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THE END OF ALL

I

 
I do not love you now,
O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!
You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still denied
Food when mine hungered, and of which love died —
I do not love you now.
 

II

 
I do not love you now,
O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!
You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did give
No drop to drink to help my love to live —
I do not love you now.
 

III

 
I do not love you now!
But did I love you in the old, old way,
And knew you loved me – 'though the words should slay
Me and your love forever, I would say,
"I do not love you now!
I do not love you now!"
 

SUNSET AND STORM

 
Deep with divine tautology,
The sunset's mighty mystery
Again has traced the scroll-like West
With hieroglyphs of burning gold:
Forever new, forever old,
Its miracle is manifest.
 
 
Time lays the scroll away. And now
Above the hills a giant brow
Night lifts of cloud; and from her arm,
Barbaric black, upon the world,
With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled
Her awful argument of storm.
 
 
What part, O man, is yours in such?
Whose awe and wonder are in touch
With Nature, – speaking rapture to
Your soul, – yet leaving in your reach
No human word of thought or speech
Expressive of the thing you view.
 

BEECH BLOOMS

 
The wild oxalis
Among the valleys
Lifts up its chalice
Of pink and pearl;
And, balsam-breathing,
From out their sheathing,
The myriad wreathing
Green leaves uncurl.
 
 
The whole world brightens
With spring, that lightens
The foot that frightens
The building thrush;
Where water tosses
On ferns and mosses
The squirrel crosses
The beechen hush.
 
 
And vision on vision, —
Like ships elysian
On some white mission, —
Sails cloud on cloud;
With scents of clover
The winds brim over,
And in the cover
The stream is loud.
 
 
'Twixt bloom that blanches
The orchard branches
Old farms and ranches
Gleam in the gloam;
'Mid blossoms blowing,
Through fields for sowing,
The cows come lowing,
The cows come home.
 
 
Where ways are narrow,
A vesper-sparrow
Flits like an arrow
Of living rhyme;
The red sun poises,
And farmyard noises
Mix with glad voices
Of milking-time.
 
 
When dusk disposes
Of all its roses,
And darkness closes,
And work is done,
A moon's white feather
In starry weather
And two together
Whose hearts are one.
 

WORSHIP

I

 
The mornings raise
Voices of gold in the Almighty's praise;
The sunsets soar
In choral crimson from far shore to shore:
Each is a blast,
Reverberant, of color, – seen as vast
Concussions, – that the vocal firmament
In worship sounds o'er every continent.
 

II

 
Not for our ears
The cosmic music of the rolling spheres,
That sweeps the skies!
Music we hear, but only with our eyes.
For all too weak
Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak,
Those detonations that we name the dawn
And sunset – hues Earth's harmony puts on.
 

UNHEARD

 
All things are wrought of melody,
Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;
Within the rock, within the tree,
A soul of music dwells.
 
 
A mute symphonic sense that thrills
The silent frame of mortal things;
Its heart beats in the ancient hills,
In every flower sings.
 
 
To harmony all growth is set —
Each seed is but a music mote,
From which each plant, each violet,
Evolves its purple note.
 
 
Compact of melody, the rose
Woos the soft wind with strain on strain
Of crimson; and the lily blows
Its white bars to the rain.
 
 
The trees are pæans; and the grass
One long green fugue beneath the sun —
Song is their life; and all shall pass,
Shall cease, when song is done.
 

REINCARNATION

 
High in the place of outraged liberty,
He ruled the world, an emperor and god
His iron armies swept the land and sea,
And conquered nations trembled at his nod.
 
 
By him the love that fills man's soul with light,
And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified;
Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite,
And old in infamies, a king he died.
 
 
Justice begins now. – Many centuries
In some vile body must his soul atone
As slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,
Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.
 

ON CHENOWETH'S RUN

 
I thought of the road through the glen,
With its hawk's nest high in the pine;
With its rock, where the fox had his den,
'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,
Where she swore to be mine.
 
 
I thought of the creek and its banks,
Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;
The rustic bridge builded of planks,
The bridge over Chenoweth's Run,
Where I wooed her and won.
 
 
I thought of the house in the lane,
With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;
Its fence and the gate with the chain,
Its porch where the roses hung wet,
Where I kissed her and met.
 
