their graver colourings lent;
And some few rows of corn, ungarner'd still,
Like aged men to earth, their cradle, bent.

While reapers, gleaners, and full carts of grain,
With undisturbing motion and faint sound
Fed the rich calm o'er all the sumptuous plain:
Mountains, imbued with violet, were its bound.

Among the sheaves and hedges of the slope,
And harvest-people, I descended slowly,
Field after field, and reach'd a pleasant group
On their own land, that were not strangers wholly.

Here stood the Farmer, sturdy man though gray,
In sober parley with a stalwart son,
Who had been reaping in the rank all day,
And now put on his coat, for work was done.

Two girls, like half-blown roses twin, that breathed
The joy of youth untroubled with a care,
Laugh'd to their five-year nephew, as he wreathed
Red poppies through his younger sister's hair.

Their homestead bounds received me with the rest;
The cheerful mother waiting at the door
Had smiles for all, and welcome for the guest,
And bustling sought the choicest of her store.

O gentle rustic roof, and dainty board!
Kind eyes, frank voices, mirth and sense were there;
Love that went deep, and piety that soar'd;
The children's kisses and the evening pray'r.

Earth's common pleasures, near the ground like grass,
Are best of all; nor die although they fade:
Dear, simple household joys, that straightway pass
The precinct of devotion, undismay'd.

Returning homeward, soften'd, raised, and still'd;
Celestial peace, that rare, transcendent boon,
Fill'd all my soul, as heav'n and earth were fill'd
With bright perfection of the Harvest Moon.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

(A Child's Song.)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away,—
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,—
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

THE SHOOTING STAR.

Autumnal night's deep azure dome
Darken'd the lawn and terrace high,
Where groups had left their music-room
For starry hush and open sky,
To watch the meteors, how they went
Across the stately firmament.

As Walter paced with Josephine,
The loveliest maid of all he knew,
Touch'd by the vast and shadowy scene,
Their friendly spirits closer drew,
Beneath the dim-lit hollow night,
And those strange signals moving bright.

‘A wish,’ said Walter,—‘have you heard—
Wish'd in the shooting of a star,
Fulfils itself?’ ‘Prepare your word,’
Said Josephine; ‘there's nought to mar
The shining chance.’ ‘And may I tell?’
‘O no! for that would break the spell.’

But now a splendid meteor flew,
And ere it died the wish was made,
And won: for in a flash they knew
The happy truth, so long delay'd,
Which months and years had never brought,—
From this bright fleeting moment caught.

THE VALLEY STREAM.

Stream flowing swiftly, what music is thine!
The breezy rock-pass, and the storm-wooing pine,
Have taught thee their murmurs,
Their wild mountain-murmurs,
Subdued in thy liquid response to a sound
Which aids the repose of this pastoral ground,
Where mingles our valley an awe with the love
It smiles to the sheltering bastions above:
Thy cloud-haunted birthplace,
O Stream, flowing swiftly!

Encircle our meadows with bounty and grace,
Then move on thy journey with tranquiller pace,
To find the great waters,
The great ocean-waters,
Blue, wonderful, boundless to vision or thought;—
Thence, thence, might thy musical tidings be brought!
One waft of the tones of the infinite Sea!
Our gain is but songs of the mountain from thee,
O Child of the Mountain!
O Stream of our Valley!

And have we divined what is thunder'd and hiss'd
Where the lofty ledge glimmers through screens of gray mist,
And raves forth its secrets,
The heart of its secrets?
Or learnt what is hid in thy whispering note
Mysteriously gather'd from fountains remote
To the peak and the fell? O what music is thine,
Thou swift-flowing River, if soul's ear be fine,
Far-wafted, prophetic,
Thou Stream of our Valley!

SOLUS.

Autumn and sunset now have double-dyed
The foliage and the fern of this deep wood,
The sky above it melting placidly
All crimsonings to gray. No sound is heard.
The Spirit of the Place, like mine, seems lull'd
In pensive retrospection. One more Spring,
And one more Summer past, and one more Year.

Anon the distant bell begins to chime,
And calls me homeward, calls me to a home
As lonely as the Forest, peopled but
With memories, and fantasies, and shadows.
These wait for me this evening. What beyond? . . .
The silent sunset of a lonely life?

