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

Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure;
We know the good time is yet to come;
With leaves and flow'rs to fill Summer's measure,
And countless songs ere the birds be dumb.

Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness;
We feel the good time is well-nigh past;
The glow subdued, and the voice of gladness,
And frosty whispers in every blast.

For perfect garlands just now we waited;
Already, garlands are turning sere;
And Time, old traveller, like one belated,
Hurries on to fulfil the year.

Ah, Spring's defects, and October's losses!
Fair hope, sad memory!—but grieve not thou:
In leafless dells, look, what emerald mosses;
Nay, secret buds on the wintry bough.

FOOTSTEPS.

I.

Sound of feet
In the lonely street,
Coming to-night,—coming to me?
Perhaps (why not? it well may be)
My dear old friend
From the world's end,
At last.
How we shall meet,
And shout and greet,
(O hearty voice that memory knows!)
Till the first gush and rush be past,
And smoother now the current flows;
Plenty on either side to tell,
Sharing joy, and soothing pain
As friendship's tongue can do so well
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

II.

Stay! stay!
Coming this way
Through the dull night—perhaps to me—
Coming, coming, coming fast,
(And why may not such things be?)
A messenger's feet
In the lonely street,
With some good wonderful news to say
At last.

A word has been spoken,
A bad spell broken,
Men see aright,
All faces are bright,
For the world to-morrow begins anew;
There's much to plan, and plenty to do;
Away! search, sift the country through,
And say at once to a certain few:
‘Come, for our gain,
We know you, and now we have work for you.’
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

III.

Close, close,
Outside the house,
Steps approaching!—are these for me?
Coming gently, coming fast,
(And O, if this can be!)—
Out of the strife
Of selfish life
My Love has fled of a sudden,—'tis She,
At last!
Here she stands,
Eyes and mouth and tender form
True and warm;
My dream of many a lonely year;
Stretches her hands—
No doubt or fear—
‘See, my Love, 'tis all in vain
To keep true lovers parted,
If they be faithful-hearted!’
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[Is it all in vain?]

Is it all in vain?
Strangely throbbing pain,
Trembling joy of memory!
Bygone things, how shadowy
Within their graves they lie!

Shall I sit then by their graves,
Listening to the melancholy waves?
I would fain.
But even these in vapours die:
For nothing may remain.

One survivor in a boat
On the wide dim deep afloat,
When the sunken ship is gone,
Lit by late stars before the dawn.

The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars are dumb.
The ship is sunk full many a year.
Dream no more of loss or gain.
A ship was never here.
A dawn will never, never come.
—Is it all in vain?

100

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

The plunging storm flies fierce against the pane,
And thrills our cottage with redoubled shocks;
The chimney mutters and the rafters strain;
Without, the breakers roar along the rocks.

See, from our fire and taper-lighted room,
How savage, pitiless, and uncontroll'd
The grim horizon shows its tossing gloom
Of waves from unknown angry gulfs uproll'd;

Where, underneath that black portentous lid,
A long pale space between the night and sea
Gleams awful; while in deepest darkness hid
All other things in our despair agree.

But lo! what star amid the thickest dark
A soft and unexpected dawn has made?
O welcome Lighthouse, thy unruffled spark,
Piercing the turmoil and the deathly shade!

By such a glimpse o'er the distracted wave
Full many a soul to-night is re-possest
Of courage and of order, strong to save;
And like effect it works within my breast.

101

Three faithful men have set themselves to stand
Against all storms that from the sky can blow,
Where peril must expect no aiding hand,
And tedium no relief may hope to know.

Nor shout they, passing brothers to inform
What weariness they feel, or what affright;
But tranquilly in solitude and storm
Abide from month to month, and show their light.

102

NIGHTWIND.

Moaning blast,
The summer is past,
And time and life are speeding fast.

Wintry wind,
Oh, where to find
The hopes we have left so far behind!

Mystery cold,
To thee have they told
Secrets the years may yet unfold?

