He stands above all worldly schism, And, gazing over life's abysm, Beholds within the starry range Of heaven laws of death and change, That, through his soul's prophetic prism, Are turned to rainbows wild and strange.
Through nature is his hope made surer Of that ideal, his allurer, By whom his life is upward drawn To mount pale pinnacles of dawn, 'Mid which all that is fairer, purer Of love and lore it comes upon.
An alkahest, that makes gold metal Of dross, his mind is – where one petal Of one wild-rose will all outweigh The piled-up facts of everyday — Where commonplaces, there that settle, Are changed to things of heavenly ray.
He climbs by steps of stars and flowers, Companioned of the dreaming hours, And sets his feet in pastures where No merely mortal feet may fare; And higher than the stars he towers Though lowlier than the flowers there.
His comrades are his own high fancies And thoughts in which his soul romances; And every part of heaven or earth He visits, lo, assumes new worth; And touched with loftier traits and trances Re-shines as with a lovelier birth.
He is the play, likewise the player; The word that's said, also the sayer; And in the books of heart and head There is no thing he has not read; Of time and tears he is the weigher, And mouthpiece 'twixt the quick and dead.
He dies: but, mounting ever higher, Wings Phœnix-like from out his pyre Above our mortal day and night, Clothed on with sempiternal light; And raimented in thought's far fire
Flames on in everlasting flight. Unseen, yet seen, on heights of visions, Above all praise and world derisions, His spirit and his deathless brood Of dreams fare on, a multitude, While on the pillar of great missions His name and place are granite-hewed.
EVENING ON THE FARM
From out the hills, where twilight stands, Above the shadowy pasture lands, With strained and strident cry, Beneath pale skies that sunset bands, The bull-bats fly.
A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, And, colored like the half-ripe grape, Seems some uneven stain On heaven's azure, thin as crape, And blue as rain.
By ways, that sunset's sardonyx O'erflares, and gates the farmboy clicks, Through which the cattle came, The mullein stalks seem giant wicks Of downy flame.
From woods no glimmer enters in, Above the streams that wandering win From out the violet hills, Those haunters of the dusk begin, The whippoorwills.
Adown the dark the firefly marks Its flight in golden-emerald sparks; And, loosened from his chain, The shaggy watchdog bounds and barks, And barks again.
Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay; And now an owlet, far away, Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;" And cool dim moths of mottled gray Flit through the dew.
The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, Where on the woodland creek's lagoon, Pale as a ghostly girl Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon With face of pearl.
Within the shed where logs, late hewed, Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood Make blurs of white and brown, The brood-hen cuddles her warm brood Of teetering down.
The clattering guineas in the tree Din for a time; and quietly The henhouse, near the fence, Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry Of cocks and hens.
A cow-bell tinkles by the rails, Where, streaming white in foaming pails, Milk makes an uddery sound; While overhead the black bat trails Around and 'round.
The night is still. The slow cows chew A drowsy cud. The bird that flew And sang is in its nest. It is the time of falling dew, Of dreams and rest.
The brown bees sleep; and 'round the walk, The garden path, from stalk to stalk The bungling beetle booms, Where two soft shadows stand and talk Among the blooms.
The stars are thick: the light is dead That dyed the West: and Drowsyhead, Tuning his cricket-pipe, Nods, and some apple, round and red, Drops over ripe.
Now down the road, that shambles by, A window, shining like an eye Through climbing rose and gourd, Shows where Toil sups and these things lie, His heart and hoard.
THE BROOK
To it the forest tells The mystery that haunts its heart and folds Its form in cogitation deep, that holds The shadow of each myth that dwells In nature – be it Nymph or Fay or Faun — And whispering of them to the dales and dells, It wanders on and on.
To it the heaven shows The secret of its soul; true images Of dreams that form its aspect; and with these Reflected in its countenance it goes, With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn, Within its breast, as every blossom knows, For them to gaze upon.
Through it the world-soul sends Its heart's creating pulse that beats and sings The music of maternity whence springs All life; and shaping earthly ends, From the deep sources of the heavens drawn, Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends, On and forever on.
SUMMER NOONTIDE
The slender snail clings to the leaf, Gray on its silvered underside: And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with brief Bright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf, Her warm hands berry-dyed, Comes down the tanned Noontide.
The pungent fragrance of the mint And pennyroyal drench her gown, That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tint Among the thorns, and everywhere the glint Of gold and white and brown Her flowery steps waft down.
The leaves, like hands with emerald veined, Along her way try their wild best To reach the jewel – whose hot hue was drained From some rich rose that all the June contained — The butterfly, soft pressed Upon her sunny breast.
Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom, She hangs upon the hillside brake, Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume, And, lying in the citron-colored gloom Beside the lilied lake, She stares the buds awake.
Or, with a smile, through watery deeps She leads the oaring turtle's legs; Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps, From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps; And to its nest's green eggs The bird that pleads and begs.
Then 'mid the fields of unmown hay She shows the bees where sweets are found; And points the butterflies, at airy play, And dragonflies, along the water-way, Where honeyed flowers abound For them to flicker 'round.
Or where ripe apples pelt with gold Some barn – around which, coned with snow, The wild-potato blooms – she mounts its old Mossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed, Lets her long glances glow Into the loft below.
To show the mud-wasp at its cell Slenderly busy; swallows, too, Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell; And crouching in the dark the owl as well With all her downy crew Of owlets gray of hue.
These are her joys, and until dusk Lounging she walks where reapers reap, From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk, Rustling the corn within its silken husk, And driving down heav'n's deep White herds of clouds like sheep.
HEAT
I
Now is it as if Spring had never been, And Winter but a memory and dream, Here where the Summer stands, her lap of green Heaped high with bloom and beam, Among her blackberry-lilies, low that lean To kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stare Upon the dragonfly which, slimly seen, Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair, Sparkles above them there.
II
Knee-deep among the tepid pools the cows Chew a slow cud or switch a slower tail. Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs, Where thin the wood-gnats ail. From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse; The sleepy bees make hardly any sound; The only things the sunrays can arouse, It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'round Upon the dusty ground.
III
Within its channel glares the creek and shrinks, Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hides In stagnant places, where the green frog blinks, And water-spider glides. And water-spider glides. Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks, The startled kingfisher that screams and flies; Hotter and lonelier for the purple pinks Of weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes rise Stifling the swooning skies.
IV
From ragweed fallows, rye fields, heaped with sheaves, From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust, And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heaves A cloud of burning dust, The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves, That loll like tongues of panting hounds. The heat Is a wan wimple that the Summer weaves, A veil, in which she wraps, as in a sheet, The shriveling corn and wheat.
V
Furious, incessant in the weeds and briers The sawing weed-bugs sing; and, heat-begot, The grasshoppers, so many strident wires, Staccato fiercely hot: A lash of whirling sound that never tires, The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst, Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires, Into the trough thrusts his hot head, immersed, 'Round which cool bubbles burst.
VI
The sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit who Laments while watching a loved oak tree die, From the deep forest comes the wood-dove's coo. A long, lost, lonely cry. Oh, for a breeze, a mighty wind to woo The woods to stormy laughter; sow like grain The world with freshness of invisible dew. And pile above far, fevered hill and plain. Vast bastions black with rain.