Norley Wood.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[What saith the river to the rushes gray]

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
Who can tell the whisper'd things they say?
Youth, and prime, and life, and time,
For ever, ever fled away!

Drop your wither'd garlands in the stream,
Low autumnal branches,
Round the skiff that launches
Wavering downward through the lands of dream.
Ever, ever fled away!
This the burden, this the theme.

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
It is near the closing of the day.
Near the night. Life and light
For ever, ever fled away!

Draw him tideward down; but not in haste.
Mouldering daylight lingers;
Night with her cold fingers
Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste.
Ever, ever fled away!
Vainly cherish'd! vainly chased!

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay,
Up the cave moans the wave,
For ever, ever, ever fled away!

LATE AUTUMN.

October—and the skies are cool and gray
O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.
The dignity of woods in rich decay
Accords full well with this majestic grief
That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,
Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief.
Only a robin sings from any spray.

And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills
White mist around the hollows of the hills,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
His cot and stackyard, with the homestead trees,
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.

TWO MOODS.

I.

Slow drags this dreary season;
The earth a lump of lead;
The vacant skies, blue skies or brown,
Bereft of joy and hope.
I cannot find a reason
To wish I were not dead,—
Unfasten'd and let glide, gone down
A dumb and dusky slope.
I recognise the look of care
In every face; for now I share
What makes a forehead wrinkles wear,
And sets a mouth to mope.
A sombre, languid yearning
For silence and the dark:
Shall wish, or fear, or wisest word,
Arouse me any more?
What profits bookleaf-turning?
Or prudent care and cark?
Or Folly's drama, seen and heard
And acted as before?
No comfort for the dismal Day;
It cannot work, or think, or pray;
A shivering pauper, sad and gray,
With no good thing in store.

II.

What lifts me and lightens?
Enriches and brightens
The day, the mere day, the most marvellous day?
O pleasure divine!
An invisible wine
Pours quick through my being; broad Heaven is benign,
And the Earth full of wonders, and both of them mine,—
What first shall I do, shall I say?
See the bareheaded frolicsome babes as they run
Go skipping from right foot to left foot in fun,—
'Tis the pleasure of living;
Too long I've o'erlook'd it,
In sulk and misgiving,
And lunatic fret;
But it wakes in me yet,
Though the world has rebuked it:
O city and country! O landscape and sun!
Air cloudy or breezy,
And stars, every one!
Gay voices of children!
All duties grown easy,
All truths unbewild'ring,
Since Life, Life immortal, is clearly begun!

TWILIGHT VOICES.

Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
Voices I hear;
I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
Wavering by on the dusky blast,—
‘Come, let us go, for the night is falling,
Come, let us go, for the day is past!’

Troops of joys are they, now departed?
Wingèd hopes that no longer stay?
Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
Powers that have linger'd their latest day?
What do they say?
What do they sing? I hear them calling,
Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—
‘Come, come, for the night is falling;
Come, come, for the day is past!’

Sing they to me?—‘Thy taper's wasted;
Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted;
Time is ending;—we go! we go!’
Sing they so?
Mystical voices, floating, calling;
Dim farewells—the last, the last?—
‘Come, come away, the night is falling;
Come, come away, the day is past!’

See, I am ready, Twilight Voices;
Child of the spirit-world am I;
How should I fear you? my soul rejoices.
O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
Fain would I fly!
Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
Out of the dimness vague and vast?—
Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;
Quick, let us go,—the day is past!

A GRAVESTONE.

Far from the churchyard dig his grave,
On some green mound beside the wave;
To westward, sea and sky alone,
And sunsets. Put a massy stone,
With mortal name and date, a harp
And bunch of wild flowers, carven sharp;
Then leave it free to winds that blow,
And patient mosses creeping slow,
And wandering wings, and footstep rare
Of human creature pausing there.

HYMN.

[O how dimly walks the wisest]

O how dimly walks the wisest
On his journey to the grave,
Till Thou, Lamp of Souls, arisest,
Beaming over land and wave!

Blind and weak behold him wander,
Full of doubt and full of dread;
Till the dark is rent asunder,
And the gulf of light is spread.

Shadows were the gyves that bound him;
Now his soul is light in light;
Heav'n within him, Heav'n around him,
Pure, eternal, infinite.