Kitabı oku: «Kentucky Poems», sayfa 5

ANTHEM OF DAWN

I

 
Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent, —
Up and far up and over, – the heaven grew erubescent,
Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn,
Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament's barbition;
And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems,
And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hems
Of the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst,
Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.
 

II

 
Then out of the splendour and richness, that burned like a magic stone,
The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone,
The pomp and the pageant of colour, triumphal procession of glare,
The sun, like a king in armour, breathing splendour from feet to hair,
Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afar
Where the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring
war:
And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin's fiery blade,
The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade.
 

III

 
Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to
even:
And the stars, like rafts, went down: and the moon, like a ghost-ship
driven,
A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that
dotted,
With pearl and cameo, bays of the day, her canvas webbed and rooted,
Lay lost in the gulf of heaven: while over her mixed and melted
The beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted;
The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and after
The rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughter
Of halcyon sapphire. – O Dawn! thou visible mirth,
Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth!
 

AT THE LANE'S END

I

 
No more to strip the roses from
The rose-boughs of her porch's place! —
I dreamed last night that I was home
Beside a rose – her face.
 
 
I must have smiled in sleep – who knows? —
The rose aroma filled the lane;
I saw her white hand's lifted rose
That called me home again.
 
 
And yet when I awoke – so wan,
An old face wet with icy tears! —
Somehow, it seems, sleep had misdrawn
A love gone thirty years.
 

II

 
The clouds roll up and the clouds roll down
Over the roofs of the little town;
Out in the hills where the pike winds by
Fields of clover and bottoms of rye,
You will hear no sound but the barking cough
Of the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off;
You will hear no bird but the sapsuckers
Far off in the forest, – that seems to purr,
As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot,
Like the docile back of an ocelot:
You will see no thing but the shine and shade
Of briers that climb and of weeds that wade
The glittering creeks of the light, that fills
The dusty road and the red-keel hills —
And all day long in the pennyroy'l
The grasshoppers at their anvils toil;
Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum,
And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum;
Tinkers who solder the silence and heat
To make the loneliness more complete.
Around old rails where the blackberries
Are reddening ripe, and the bumble-bees
Are a drowsy rustle of Summer's skirts,
And the bob-white's wing is the fan she flirts.
Under the hill, through the iron weeds,
And ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leads
The path forgotten of all but one.
Where elder bushes are sick with sun,
And wild raspberries branch big blue veins
O'er the face of the rock, where the old spring rains
Its sparkling splinters of molten spar
On the gravel bed where the tadpoles are, —
You will find the pales of the fallen fence,
And the tangled orchard and vineyard, dense
With the weedy neglect of thirty years.
The garden there, – where the soft sky clears
Like an old sweet face that has dried its tears; —
The garden plot where the cabbage grew
And the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blew
Balloons of white by the melon patch;
Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catch
Oblong amber and agate balls
Thrown from the sun in the frosty falls:
Long rows of currants and gooseberries,
And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees.
And here was a nook for the princess-plumes,
The snap-dragons and the poppy-blooms,
Mother's sweet-williams and pansy flowers,
And the morning-glories' bewildered bowers,
Tipping their cornucopias up
For the humming-birds that came to sup.
And over it all was the Sabbath peace
Of the land whose lap was the love of these;
And the old log-house where my innocence died,
With my boyhood buried side by side.
 
 
Shall a man with a face as withered and gray
As the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away, —
Where the hornets haunt and the mortar drops
From the loosened logs of the clap-board tops; —
Whom vice has aged as the rotting rooms
The rain where memories haunt the glooms;
A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnars
In the rasping hinge of the door that jars;
A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flue
Where the swallows build the summer through;
Shall a man, I say, with the spider sins
That the long years spin in the outs and ins
Of his soul, returning to see once more
His boyhood's home, where his life was poor
With toil and tears and their fretfulness,
But rich with health and the hopes that bless
The unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth;
Shall he not take comfort and know the truth
In its threadbare raiment of falsehood? – Yea!
In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray,
Like a pilgrim come to the shrine again
Of the homely saints that shall soothe his pain,
And arise and depart made clean from stain!
 

III

 
Years of care can not erase
Visions of the hills and trees
Closing in the dam and race;
Not the mile-long memories
Of the mill-stream's lovely place.
 