Sorrow of night,
Is love so light
As to come and go like a breeze's flight?

Opiate balm,
Is death so calm
As to faint in one's ear like a distant psalm?

103

ANGELA.

After the long bitter days, and nights weigh'd down with my sadness,
I lay without stir or sound in my lonely room in a twilight.
Stilly She glided in, and tenderly came she beside me,
Putting her arm round my head, heavy and weary with aching;
Whispering low, in a voice that trembled with love and with pity,
‘Knowest thou not that I love thee?—am I not one in thy sorrow?
Maze not thy soul in dark windings, joy that our Father excels us,
Since with His power extends the High One's care and compassion.
Fear not the losing of love; love is the surest of all things,
Heaven the birth-place and home of everything holy and lovely.
Go thou cautiously, fearlessly, on in the way thou hast chosen;
Pits and crags that seem, thou wilt find are mostly but shadows.
Take thou care of the present, thy future will build itself for thee.

104

Life in the body is full of entanglements, harsh contradictions;
Keep but the soul-realities, all will unwind itself duly.
Think of me, pray for me, love me—I cease not to love thee, my dearest.’

So it withdrew and died. The heart, too joyful, too tender,
Felt a new fear of its pain, and its want, and the desolate evening,
Sunken, and dull, and cold. But quickly a kind overflowing
Soothed my feverish eyelids: my spirit grew calmer and calmer:
Noting, at length, how the gloom acknowledged a subtle suffusion,
Veiling with earnest peace the stars looking in through the window,
Where, at the time appointed from numberless millions of ages,
Slowly, up eastern night, like a pale smoke mounted the moon-dawn.

105

[On the Longest Day]

On the Longest Day,
Heav'n was gay,
Roses and sunshine along the way.
I loiter'd and stood,
In listless mood,
With many a sigh,
I knew not why:
Nothing pleasant; nothing good.

On the Shortest Day,
Heav'n was gray,
Coldness and mire along the way.
How or where
Had I cast off care?
For light and strong,
With a snatch of song,
I stept through the mud and biting air.

Moods, that drift,
Or creep and shift,
Or change, not a windy cloud more swift,
No fetter found
To hold you bound,—
Can I dare to go
To the depth below
Whence ye rise, overspreading air and ground?

106

There in the gulf
Of my deep deep self,
Stranger than land of dragon and elf,
Acts and schemes,
Hopes and dreams,
Loves and praises,
Follies, disgraces,
Swarm, and each moment therewith teems.

They rise like breath
Of coming death,—
Of flow'rs that the soul remembereth,—
The Present, whose place
Is a foot-sole space,
Being then as nought.
But the Present hath wrought
All this; and our Will is King, by God's grace.

THE WINTER PEAR.

Is always Age severe?
Is never youth austere?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in th'year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.

107

HALF-WAKING.

I thought it was the little bed
I slept in long ago;
A straight white curtain at the head,
And two smooth knobs below.

I thought I saw the nursery fire,
And in a chair well-known
My mother sat, and did not tire
With reading all alone.

If I should make the slightest sound
To show that I'm awake,
She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,
My pillow softly shake;

Kiss me, and turn my face to see
The shadows on the wall,
And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me,
Till fast asleep I fall.

But this is not my little bed;
That time is far away;
With strangers now I live instead,
From dreary day to day.

108

WINTER CLOUD.

O nameless Fear, which I would fain contemn!
The swarthy wood-marge, skeleton'd with snow
Driv'n by a sharp north-east on bough and stem;
The broad white moor, and sable stream below
Blurr'd with great smoke-wreaths wandering to and fro;
That monstrous cloud pressing the night on them,
Cloud without shape or colour, drooping slow
Down all the sky, and chill sleet for its hem;—
Such face of earth and time have I not watch'd
In other years: why now my spirit sinks,
Like captive who should hear, in helpless links,
Some gate of horror stealthily unlatch'd,
Who shows me? but Calamity methinks
Is creeping nigh, her cruel plot being hatch'd.