 
Then I thought of the family graves,
Walled rudely with stone, in the West,
Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,
And the wind is a spirit distressed,
Where they laid her to rest.
 
 
And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,
Cried out on the city and mart! —
How I longed, how I longed to be there,
Away from the struggle and smart,
By her and my heart!
 
 
By her and my heart in the West, —
Laid sadly together as one; —
On her grave for a moment to rest,
Far away from the noise and the sun,
On Chenoweth's Run.
 

HOME AGAIN

 
Far down the lane
A window pane
Gleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.
The weeds are dense
Through which a fence
Of pickets rambles, none sees whence,
Before a porch, all indistinct of line,
O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.
 
 
No thing is heard,
No beast or bird,
Only the rain by which are stirred
The draining leaves,
And trickling eaves
Of crib and barn one scarce perceives;
And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wet
The phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.
 
 
The hour is late —
At any rate
She has not heard him at the gate:
Upon the roof
The rain was proof
Against his horse's galloping hoof:
And when the old gate with its weight and chain
Creaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.
 
 
Along he steals
With cautious heels,
And by the lamplit window kneels:
And there she sits,
And rocks and knits
Within the shadowy light that flits
On face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,
Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.
 
 
Upon his cheeks —
Is it the streaks
Of rain, as now the old porch creaks
Beneath his stride?
Then, warm and wide,
The door flings and she's at his side —
"Mother!" – and he, back from the war, her boy,
Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.
 

A STREET OF GHOSTS

 
The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes,
Dreams in this quaint forgotten street,
That, like some old-world wreckage, lies, —
Left by the sea's receding beat, —
Far from the city's restless feet.
 
 
Abandoned pavements, that the trees'
Huge roots have wrecked, whose flagstones feel
No more the sweep of draperies;
And sunken curbs, whereon no wheel
Grinds, nor the gallant's spur-bound heel.
 
 
Old houses, walled with rotting brick,
Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned, —
Like withered faces, sad and sick, —
Stare from each side, all broken paned,
With battered doors the rain has stained.
 
 
And though the day be white with heat,
Their ancient yards are dim and cold;
Where now the toad makes its retreat,
'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold,
And naught but noisome weeds unfold.
 
 
The slow gray slug and snail have trailed
Their slimy silver up and down
The beds where once the moss-rose veiled
Rich beauty; and the mushroom brown
Swells where the lily tossed its crown.
 
 
The shadowy scents, that haunt and flit
Along the walks, beneath the boughs,
Seem ghosts of sweethearts here who sit,
Or wander 'round each empty house,
Wrapped in the silence of dead vows.
 
 
And, haply, when the evening droops
Her amber eyelids in the west,
Here one might hear the swish of hoops,
Or catch the glint of hat or vest,
As two dim lovers past him pressed.
 
 
And, instant as some star's slant flame,
That scores the swarthy cheek of night,
Perhaps behold Colonial dame
And gentleman in stately white
Go glimmering down the pale moonlight.
 
 
In powder, patch, and furbelow,
Cocked-hat and sword; and every one, —
Tory and whig of long ago, —
As real as in the days long done,
The courtly days of Washington.
 

IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES

 
In the shadow of the beeches,
Where the fragile wildflowers bloom;
Where the pensive silence pleaches
Green a roof of cool perfume,
Have you felt an awe imperious
As when, in a church, mysterious
Windows paint with God the gloom?
 
 
In the shadow of the beeches,
Where the rock-ledged waters flow;
Where the sun's sloped splendor bleaches
Every wave to foaming snow,
Have you felt a music solemn
As when minster arch and column
Echo organ-worship low?
 
 
In the shadow of the beeches,
Where the light and shade are blent;
Where the forest-bird beseeches,
And the breeze is brimmed with scent, —
Is it joy or melancholy
That o'erwhelms us partly, wholly,
To our spirit's betterment?
 
 
In the shadow of the beeches
Lay me where no eye perceives;
Where, – like some great arm that reaches
Gently as a love that grieves, —
One gnarled root may clasp me kindly
While the long years, working blindly,
Slowly change my dust to leaves.
 

