This path will tell me where dark daisies dance To the white sycamores that dell them in; Where crow and flicker cry melodious din, And blackberries in ebon ripeness glance Luscious enticings under briery green. It will slip under coppice limbs that lean Brushingly as the slow-belled heifer pants Toward weedy water-plants That shade the pool-sunk creek's reluctant trance.
I shall find bell-flower spires beside the gap And lady phlox within the hollow's cool; Cedar with sudden memories of Yule Above the tangle tipped with blue skullcap. The high hot mullein fond of the full sun Will watch and tell the low mint when I've won The hither wheat where idle breezes nap, And fluffy quails entrap Me from their brood that crouch to escape mishap.
Then I shall reach the mossy water-way That gullies the dense hill up to its peak, There dally listening to the eerie eke Of drops into cool chalices of clay. Then on, for elders odorously will steal My senses till I climb up where they heal The livid heat of its malingering ray, And wooingly betray To memory many a long-forgotten day.
There I shall rest within the woody peace Of afternoon. The bending azure frothed With silveryness, the sunny pastures swathed, Fragrant with morn-mown clover and seed-fleece; The hills where hung mists muse, and Silence calls To Solitude thro' aged forest halls, Will waft into me their mysterious ease, And in the wind's soft cease I shall hear hintings of eternities.
FROM ABOVE
What do I care if the trees are bare And the hills are dark And the skies are gray.
What do I care for chill in the air For crows that cark At the rough wind's way.
What do I care for the dead leaves there — Or the sullen road By the sullen wood.
There's heart in my heart To bear my load! So enough, the day is good!
BY THE INDUS
Thou art late, O Moon, Late, I have waited thee long. The nightingale's flown to her nest, Sated with song. The champak hath no odour more To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er — But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love, Late, For the moon is a-wane. The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs, Burns with my pain. The lotus leans her head on the stream — Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream, Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death, Late, For he did not come! A pariah is my heart, Cast from him – dumb! I cannot cry in the jungle's deep — Is it not time for the Tomb – and Sleep? O Death, strike with thy dart!
EVOCATION
(Nikko, Japan, 1905)
Dim thro' the mist and cryptomeria Booms the temple bell, Down from the tomb of Iêyasü Yearning, as a knell.
Down from the tomb where many an æon Silently has knelt; Many a pilgrimage of millions — Still about it felt.
Still, for I see them gather ghostly Now, as the numb sound Floats, an unearthly necromancy, From the past's dead ground.
See the invisible vast millions, Hear their soundless feet Climbing the shrine-ways to the gilded Carven temple's seat.
And, one among them – pale among them — Passes waning by. What is it tells me mystically That strange one was I?..
Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeria Dies the bell – 'tis dumb. After how many lives returning Shall I hither come?
Hither again! and climb the votive Ever mossy ways? Who shall the gods be then, the millions Meek, entreat or praise?
THE CHILD GOD GAVE
"Give me a little child To draw this dreary want out of my breast," I cried to God. "Give, for my days beat wild With loneliness that will not rest But under the still sod!"
It came – with groping lips And little fingers stealing aimlessly About my heart. I was like one who slips A-sudden into Ecstasy And thinks ne'er to depart.
"Soon he will smile," I said, "And babble baby love into my ears — How it will thrill!" I waited – Oh, the dread, The clutching agony, the fears! — He was so strange and still.
Did I curse God and rave When they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twas A witless child? No … I … I only gave One cry … just one … I think … because … You know … he never smiled.
THE WINDS
The East Wind is a Bedouin, And Nimbus is his steed; Out of the dusk with the lightning's thin Blue scimitar he flies afar, Whither his rovings lead. The Dead Sea waves And Egypt caves Of mummied silence laugh When he mounts to quench the Siroc's stench And to wrench From his clutch the tyrant's staff.
The West Wind is an Indian brave Who scours the Autumn's crest. Dashing the forest down as a slave, He tears the leaves from its limbs and weaves A maelstrom for his breast. Out of the night Crying to fright The earth he swoops to spoil — There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath, In his path There is misery and moil.