109

FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS.

The time of Frost is the time for me!
When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee,
When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound,
And the footstep rings on the musical ground;
When earth is white, and air is bright,
And every breath a new delight!

While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest,
What a glorious sky!—through the level west
Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze,
Which deepen'd up into purple grays,
With stars aloft as the light decreas'd,
Till the great Moon rose in the rich blue east.

And Morning!—each pane a garden of frost,
Of delicate flow'ring, as quickly lost;
For the stalks are fed by the moon's cold beams,
And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams
By Night's keen breath, and a glance of the Sun
Like dreams will scatter them every one.

Hurra! the lake is a league of glass!
Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass.
Off we shoot, and poise and wheel,
And swiftly turn upon scoring heel;
And our flying sandals chirp and sing
Like a flock of swallows fresh on the wing.

Away from the crowd with the wind we drift,
No vessel's motion so smoothly swift;
Fainter and fainter the tumult grows,
And the gradual stillness and wide repose
Touch with a hue more soft and grave
The lapse of joy's declining wave.

110

Pure is the ice; our glance may sound
Deep through an awful, dim profound,
To the water dungeons where snake-weeds hide,
Over which, as self-upborne, we glide,
Like wizards on dark adventure bent,
The masters of every element.

Homeward—and how the shimmering snow
Kisses our hot cheeks as we go!
Wavering down the feeble wind,
Like myriad thoughts in a Poet's mind,
Till the earth, and trees, and icy lakes,
Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes.

But our Village street—the stir and noise!
The long black slides running mad with boys!
The pie is kept hot, in sequence due,
Aristocrat now the hobnail shoe;
And the quaint white bullets fly here and there
With laugh and shout in the wintry air.

In the clasp of Home, by the ruddy fire,
Ranged in a ring to our heart's desire,
Now, who will tell some wondrous tale,
Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale,
Set chin on hands, make grave eyes stare,
Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair?

The one low voice goes wandering on
In a mystic world, whither all are gone;
The shadows dance; little Caroline
Has stolen her fingers up into mine.
But the night outside is very chill,
And the Frost hums loud at the window-sill.

111

[The Boy from his bedroom-window]

The Boy from his bedroom-window
Look'd over the little town,
And away to the bleak black upland
Under a clouded moon.

The moon came forth from her cavern
He saw the sudden gleam
Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland;
Or perhaps the whole was a dream.

For I never could find that water
In all my walks and rides:
Far-off, in the Land of Memory,
That midnight pool abides.

Many fine things had I glimpse of,
And said, ‘I shall find them one day.’
Whether within or without me
They were, I cannot say.

112

OH! WERE MY LOVE.

Oh! were my Love a country lass,
That I might see her every day,
And sit with her on hedgerow grass
Beneath a bough of may;
And find her cattle when astray,
Or help to drive them to the field,
And linger on our homeward way,
And woo her lips to yield
A twilight kiss before we parted,
Full of love, yet easy-hearted.

Oh! were my Love a cottage maid,
To spin through many a winter night,
Where ingle-corner lends its shade
From fir-wood blazing bright.
Beside her wheel what dear delight
To watch the blushes go and come
With tender words, that took no fright
Beneath the friendly hum;
Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling,
At a fire-side legend's telling.

Oh! were my Love a peasant girl,
That never saw the wicked town;
Was never dight with silk or pearl,
But graced a homely gown.
How little force in fashion's frown
To vex our unambitious lot,
How rich were love and peace to crown
Our green secluded cot,
Where Age would come serene and shining,
Like an autumn day's declining!

113

SONG.

[O Spirit of the Summertime!]

O Spirit of the Summertime!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings, calm and late,
When merry children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadowlands at dewy prime;—
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summertime!

114

RISING OF JUPITER.

