Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The season had been late: Spring, lagging long,—
Not like the rosy-cheeked lithe Columbine
We see her pictured, but with frost-filled hair,
And sad scared eyes, had cowered beneath the eaves
From the sharp-biting blasts and drifting rains.
Yet in the heart of nature the great change
Had been effected, and one morn in June
Suddenly all the clouds were carol filled,
Every road dried and freckled with sunshine,
Every flower full-blown, both by hedge and garth,
Every tree heavy. So I said, This day
Is the true May-day, and I straight went forth
The nighest way unto the loneliest fields.
Two hours or so it might be from the town,
Before a thriving friend's well-built gateway,
I found myself, and entered, though I knew
That he would not be there; unfortunate
Son of dame Fortune he, who sits all day
With wits repressed and sharp pen, gain and loss
His nether lip developing.

119

I swung
The gate and entered. All along the edge
Of the bright gravel fallen lilac blooms
Or young leaf-sheaths were scattered, and small groups
Of coming toadstools showed where showers had lain.
Under the wavering shades of trees I turned,
Skirting the garden's boxwood bordered ways,
Its rhododendrons bursting into flower,
Flaming beneath the sunshine, and at length
Rested upon an orchard arbour seat.

All over bench and table, ground and sward,
The young green cherries lay, yet overhead,
Glittering like beads, they still seemed thick as leaves
Upon the boughs. And young green apples too,
Scattered by prodigal winds, peeped here and there,
Among the clover. Through the black boughs shone
Clouds of a white heat, in the cold blue depths
Poised steadily, and all about them rang
Those songs of skylarks. Other sounds were there:
The click mistimed of hedge-shears; the brave bee
Passing with trumpet gladness; and the leaves
Waving against each other. Soon this way
Along the further hedge-tops came the shears;
Two wielding arms assiduous and a face
The prickly screen disclosed. Far down the line
By slow degrees went shears and arms, while I

120

Marked the still toppling twigs, until at length
They passed beyond the fruit-trees, and I turned
To other themes. Above the flowering beds
Of jonquil and chill iris rose the house,—
There is the window of my host's small room,
There Harriet's, vacant now, with casements thrown
Wide open, their white curtains driven about;—
And see, within that other tightly closed,
The old dame sits intent on stocking wires.
I sat there; on the seat beside me lay
A cluster of three cherries on one stalk.

A casual passing picture! strange it bides
Perennial with me yet! This little sprig
Of three green cherries, what may it concern
The universal heart? Why all along
The road of life do I remember still
The three green cherries there?

And yet the eye
Sees only what the mind perceives. The heart
Hath its supreme perceptions. We retain
Deepest impressions from most trivial things;
They are the daily food by which we grow;
Some future poet shall find fit airs for them
And touch the nerve of life. For yet shall come
The Poet, such an one as hath not yet
Entered his sickle in those great corn-fields

121

Whence comes the spiritual bread. Not battle deaths,
Nor mere adventures, nor rank passions moved
By vulgar things shall he sing; nor shall prate
With vague loose phrase of Nature: he shall see
The inexorable step-dame as she is,—
A teacher blind, whose task-work and closed door,
Body and soul, we strive against! O world!
The Poet of the future, welcome him!
When he appears.

I left my reverie
Within the arbour, threw the green fruit back,
Crossed the scythed lawn and threshold, for the door
Stood hospitably open; none I met,
Nor had I any errand maid or man
Could answer: on the well-known table stood
Bread cut in shives and wine. Then I put off
My hat before this sacrament and ate,
And called aloud that I might even perforce
Be courteous and give thanks; but no one came.
So thence departing, said I, ‘Every home
Is thus enchanted justly understood,’
And fared right on for many miles that day,
Picking up thoughts like wild-flowers by the path;
Some of them coarse and prickly, some sweet-breathed,
But none of them were homeward borne save those,
Now half expressed, I have writ here for thee!