The North Wind is a Viking – cold And cruel, armed with death! Born in the doomful deep of the old Ice Sea that froze ere Ymir rose From Niflheim's ebon breath. And with him sail Snow, Frost, and Hail, Thanes mighty as their lord, To plunder the shores of Summer's stores — And his roar's Like the sound of Chaos' horde.
The South Wind is a Troubadour; The Spring 's his serenade. Over the mountain, over the moor, He blows to bloom from the winter's tomb Blossom and leaf and blade. He ripples the throat Of the lark with a note Of lilting love and bliss, And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon, Are a-swoon — When he woos them with his kiss.
TRANSCENDED
I who was learnèd in death's lore Oft held her to my heart And spoke of days when we should love no more — In the long dust, apart.
"Immortal?" No – it could not be, Spirit with flesh must die. Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea, Reason would still outcry.
She died. They wrapped her in the dust — I heard the dull clod's dole, And then I knew she lived – that death's dark lust Could never touch her soul!
LOVE'S WAY TO CHILDHOOD
We are not lovers, you and I, Upon this sunny lane, But children who have never known Love's joy or pain.
The trees we pass, the summer brook, The bird that o'er us darts — We do not know 'tis they that thrill Our childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us, The ploughing means no more Than that they like to walk the fields Who plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills Are not a World to-day — But just a place God's made for us In which to play.
AUTUMN
I know her not by fallen leaves Or resting heaps of hay; Or by the sheathing mists of mauve That soothe the fiery day.
I know her not by plumping nuts, By redded hips and haws, Or by the silence hanging sad Under the wind's sere pause.
But by her sighs I know her well — They are like Sorrow's breath; And by this longing, strangely still, For something after death.
SHINTO
(Miyajima, Japan, 1905)
Lowly temple and torii, Shrine where the spirits of wind and wave Find the worship and glory we Give to the one God great and grave —
Lowly temple and torii, Shrine of the dead, I hang my prayer Here on your gates – the story see And answer out of the earth and air.
For I am Nature's child, and you Were by the children of Nature built. Ages have on you smiled – and dew On you for ages has been spilt —
Till you are beautiful as Time Mossy and mellowing ever makes: Wrapped as you are in lull – or rhyme Of sounding drum that sudden breaks.
This is my prayer then, this: that I Too may reverence all of life, Lose no power and miss no high Awe, of a world with wonder rife!
That I may build in spirit fair Temples and torii on each place That I have loved – Oh, hear it, Air, Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!
MAYA
(Hiroshima, Japan, 1905)
Pale sampans up the river glide, With set sails vanishing and slow; In the blue west the mountains hide, As visions that too soon will go.
Across the rice-lands, flooded deep, The peasant peacefully wades on — As, in unfurrowed vales of sleep, A phantom out of voidness drawn.
Over the temple cawing flies The crow with carrion in his beak. Buddha within lifts not his eyes In pity or reproval meek;
Nor, in the bamboos, where they bow A respite from the blinding sun, The old priest – dreaming painless how Nirvana's calm will come when won.
"All is illusion, Maya, all The world of will," the spent East seems Whispering in me; "and the call Of Life is but a call of dreams."
A JAPANESE MOTHER
(In Time of War)
The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops, Down on the brink of the river. My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse — The bamboo copse where the rice field stops: The bamboos sigh and shiver.
The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill; I must pray to Inari. I hear her calling me low and chill — Low and chill when the wind is still At night and the skies hang starry.
And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead! Your lord who went to battle. How shall your baby now be fed, Ukibo fed, with rice and bread — What if I hush his prattle?"
The red moon rises as I slip back, And the bamboo stems are swaying. Inari was deaf – and yet the lack, The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack, I know not why – with praying.
For though Inari cared not at all, Some other god was kinder. I wonder why he has heard my call, My giftless call – and what shall befall?.. Hope has but left me blinder!