Splendidly Jupiter's planet rises over the river,
Jupiter, fabulous god of vanish'd mortals and years;
Silence and dusk diffused far and wide on the landscape,
Solemn, shadowy world, past and present in one.
Many a glimmering light is aloft, but grandest to vision
Now, as noblest in rank of our Sun's astonishing brood,
Over dim waters and wolds and hills, in the clear dark night-sky,
Jupiter hangs like a royal diamond, throbbing with flame.

Still in our starry heav'n the Pagan Gods have their station;
Only, in sooth, as words: what were they ever but words?
Lo, mankind hath fashion'd its thoughts, its hopes, and its dreamings,
Fashion'd and named them thus and thus, by the bardic voice,
Fashion'd them better or worse, from a shallower insight or deeper,
Names to abide for a term, in many mouths or a few;

115

Each and all in turn to give place, be it sooner or later.
What is ten thousand years on the mighty Dial of Heav'n?

Nothing is fix'd. All moves. O Star! thou hast look'd upon changes
Here on this Planet of Man. Changes unguess'd are to come.
The New Time forgetteth the Old,—remembereth somewhat, a little,
A scheme, a fancy, a form, a word of the poet, a name.
Still, when a deeper thought, a loftier, wider and truer,
Springs in the soul and flows into life, it cannot be lost.
That which is gain'd for man is gain'd, as we trust, for ever.
That which is gain'd is gain'd. We ascend, however it be.

Blaze, pure Jewel! Shine, O Witness, pulsing to mortals
Over the gulf of space a message in echoes of light.
Dead generations beheld thee, men unborn shall behold thee,
Multitudes, foolish or wise, call thee by other words.
What was thy title of old, a beacon to wandering shepherds,
Lifted in black-blue vault o'er the wide Chaldæan plain?
What is it now, Bright Star, at the wigwams out on the prairie?
What between two pagodas at eve in the Flowery Land?

116

Roll up the sky, vast Globe! whereuntó this other, our dwelling,
Is but the cat to the lion, the stalk of grass to the palm.
Certain to eye and thought,—but a very dream cannot reach thee,
Glimpsing what larger lives may dwell in thy spacious year.
Heed they at all, for their part, our little one-moon'd planet?
Of China, India, or Hellas, or England, what do they know?
How have they named it, the spark our Earth, that we think so much of,
One faint spark among many, with moon too small to be seen?

O great Space—great Spheres!—great Thoughts in the Mind!—what are ye?
O little lives of men upon earth!—O Planets and Moons!
Wheel'd and whirl'd in the sweep of your measured and marvellous motion,
Smoothly, resistlessly, swung round the strength of the central Orb,
Terrible furnace of fire—one lamp of the ancient abysses,
An Infinite Universe lighted with millions of burning suns,
Boundlessly fill'd with electrical palpitant world forming ether,
Endlessly everywhere moving, concéntrating, welling-forth pow'r,
Life into countless shapes drawn upward, mystical spirit
Born, that man—even we—may commune with God Most High.

117

WINTER VERDURE.

I sat at home, and thought there lived no green,
Because the time is winter; but, to-day,
Entering a park a mile or two away,
Smooth laurels tower'd as if no cold had been;
The tangled ivy, holly sharp and sheen,
Hung over nested ferns, and craglets gray
Broider'd with moss; high firs, a drooping screen,
Guarded their turfy lawn in close array.

Soon shall the hopeful woodbine-garland swing,
And countless buds the misty branch impearl;
My little Portress, fair come Spring to you—
Life's and the year's—flower-cheek'd and sparkling girl!
Or are you, child, the Spirit of the Spring,
Safe in these warmer groves the winter through?

118

EVENING PRAYER.

Good Lord, to thee I bow my head;
Protect me helpless in my bed;
May no ill dream disturb the night,
Nor sinful thought my soul affright!
And sacred sleep enfold me round,
As with a guardian-angel's wings,
From every earthly sight and sound;
While tranquil influence, like the dew
Upon thine outer world of things,
Prepares a morning fresh and new.