How it was I cannot tell, For I know not where nor why; But perhaps we loved too well In some world that does not lie East or west of where we dwell, And beneath no mortal sky.
Was it in the golden ages Or the iron? – I had heard, — In the prophecy of sages, — Haply, how had come a bird, Underneath whose wing were pages Of an unknown lover's word.
I forget. You may remember How the earthquake shook our ships; How our city, one huge ember, Blazed within the thick eclipse. When you found me – deep December Sealed my icy eyes and lips.
I forget. No one may say That such things can not be true: — Here a flower dies to-day, And to-morrow blooms anew… Death is silent. – Tell me, pray, Why men doubt what God can do?
12
He, with conviction
As to that, nothing to tell, You being all my belief; Doubt may not enter or dwell Here where your image is chief; Here where your name is a spell, Potent in joy and in grief.
Is it the glamor of spring Working in us so we seem Aye to have loved? that we cling Even to some fancy or dream, Rainbowing everything Here in our souls with its gleam?
See! how the synod is met There of the heavens to preach us — Freed from the earth's oubliette, See how the blossoms beseech us — Were it not well to forget Winter and night as they teach us?
Dew and a bud and a star, These, – like a beautiful thought, Over man's wisdom how far! — God for some purpose has wrought; And though they're that which they are, What are the thoughts they have brought?
Stars and the moon; and they roll Over our way that is white. Here shall we end the long stroll? Here shall I kiss you good-night? Or, for a while, soul to soul, Linger and dream of delight?
13
They enter the garden again… She, somewhat pensively
Myths tell of walls and cities that arose To melody. But I would build with tone, Had I that harp, a world for us alone, A world of love, and joy, and deep repose.
A land of lavender light, of blue-bell skies; Pale peaks that rise against the gold of eve; And on one height, the splendors never leave, Our castled home o'er which the wild swan flies.
There, pitiless, the ruined hand of death Should never reach. No bud, no thing should fade; All should be perfect, pure, and unafraid; And life serener than an angel's breath.
The days should move to music; wildly tame The nights should move to music and the stars; And morn and evening in their opal cars, Like heralds, banner God's eternal name.
O world! O life! desired and to be! How shall we reach thee? – dark the way and dim. – Give me your hand, love, let us follow him, Love with the mystery and the melody.
14
He, observing the various flowers around them:
Violets and anemones The surrendered hours Pour, as handsels, round the knees Of the Spring, who to the breeze Flings her myriad flowers.
Like to coins the sumptuous day Strews with blossoms golden Every furlong of his way, — Like a Sultan gone to pray At a Kaaba olden.
And the night, with spark on spark, Clad in dim attire, Dots with Stars the haloed dark, — As a priest around the Ark Lights his lamps of fire.
These are but the cosmic strings To the harp of Beauty, To that instrument which sings In our souls of love that brings Peace and faith and duty.
15
She, seriously:
Duty? – Comfort of the sinner And the saint! – when grief and trial Weigh us, and within our inner Selves, – responsive to love's viol, — Hope's soft voice grows thin and thinner, It is kin to self-denial.
Self-denial! – through whose feeling We are gainer though we're loser; All the finer force revealing Of our natures. No accuser Is the conscience then, but healing Of the wound of which we're chooser.
Some one said no flower knoweth Of the fragrance it revealeth; Song, its soul that overfloweth, Never nightingale's heart feeleth — Such the love the spirit groweth, Love unconscious if it healeth.
16
He, after a pause, lightly:
An elf there is who stables the hot Red wasp that stings on the apricot; An elf who rowels his spiteful bay Like a mote on a ray, away, away; An elf who saddles the hornet lean To din i' the ear o' the swinging bean; Who straddles, with cap cocked all awry, The bottle-blue back o' the dragon-fly.
And this is the elf who sips and sips From clover-horns whence the perfume drips; And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloam Awaits the wild-bee's coming home; In ambush lies, where none may see, And robs the caravan bumble-bee — Gold bags of honey the bees must pay To the bandit elf of the fairy way.
Another ouphen the butterflies know, Who paints their wings with the hues that glow On blossoms. – Squeezing from tubes of dew Pansy colors of every hue On his bloom's pied pallet, he paints the wings Of the butterflies, moths, and other things. This is the elf that the hollyhocks hear, Who dangles a brilliant in each one's ear; Teases at noon the pane's green fly, And lights at night the glow-worm's eye.
But the dearest elf, so the poets say, Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray; Who curls in a dimple and slips along The strings of a lute to a lover's song; Who smiles in her smile, and frowns in her frown, And dreams in the scent of her glove or gown; Hides and beckons as all may note In the bloom or the bow of a maiden's throat.