 
How the sunsets used to stain
Mirror of the water lying
Under eaves made dark with rain!
Where the red-bird, westward flying,
Lit to try one song again.
 
 
Dingles, hills, and woods, and springs,
Where we came in calm and storm,
Swinging in the grape-vine swings,
Wading where the rocks were warm,
With our fishing-nets and strings.
 
 
Here the road plunged down the hill,
Under ash and chinquapin, —
Where the grasshoppers would drill
Ears of silence with their din, —
To the willow-girdled mill.
 
 
There the path beyond the ford
Takes the woodside, just below
Shallows that the lilies sword,
Where the scarlet blossoms blow
Of the trumpet-vine and gourd.
 
 
Summer winds, that sink with heat,
On the pelted waters winnow
Moony petals that repeat
Crescents, where the startled minnow
Beats a glittering retreat.
 
 
Summer winds that bear the scent
Of the iron-weed and mint,
Weary with sweet freight and spent,
On the deeper pools imprint
Stumbling steps in many a dent.
 
 
Summer winds, that split the husk
Of the peach and nectarine,
Trail along the amber dusk
Hazy skirts of gray and green,
Spilling balms of dew and musk.
 
 
Where with balls of bursting juice
Summer sees the red wild-plum
Strew the gravel; ripened loose,
Autumn hears the pawpaw drum
Plumpness on the rocks that bruise:
 
 
There we found the water-beech,
One forgotten August noon,
With a hornet-nest in reach, —
Like a fairyland balloon,
Full of bustling fairy speech. —
 
 
Some invasion sure it was;
For we heard the captains scold;
Waspish cavalry a-buzz, —
Troopers uniformed in gold,
Sable-slashed, – to charge on us.
 
 
Could I find the sedgy angle,
Where the dragon-flies would turn
Slender flittings into spangle
On the sunlight? or would burn —
Where the berries made a tangle —
 
 
Sparkling green and brassy blue;
Rendezvousing, by the stream,
Bands of elf-banditti, who,
Brigands of the bloom and beam,
Drunken were with honey-dew.
 
 
Could I find the pond that lay
Where vermilion blossoms showered
Fragrance down the daisied way?
That the sassafras embowered
With the spice of early May?
 
 
Could I find it – did I seek —
The old mill? Its weather-beaten
Wheel and gable by the creek?
With its warping roof; worm-eaten,
Dusty rafters worn and weak.
 
 
Where old shadows haunt old places,
Loft and hopper, stair and bin;
Ghostly with the dust that laces
Webs that usher phantoms in,
Wistful with remembered faces.
 
 
While the frogs' grave litanies
Drowse in far-off antiphone,
Supplicating, till the eyes
Of dead friendships, long alone
In the dusky corners, – rise.
 
 
Moonrays or the splintered slip
Of a star? within the darkling
Twilight, where the fire-flies dip —
As if Night a myriad sparkling
Jewels from her hands let slip:
 
 
While again some farm-boy crosses, —
With a corn-sack for the meal, —
O'er the creek, through ferns and mosses
Sprinkled by the old mill-wheel,
Where the water drips and tosses.
 

THE FARMSTEAD

 
Yes, I love the homestead. There
In the spring the lilacs blew
Plenteous perfume everywhere;
There in summer gladioles grew
Parallels of scarlet glare.
 
 
And the moon-hued primrose cool,
Satin-soft and redolent;
Honeysuckles beautiful,
Filling all the air with scent;
Roses red or white as wool.
 
 
Roses, glorious and lush,
Rich in tender-tinted dyes,
Like the gay tempestuous rush
Of unnumbered butterflies,
Clustering o'er each bending bush.
 
 
Here japonica and box,
And the wayward violets;
Clumps of star-enamelled phlox,
And the myriad flowery jets
Of the twilight four-o'-clocks.
 
 
Ah, the beauty of the place!
When the June made one great rose,
Full of musk and mellow grace,
In the garden's humming close,
Of her comely mother face!
 
 
Bubble-like, the hollyhocks
Budded, burst, and flaunted wide
Gypsy beauty from their stocks;
Morning glories, bubble-dyed,
Swung in honey-hearted flocks.
 
