Were we in May now, while Our souls are yearning, Sad hearts would bound and smile With red blood burning; Around the tedious dial No slow hands turning.
Were we in May now, say, What joy to know Her heart's streams pulse away In winds that blow, See graceful limbs of May Revealed to glow.
Were we in May now, think What wealth she has; The dog-tooth violets pink, Wind-flowers like glass, About the wood brook's brink Dark sassafras.
Nights, which the large stars strew Heav'n on heav'n rolled, Nights, whose feet flash with dew, Whose long locks hold Aromas cool and new, A moon's curved gold.
This makes me sad in March; I long and long To see the red-bud's torch Flame far and strong, Hear on my vine-climbed porch The blue-bird's song.
What else then but to sleep And cease from such; Dream of her and to leap At her white touch? Ah me! then wake and weep, Weep overmuch.
This is why day by day Time lamely crawls, Feet clogged with winter clay That never falls, While the dim month of May Me far off calls.
IN LATE FALL
Such days as break the wild bird's heart; Such days as kill it and its songs; A death which knows a sweeter part Of days to which such death belongs.
And now old eyes are filled with tears, As with the rain the frozen flowers; Time moves so slowly one but fears The burthen on his wasted powers.
And so he stopped; – and thou art dead! And that is found which once was feared: — A farewell to thy gray, gray head, A goodnight to thy goodly beard!
MIDWINTER
The dew-drop from the rose that slips Hath not the sparkle of her lips, My lady's lips.
Than her long braids of yellow hold The dandelion hath not more gold, Her braids like gold.
The blue-bell hints not more of skies Than do the flowers in her eyes, My lady's eyes.
The sweet-pea blossom doth not wear More dainty pinkness than her ear, My lady's ear.
So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray, My heart's a garden that is gay This sorry day.
LONGING
When rathe wind-flowers many peer All rain filled at blue April skies, As on one smiles one's lady dear With the big tear-drops in her eyes;
When budded May-apples, I wis, Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks, Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss, Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;
Then do I pine for happier skies, Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn; As one for one's sweet lady's eyes, And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.
IN MIDDLE SPRING
When the fields are rolled into naked gold, And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent With the emerald surges of wood and wold Like a flower-foam bursting violent; When the dingles and deeps of the woodlands old Are glad with a sibilant life new sent, Too rare to be told are the manifold Sweet fancies that quicken redolent In the heart that no longer is cold.
How it knows of the wings of the hawk that swings From the drippled dew scintillant seen; Why the red-bird hides where it sings and sings In melodious quiverings of green; How the wind to the red-bud and dogwood brings Big pearls of worth and corals of sheen, Whiles he lisps to the strings of a lute that rings Of love in the South who is queen, Where the fountain of poesy springs.
Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips; And look in the brook that runs laughing gay For the nymph with the laughing lips; In the brake for the dryad whose eyes are gray, From whose bosom the perfume drips; The faun hid away where the grasses sway Thick ivy low down on his hips, Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.
So ho, for the rose, the Romeo rose, And the lyric he hides in his heart; And ho, for the epic the oak tree knows, Sonorous and mighty in art. The lily with woes that her white face shows Hath a satire she yearns to impart, But none of those, her hates and her foes, For a heart that sings but for sport, And shifts where the song-wind blows.
TYRANNY
There is not aught more merciless Than such fast lips that will not speak, That stir not if I curse or bless A God that made them weak.
More madd'ning to one there is naught, Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes, Eyes vacant of the thing named thought, An exile in the skies.
Ah, silent tongue! ah, ear so dull! How angel utterances low Have wooed you! they more beautiful Than mortal harsh with woe!
VISIONS
When the snow was deep on the flower-beds, And the sleet was caked on the brier; When the frost was down in the brown bulbs' heads, And the ways were clogged with mire;
When the wind to syringa and bare rose-tree Brought the phantoms of vanished flowers, And the days were sorry as sorry could be, And Time limped cursing his fardle of hours:
Heigho! had I not a book and the logs? And I swear that I wasn't mistaken, But I heard the frogs croaking in far-off bogs, And the brush-sparrow's song in the braken.
And I strolled by paths which the Springtide knew, In her mossy dells, by her ferny passes, Where the ground was holy with flowers and dew, And the insect life in the grasses.
And I knew the Spring as a lover who knows His sweetheart, to whom he has given A kiss on the cheek that warmed its white rose, In her eyes brought the laughter of heaven.
For a poem I'd read, a simple thing, A little lyric that had the power To make the brush-sparrow come and sing, And the winter woodlands flower.
THE OLD BYWAY
Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumach and wild blackberries, Thick elder and the white wild-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose.
The limber lizards glide away Gray on its moss and lichens gray; Warm butterflies float in the sun, Gay Ariels of the lonesome day; And there the ground squirrels run.
The red-bird stays one note to lift; High overhead dark swallows drift; 'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream, Through which hot bits of azure sift, The gray hawks soar and scream.
Among the pungent weeds they fill Dry grasshoppers pipe with a will; And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirs The basking snake, mole-crickets shrill; O'er head the locust whirrs.
At evening, when the sad West turns To dusky Night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing, And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The wind wakes whispering.