17
She, standing among the flowers:
Soft through the trees the night wind sighs, And swoons and dies. Above, the stars hang wanly white; Here, through the dark, A drizzled gold, the fireflies Rain mimic stars in spark on spark. — 'Tis time to part, to say good-night. Good-night.
From fern to flower the night-moths cross At drowsy loss. The moon drifts veiled through clouds of white; And pearly pale, A silver blur, through beds of moss, Their tiny moons the glow-worms trail. — 'Tis time to part, to say good-night. Good-night.
18
He, at parting, as they proceed down the garden:
You say you cannot wed me, now That roses and the June are here? To your decision I must bow. — Ah, well! 'tis just as well, my dear: We'll swear again each old love vow, And wait another year.
Another year of love with you! Of dreams and doubts, of sun and rain! When field and forest bloom anew, And locust clusters pelt the lane, When all the song-birds wed and woo, I'll not take "no" again.
Oft shall I lie awake and mark The hours by no clanging clock, But in the dim and distant dark The crowing of some punctual cock; Then up as early as the lark To meet you by our rock.
The rock where first we met at tryst; Where first I wooed and won your love — Remember how the moon and mist Made mystery of the heaven above As now to-night? – How first I kissed Your lips, you trembling like a dove?
So, then, you cannot wed me now That roses and the June are here, That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough? And yet your reason is not clear. Ah, well! We'll swear anew each vow, And wait another year.
PART II EARLY SUMMER
The cricket in the rose-bush hedge Sings by the vine-entangled gate; The slim moon slants a timid edge Of pearl through one low cloud of slate; Around dark door and window-ledge Like dreams the shadows wait. And through the summer dusk she goes, On her white breast a crimson rose.
1
She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon
Gray skies and the foggy rain Dripping from sullen eaves; Over and over again Dull drop of the trickling leaves; And the woodward-winding lane, And the hill with its shocks of sheaves One scarce perceives.
Shall I go in such wet weather By the lane or over the hill? — Where the blossoming milkweed's feather The drops like diamonds fill; Where, draggled and drenched together, The ox-eyes rank the rill, To the old corn-mill.
The creek by now is swollen, And its foaming cascades sound; And the lilies, smeared with pollen, In the dam look dull and drowned. 'Tis a path I oft have stolen To the bridge that rambles round With willows bound.
Through a valley wild with berry, Packed thick with the iron-weeds, And elder, – washed and very Fragrant, – the fenced path leads; Past oak and wilding cherry To a place of flags and reeds, That the water bredes.
The sun through the sad sky bleaches — Is that a thrush that calls? That bird who so beseeches? And see! on the balsam's balls, And leaves of the water-beeches — One blister of wart-like galls — No raindrop falls.
My shawl instead of a bonnet!.. Though the woods be soaking yet, Through the wet to the rock I'll run it, — How sweet to meet i' the wet! Our rock with the vine upon it, — Each flower a fiery jet — Where oft we've met!
2
They meet. He speaks
How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brim over How fragrant is the lane! See, how the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again.
Drops from the trumpet flowers Rain on us as we pass; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or grass, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like glass.
She speaks
How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold! — And breezes trailing vagrant Spill all the spice they hold. The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Crouch on the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old.
Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whippoorwill beseeches; And now an owl's vague moan Strikes faint upon the hearing. — These say the dusk is nearing. And, see, the heavens clearing Take on a tender tone.
How feebly chirps the cricket! How thin the tree-toads cry! Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly. — This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briars clearest… We'll meet to-morrow, dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-bye.
3
They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks:
Here at last! And do you know That again you've kept me waiting? Wondering, anticipating, If your "yes" meant "no."
Now you're here we'll have our day… Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way
Towards the stream; wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green.
Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even, Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft's begun…
How I love you! from the time — You remember, do you not? — When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme,
As I told you. And 'twas thus — "By the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus" —
That I answered you who asked. But the curious part was this: — That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked
Tales of old Boccaccio — Tall Decameronian maids Strolled among Italian glades, Smiling, sweet and slow.
And when you approached, – my book Dropped in wonder, – seemingly To myself I said, "'Tis she!" And arose to look
In Lauretta's eyes and – true! Found them yours. – You shook your head, Laughing at me, as you said, "Did I frighten you?"
You had come for cherries; these Dreamily I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease.
Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then. I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin, or of lawn.
And that apron still I see, — White, with cherry-juice red-stained, — Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree.
And I asked you – for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Spoke such sweet philosophies, — If you'd read Rousseau.
You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France?
And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek I, envying it, Said – remembering Rousseau's wit — "Would my lips were there!"
How you laughed and blushed, I know. — Here's the stream. The west has narrowed To a streak of gold, deep arrowed. — There's a skiff. Let's row.