Kitabı oku: «Undertones», sayfa 3

MAY

 
The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance —
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the wood-paths lead,
The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May's own utterance.
 
 
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
That sprinkle the woodland's trance —
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May's own glance.
 
 
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild-bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
Like a little maid to town.
 

THE WIND OF SPRING

 
The wind that breathes of columbines
And bleeding-hearts that crowd the rocks;
That shakes the balsam of the pines
With music from his flashing locks,
Stops at my city door and knocks.
 
 
He calls me far a-forest; where
The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;
And, circled by the amber air,
Life sits with beauty and perfume
Weaving the new web of her loom.
 
 
He calls me where the waters run
Through fronding ferns where haunts the hern;
And, sparkling in the equal sun,
Song leans beside her brimming urn,
And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.
 
 
The wind has summoned, and I go, —
To con God's meaning in each line
The flowers write, and, walking slow,
God's purpose, of which song is sign, —
The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.
 

INTERPRETED

 
What magic shall solve us the secret
Of beauty that's born for an hour?
That gleams like the flight of an egret,
Or burns like the scent of a flower,
With death for a dower?
 
 
What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?
What pipes on the wind but a faun?
Or laughs in the waters that scatter,
But limbs of a nymph who is gone,
When we walk in the dawn?
 
 
What sings on the hills but a fairy?
Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?
What breathes through the leaves but the airy
Soft spirits of shadow and light,
When we walk in the night?
 
 
Behold how the world-heart is eager
To draw us and hold us and claim!
Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer
Her soul she makes ours the same,
And death but a name.
 

THE WILLOW BOTTOM

 
Lush green the grass that grows between
The willows of the bottom-land;
Verged by the careless water, tall and green,
The brown-topped cat-tails stand.
 
 
The cows come gently here to browse,
Slow through the great-leafed sycamores;
You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house
With cedars round its doors.
 
 
Then all is quiet as the wings
Of the high buzzard floating there;
Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings
An old camp-meeting air.
 
 
A flapping cock that crows; and then —
Heard drowsy through the rustling corn —
A flutter, and the cackling of a hen
Within a hay-sweet barn.
 
 
How still again! no water stirs;
No wind is heard; although the weeds
Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs
Drift by a few soft seeds.
 
 
So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you
Expect to see her gliding by, —
Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew, —
The Spirit of July.
 

THE OLD BARN

 
Low, swallow-swept and gray,
Between the orchard and the spring,
All its wide windows overflowing hay,
And crannied doors a-swing,
The old barn stands to-day.
 
 
Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides
A round white nest; and, humming soft
On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,
Black in the sun-shot loft,
The building hornet glides.
 
 
Along its corn-crib, cautiously
As thieving fingers, skulks the rat;
Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,
Gnaws at some loosened slat,
Or passes shadowy.
 
 
A dream of drouth made audible
Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill
All day the locust sings… What other spell
Shall hold it, lazier still
Than the long day's, now tell? —
 
 
Dusk and the cricket and the strain
Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars
That burn above the rich west's ribbéd stain;
And dropping pasture bars,
And cow-bells up the lane.
 
 
Night and the moon and katydid,
And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;
And mazy shadows that the fire-flies thrid;
And sweet breath of the cows;
And the lone owl here hid.
 

CLEARING

 
Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks,
The pleated crimson hollyhocks
Are bending;
And, smouldering in the breaking brown,
Above the hills that edge the town,
The day is ending.
 
 
The air is heavy with the damp;
And, one by one, each cottage lamp
Is lighted;
Infrequent passers of the street
Stroll on or stop to talk or greet,
Benighted.
 
 
I look beyond my city yard,
And watch the white moon struggling hard,
Cloud-buried;
The wind is driving toward the east,
A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased
And serried.
 
 
At times the moon, erupting, streaks
Some long cloud; like Andean peaks
That double
Horizon-vast volcano chains,
The earthquake scars with lava veins
That bubble.
 
 
The wind that blows from out the hills
Is like a woman's touch that stills
A sorrow:
The moon sits high with many a star
In the deep calm: and fair and far
Abides to-morrow.
 

REQUIEM

I

 
No more for him, where hills look down,
Shall Morning crown
Her rainy brow with blossom bands! —
Whose rosy hands
Drop wild flowers of the breaking skies
Upon the sod 'neath which he lies. —
No more! no more!
 

II

 
No more for him where waters sleep,
Shall Evening heap
The long gold of the perfect days!
Whose pale hand lays
Great poppies of the afterglow
Upon the turf he rests below. —
No more! no more!
 

III

 
No more for him, where woodlands loom,
Shall Midnight bloom
The star-flow'red acres of the blue!
Whose brown hands strew
Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,
Upon the grave where he doth sleep. —
No more! no more!
 

IV

 
The hills that Morning's footsteps wake;
The waves that take
A brightness from the Eve; the woods
O'er which Night broods,
Their spirits have, whose parts are one
With his whose mortal part is done.
Whose part is done!