DIURNAL
I
A molten ruby clear as wine Along the east the dawning swims; The morning-glories swing and shine, The night dews bead their satin rims; The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine, The gold hangs on their limbs.
Sweet morn, the South, A royal lover, From his fragrant mouth, Sweet morn, the South Breathes on and over Keen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.
II
Beside the wall the roses blow Long summer noons the winds forsake; Beside the wall the poppies glow So full of fire their hearts do ache; The dipping butterflies come slow, Half dreaming, half awake.
Sweet noontide, rest, A slave-girl weary With her babe at her breast; Sweet noontide, rest, The day grows dreary As soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.
III
Along lone paths the cricket cries Sad summer nights that know the dew; One mad star thwart the heavens flies Curved glittering on the glassy blue; Now grows the big moon on the skies. The stars are faint and few.
Sweet night, breathe thou With a passion taken From a Romeo's vow; Sweet night, breathe thou Like a beauty shaken Of amorous dreams that have made her waken.
THE WOOD-PATH
Here doth white Spring white violets show, Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sow Through starry mosses amber-fair, As delicate as ferns that grow, Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.
Here fungus life is beautiful, White mushroom and the thick toad-stool As various colored as wild blooms; Existences that love the cool, Distinct in rank perfumes.
Here stray the wandering cows to rest, The calling cat-bird builds her nest In spice-wood bushes dark and deep; Here raps the woodpecker his best, And here young rabbits leap.
Tall butternuts and hickories, The pawpaw and persimmon trees, The beech, the chestnut, and the oak, Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of bees Through which gold sun-bits soak.
Here to pale melancholy moons. In haunted nights of dreamy Junes, Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill, Whose mournful and demonic tunes Wild woods with phantoms fill.
DEFICIENCY
Ah, God! were I away, away, By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in Thy bright day Than my poor spirit thrills.
The elder coppice, banks of blooms, The spice-wood brush, the field Of tumbled clover, and perfumes Hot, weedy pastures yield.
The old rail-fence whose angles hold Bright briar and sassafras, Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and gold Starred through the moss and grass.
The ragged path that winds unto Lone cow-behaunted nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks.
To see the minnows turn and gleam White sparkling bellies, all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall.
The buoyant pleasure and delight Of floating feathered seeds. Capricious wanderers soft and white Born of silk-bearing weeds.
Ah, God! were I away, away, Among wild woods and birds! There were more soul within Thy day Than one might bless with words.
HE WHO LOVES
For him God's birds each merry morn Make of wild throats melodious flutes To trill such love from brush and thorn As might brim eyes of brutes: Who would believe of such a thing, That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?
For him the faultless skies of noon Grow farther in eternal blue, As heavens that buoy the balanced moon, And sow the stars and dew: Who would believe that such deep skies Are miracles only through her eyes?
For him mad sylphs adown domed nights Stud golden globules radiant, Or glass-green transient trails of lights Spin from their orbs and slant: Who would believe a soul were hers To make for him a universe?
THE MONASTERY CROFT
1
Big-stomached, like friars Who ogle a nun, Quaff deep to their bellies' desires From the old abbey's tun, Grapes fatten with fires Warm-filtered from moon and from sun.
2
As a novice who muses, — Lips a rosary tell, While her thoughts are – a love she refuses? – Nay! mourns as not well: The ripe apple looses Its holding to rot where it fell.
THE DRYAD
I have seen her limpid eyes Large with gradual laughter rise Through wild-roses' nettles, Like twin blossoms grow and stare, Then a hating, envious air Whisked them into petals.
I have seen her hardy cheek Like a molten coral leak Through the leafage shaded Of thick Chickasaws, and then, When I made more sure, again To a red plum faded.
I have found her racy lips, And her graceful finger-tips, But a haw and berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer And to make me merry.
Often on the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of loose locks At me she hath shaken, And I've followed – 'twas in vain — They had trickled into rain Sun-lit on the braken.
Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked where some royal tree Powdered all the spaces With wan sunlight and quaint shade, Such a haunt romance hath made For haunched satyr-races.
There, I wot, hid amorous Pan, For a sudden pleading ran Through the maze of myrtle, Whiles a rapid violence tossed All its flowerage, – 'twas the lost Cooings of a turtle.
"THE SWEET O' THE YEAR."
I
How can I help from laughing while The daffodilies at me smile; The tickled dew winks tipsily In clusters of the lilac-tree; The crocuses and hyacinths Storm through the grassy labyrinths A mirth of gold and violet; And roses, bud by bud, Flash from each dainty-lacing net Red lips of maidenhood?
II
How can I help from singing when The swallow and the hawk again Are noisy in the hyaline Of happy heavens clear as wine; The robin lustily and shrill Pipes on the timber-bosomed hill; And o'er the fallow skim the bold, Mad orioles that glow Like shining shafts of ingot gold Shot from the morning's bow?
III
How can I help from loving, dear, Since love is of the sweetened year? The very vermin feel her power, And chip and chirrup hour by hour: It is the grasshopper at noon, The cricket's at it in the moon, Whiles lizzards glitter in the dew, And bats be on the wing; Such days of joy are short and few. Grant me thy love this spring.