 
Tawny tiger-lilies flung
Doublets slashed with crimson on;
Graceful slave-girls, fair and young,
Like Circassians, in the sun
Alabaster lilies swung.
 
 
Ah, the droning of the bee;
In his dusty pantaloons
Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis;
In the drowsy afternoons
Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea.
 
 
Ah, the moaning wildwood-dove!
With its throat of amethyst
Rippled like a shining cove
Which a wind to pearl hath kissed,
Moaning, moaning of its love.
 
 
And the insects' gossip thin —
From the summer hotness hid —
In lone, leafy deeps of green;
Then at eve the katydid
With its hard, unvaried din.
 
 
Often from the whispering hills,
Borne from out the golden dusk, —
Gold with gold of daffodils, —
Thrilled into the garden's musk
The wild wail of whippoorwills.
 
 
From the purple-tangled trees,
Like the white, full heart of night,
Solemn with majestic peace,
Swam the big moon, veined with light;
Like some gorgeous golden-fleece.
 
 
She was there with me. – And who,
In the magic of the hour,
Had not sworn that they could view,
Beading on each blade and flower
Moony blisters of the dew?
 
 
And each fairy of our home, —
Firefly, – its taper lit
In the honey-scented gloam,
Dashing down the dusk with it
Like an instant-flaming foam.
 
 
And we heard the calling, calling,
Of the screech-owl in the brake;
Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawling
Down the ledge, into the lake
Heard the sighing streamlet falling.
 
 
Then we wandered to the creek
Where the water-lilies, growing
Thick as stars, lay white and weak;
Or against the brooklet's flowing
Bent and bathed a bashful cheek.
 
 
And the moonlight, rippling golden,
Fell in virgin aureoles
On their bosoms, half unfolden,
Where, it seemed, the fairies' souls
Dwelt as perfume, – unbeholden; —
 
 
Or lay sleeping, pearly-tented,
Baby-cribbed within each bud,
While the night-wind, piney-scented,
Swooning over field and flood,
Rocked them on the waters dented.
 
 
Then the low, melodious bell
Of a sleeping heifer tinkled,
In some berry-briered dell,
As her satin dewlap wrinkled
With the cud that made it swell.
 
 
And, returning home, we heard,
In a beech-tree at the gate,
Some brown, dream-behaunted bird,
Singing of its absent mate,
Of the mate that never heard.
 
 
And, you see, now I am gray,
Why within the old, old place,
With such memories, I stay;
Fancy out her absent face
Long since passed away.
 
 
She was mine – yes! still is mine:
And my frosty memory
Reels about her, as with wine
Warmed into young eyes that see
All of her that was divine.
 
 
Yes, I loved her, and have grown
Melancholy in that love,
And the memory alone
Of perfection such whereof
She could sanctify each stone.
 
 
And where'er the poppies swing —
There we walk, – as if a bee
Bent them with its airy wing, —
Down her garden shadowy
In the hush the evenings bring.
 

A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS

 
Bee-bitten in the orchard hung
The peach; or, fallen in the weeds,
Lay rotting, where still sucked and sung
The gray bee, boring to its seed's
Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.
 
 
The orchard-path, which led around
The garden, – with its heat one twinge
Of dinning locusts, – picket-bound
And ragged, brought me where one hinge
Held up the gate that scraped the ground.
 
 
All seemed the same: the martin-box —
Sun-warped with pigmy balconies —
Still stood, with all its twittering flocks,
Perched on its pole above the peas
And silvery-seeded onion-stocks.
 
 
The clove-pink and the rose; the clump
Of coppery sunflowers, with the heat
Sick to the heart: the garden stump,
Red with geranium-pots, and sweet
With moss and ferns, this side the pump.
 
 
I rested, with one hesitant hand
Upon the gate. The lonesome day,
Droning with insects, made the land
One dry stagnation. Soaked with hay
And scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.
 
 
I breathed the sultry scents, my eyes
Parched as my lips. And yet I felt
My limbs were ice. – As one who flies
To some wild woe. – How sleepy smelt
The hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!
 
 
Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer
For one long, plaintive, forest-side
Bird-quaver. – And I knew me near
Some heartbreak anguish… She had died.
 
 
I felt it, and no need to hear!
I passed the quince and pear-tree; where,
All up the porch, a grape-vine trails —
How strange that fruit, whatever air
Or earth it grows in, never fails
To find its native flavour there!
 
