Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the old house there is a chamber high,
Diapered with wind-scattered plane-tree leaves;
And o'er one corbelled window that receives
The sunrise we've inscribed right daintily,
‘Come, O fair Morn, fulfilling prophecy!’
Over another, western watch doth keep,
Is writ, ‘O Eve, bring thou the nursling Sleep!’
Adorning the old walls as best we may.

For up this bower-stair, in long-vanished years,
The bridegroom brought his bride and shut the door;
Here, too, closed weary eyes with kindred tears,
While mourners' feet were hushed upon the floor:
And still it seems these old trees and brown hills
Remember also our past joys and ills.

II.A SPRING MORNING.

Vaguely at dawn within the temperate clime
Of glimmering half-sleep, in this chamber high,
I heard the jackdaws in their loopholes nigh,
Fitfully stir: as yet it scarce was time
Of dawning, but the nestlings' hungry chime
Awoke me, and the old birds soon had flown;
Then was a perfect lull, and I went down
Into deep slumber beneath dreams or rhyme.

But, suddenly renewed, the clamouring grows,
The callow beaklings clamouring every one,
The grey-heads had returned with worm and fly;
I looked up and the room was like a rose,
Above the hill-top was the brave young sun,
The world was still as in an ecstasy.

III.MOTTOES.

There is a motto painted on each beam
That holds the roof-tree up from wall to wall,
'Neath which we pass the pleasantest hours of all:
And round the cornice is a frieze where teem
Numberless naked children, who, 'twould seem,
Can do all kinds of work, and, strange to say,
Can do it all as if it were but play:
These are among the mottoes, Love the theme:—
‘Dan Cupid's wisdom keeps pace with his wealth;’
Because his wealth is wisdom, says the dear:
‘Dan Cupid like all gods can disappear;’
But this was quite effaced one night by stealth:
‘Dan Cupid flies while Hercules can but run;’
And this my lady's damsels call great fun.

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IV.BELOW THE OLD HOUSE.

Beneath those buttressed walls with lichens grey,
Beneath the slopes of trees whose flickering shade
Darkens the pools by dun green velvetted,
The stream leaps like a living thing at play,—
In haste it seems; it cannot, cannot stay!
The great boughs changing there from year to year,
And the high jackdaw-haunted eves, still hear
The burden of the rivulet—Passing away!

And some time certainly that oak no more
Will keep the winds in check; his breadth of beam
Will go to rib some ship for some far shore;
Those quoins and eves will crumble, while that stream
Will still run whispering, whispering night and day,
That over-song of father Time—Passing away!

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V.THE MOON.

How often and how vainly do we try
To paint in words the dying of the day!
Coming repose ennobling us, the play
Of fretted fire and gold afar and nigh.
This night seen from that western casement high,
It was so terribly fair with cloudlet-sheaves,
Amber and ruby burning through the leaves,
I said once more, It must not pass me by!

But when another hour the clock had told,
I went to look again, and saw framed there,
By fringing ivy like carved jet, the sky,
The void sky, silver-bright, so vast, so cold,
The faint moon round as is Eternity,—
I quite forgot the sunset's splendid glare.

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VI.THE GARDEN.

The old house garden grows old-fashioned flowers,
Sheltered by hedges of the close yew-tree,
Through which, as Chaucer says, no wight may see;
The sunflowers rise aloft like beacon towers,
Their large discs fringed with flames; and corner bowers
There are of mountain-ash, and the wild rose
Short-lived, blue star-flowers that at evening close
Spring there; sweet herbs and marigolds in showers;
Gilly-flowers too, dark crimson and nigh white;
Pied poppies, and the striped grass, differing still
In each long leaf, though children ever will
Believe in finding two shall match aright.
The paths are edged with box grown broad and high,
At evening sheltering moths of various dye.

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VII.IN THE GARDEN.

I

This afterglow of summer wears away:
Russet and yellowing boughs bend everywhere,
Languid in noontide, and the rose-trees bear
Buds that will never open; this long day
Hath been so still, so warm, so lucidly
White, like shadowless days in heaven I ween,
A moment by God lengthened it hath been,—
As Time shall be no more at last, they say.

Let us sit here! there is no bird to sing;
Not even the aspen quivers; faintly brown,
The great trees hang around us in a ring;
Never shall snow or storm again come down,
And never shall we be again footsore,
But live in this enchantment ever more.

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VIII.IN THE GARDEN.

II

Happiness sometimes hath a tinge of dread,
Perfection unconditioned, strange indeed,
As if at once the green leaf, flower, and seed.
Let the sun shine thus on thy nut-brown head,
So lovely flecked with little shadows, shed
Through the close trellis as I see it now,
And on thy neck and on thy thoughtful brow:
Look up, so thought by thought be answerèd.

And let the dead leaves fall whene'er they may,
Dropping like Danae's gold-shower from on high,
Rare jewels gathered in thy lap they'll lie:
This day hath been a sacred festa-day,
We'll lock it fast within our treasure-store,
And live in its enchantment ever more.

105

IX.AUTUMN SUNSHINE.

Now week by week the scattering leaves
Drift down the sheltered lane,
And week by week the sharp wind grieves
The tree-tops with the rain.

106

But clouds to-day have cleared away,
The sun shines warm and strong
On cot and farm, on hedge and way,—
'Tis a holiday worth a song.

The air is bland on face and hand,
Returned the mid-year hath;
The saddened flowers their hearts expand,
Simmers the garden-path.

The spotted emperor, seldom seen,
Is the sunflower's bosom friend;
The dragon-flies flicker across the sheen,
Where the yellow flag-leaves bend.

But the shooter is heard upon the hill,
The robin is by the door,
The curlew cries o'erhead so shrill,
The swallows are seen no more.

And this is the last last crimson day
The exhausted sun can send;
The evening falls, our foot-path way
Turns homeward towards the end.

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X.THE ROBIN'S OCTOBER SONG.

That carol to the cold and misty morn,
That ending autumn-song, that short-lived song,
O robin! I know well, so sharp and strong,
As do those trembling groves already shorn
And yellowing. O brief sweet song! so lorn
Of gladness; all these leaves, from twig to stem,
Tremble as if dead fingers counted them:
To sing such song men too were surely born.

And this it is: the most desired of Gods
Is waxen weak, and all his children too,
Even the sun; that wide-winged spectre flew
Faster, and now hath caught him by the hair.
Let us contend no more against the rods,
But sing our last song, and descend the stair.

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XI.WINTER COMING.

The strong wind blows from o'er the sea,
Foam-freckled far and near;
Within the casement closed we say,
Winter at last is here.

The long boughs of the old trees creak,
And strike against the rain;
The dead leaves and the little birds
Are thrown on the window pane.

From room to room the careful dame
Each bolt and latch doth try;
The storm-sprite on the winding stair
Sings to her mournfully.

The sound of fast-running waters fills
The air both night and day,
And mists like ghosts from all the glens
Rise and are driven away.

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Sad is the rushing of railing rain,
And swollen streams wailing low;
And the fitful wind, like a slave pursued
By the fast gathering snow.

From the flower-beds the rank heaps fall
Across the bordered walk;
The sunflower props like beggars slant
In rags of leaves and stalk.

The farmer drives his horses home,
The cows are in the byre;
The frost is come, and the ploughman sits
Idle beside the fire.

Away to the South like the swallows
We turn our eyes again,
To be lost once more in the labyrinths
And multitudes of men.