 
And she was as a flower, too,
That grows its proper bloom and scent
No matter what the soil: she, who,
Born better than her place, still lent
Grace to the lowliness she knew…
 
 
They met me at the porch, and were
Sad-eyed with weeping. – Then the room
Shut out the country's heat and purr,
And left light stricken into gloom —
So love and I might look on her.
 

THE FEUD

 
Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stone
The murmuring ooze and trickle of a stream
Through bushes, where the mountain spring lies lone, —
A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream, —
And one wild road winds like a saffron seam.
 
 
Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous note
Dropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June;
Here cat – and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wrote
Their presence on the silence with a tune;
And here the fox drank 'neath the mountain moon.
 
 
Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush, —
Impenetrable briers, deep and dense,
And wiry bushes, – brush, that seemed to crush
The struggling saplings with its tangle, whence
Sprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence.
 
 
A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterfly
In orange and amber, like a floating flame;
And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly,
Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame,
With an old rifle, down the mountain came.
 
 
He listened, drinking from a flask he took
Out of the ragged pocket of his coat;
Then all around him cast a stealthy look;
Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float,
His fingers twitching at his hairy throat.
 
 
The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland height
Loomed, framed in splendours of the dolphin dusk.
Around the road a horseman rode in sight;
Young, tall, blonde-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque,
He in the thicket aimed – The gun ran husk;
 
 
And echoes barked among the hills and made
Repeated instants of the shot's distress. —
Then silence – and the trampled bushes swayed; —
Then silence, packed with murder and the press
Of distant hoofs that galloped riderless.
 

LYNCHERS

 
At the moon's down-going, let it be
On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree…
 
 
The red-rock road of the underbush,
Where the woman came through the summer hush.
 
 
The sumach high and the elder thick,
Where we found the stone and the ragged stick
 
 
The trampled road of the thicket, full
Of footprints down to the quarry pool.
 
 
The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,
Where we found her lying stark and dead.
 
 
The scraggy wood; the negro hut,
With its doors and windows locked and shut.
 
 
A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp;
A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.
 
 
An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;
A voice that answers a voice that asks.
 
 
A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck;
A running noose and a man's bared neck.
 
 
A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;
The lonely night and a bat's black wings…
 
 
At the moon's down-going, let it be
On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
 

DEAD MAN'S RUN

 
He rode adown the autumn wood,
A man dark-eyed and brown;
A mountain girl before him stood
Clad in a homespun gown.
 
 
'To ride this road is death for you!
My father waits you there;
My father and my brother, too, —
You know the oath they swear.'
 
 
He holds her by one berry-brown wrist,
And by one berry-brown hand;
And he hath laughed at her and kissed
Her cheek the sun hath tanned.
 
 
'The feud is to the death, sweetheart;
But forward will I ride.' —
'And if you ride to death, sweetheart,
My place is at your side.'
 
 
Low hath he laughed again and kissed
And helped her with his hand;
And they have ridd'n into the mist
That belts the autumn land.
 
 
And they had passed by Devil's Den,
And come to Dead Man's Run,
When in the brush rose up two men,
Each with a levelled gun.
 
 
'Down! down! my sister!' cries the one; —
She gives the reins a twirl. —
The other shouts, 'He shot my son!
And now he steals my girl!'
 
 
The rifles crack: she will not wail:
He will not cease to ride:
But, oh! her face is pale, is pale,
And the red blood stains her side.
 
 
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The road is rough to ride!' —
The road is rough by gulch and bluff,
And her hair blows wild and wide.
 
 
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The bank is steep to ride!' —
The bank is steep for a strong man's leap,
And her eyes are staring wide.
 
 
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The Run is swift to ride!' —
The Run is swift with mountain drift,
And she sways from side to side.
 
 
Is it a wash of the yellow moss,
Or drift of the autumn's gold,
The mountain torrent foams across
For the dead pine's roots to hold?
 
 
Is it the bark of the sycamore,
Or peel of the white birch-tree,
The mountaineer on the other shore
Hath followed and still can see?
 
 
No mountain moss or leaves, dear heart!
No bark of birchen gray! —
Young hair of gold and a face death-cold
The wild stream sweeps away.