REQUIESCAT

 
The roses mourn for her who sleeps
Within the tomb;
For her each lily-flower weeps
Dew and perfume.
In each neglected flower-bed
Each blossom droops its lovely head, —
They miss her touch, they miss her tread,
Her face of bloom,
Of happy bloom.
 
 
The very breezes grieve for her,
A lonely grief;
For her each tree is sorrower,
Each blade and leaf.
The foliage rocks itself and sighs,
And to its woe the wind replies, —
They miss her girlish laugh and cries,
Whose life was brief,
Was very brief.
 
 
The sunlight, too, seems pale with care,
Or sick with woe;
The memory haunts it of her hair,
Its golden glow.
No more within the bramble-brake
The sleepy bloom is kissed awake —
The sun is sad for her dear sake,
Whose head lies low,
Lies dim and low.
 
 
The bird, that sang so sweet, is still
At dusk and dawn;
No more it makes the silence thrill
Of wood and lawn.
In vain the buds, when it is near,
Open each pink and perfumed ear, —
The song it sings she will not hear
Who now is gone,
Is dead and gone.
 
 
Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well,
The birds and bowers;
The fair, the young, the lovable,
Who once was ours.
Alas! that loveliness must pass!
Must come to lie beneath the grass!
That youth and joy must fade, alas!
And die like flowers,
Earth's sweetest flowers!
 

THE QUEST

I

 
First I asked the honey-bee,
Busy in the balmy bowers;
Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me:
Have you seen her, honey-bee?
She is cousin to the flowers —
Wild-rose face and wild-rose mouth,
And the sweetness of the south." —
But it passed me silently.
 

II

 
Then I asked the forest-bird,
Warbling to the woodland waters;
Saying, "Dearest, have you heard,
Have you heard her, forest-bird?
She is one of Music's daughters —
Music is her happy laugh;
Never song so sweet by half." —
But it answered not a word.
 

III

 
Next I asked the evening sky,
Hanging out its lamps of fire;
Saying, "Loved one, passed she by?
Tell me, tell me, evening sky!
She, the star of my desire —
Planet-eyed and hair moon-glossed,
Sister whom the Pleiads lost." —
But it never made reply.
 

IV

 
Where is she? ah, where is she?
She to whom both love and duty
Bind me, yea, immortally. —
Where is she? ah, where is she?
Symbol of the Earth-soul's beauty.
I have lost her. Help my heart
Find her, nevermore to part. —
Woe is me! ah, woe is me!
 

MEETING AND PARTING

I

 
When from the tower, like some sweet flower,
The bell drops petals of the hour,
That says the world is homing,
My heart puts off its garb of care
And clothes itself in gold and vair,
And hurries forth to meet her there
Within the purple gloaming.
 
 
It's – Oh! how slow the hours go,
How dull the moments move!
Till soft and clear the bells I hear,
That say, like music, in my ear,
"Go meet the one you love."
 

II

 
When curved and white, a bugle bright,
The moon blows glamour through the night,
That sets the world a-dreaming,
My heart, where gladness late was guest,
Puts off its joy, as to my breast
At parting her dear form is pressed,
Within the moon's faint gleaming.
 
 
It's – Oh! how fast the hours passed! —
They were not slow enough!
Too soon, too soon, the sinking moon
Says to my soul, like some sad tune,
"Come! part from her you love."
 

LOVE IN A GARDEN

I

 
Between the rose's and the canna's crimson,
Beneath her window in the night I stand;
The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on
The white moonflowers – each a spirit hand
That points the path to mystic shadowland.
 
 
Awaken, sweet and fair!
And add to night thy grace!
Suffer its loveliness to share
The white moon of thy face,
The darkness of thy hair.
Awaken, sweet and fair!
 

II

 
A moth, like down, swings on th' althæa's pistil, —
Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome; —
And in the August-lily's cone of crystal
A firefly blurs, the lantern of a gnome,
Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.
 
 
Approach! the moment flies!
Thou sweetheart of the South!
Come! mingle with night's mysteries
The red rose of thy mouth,
The starlight of thine eyes. —
Approach! the moment flies!
 

III

 
Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,
Bubbles the Slumber-song of some wild bird;
And with it borne, faint on a breeze-sweet essence,
The rainy murmur of a fountain's heard —
As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.
 
 
How long, my love, my bliss!
How long must I await
With night, – that all impatience is, —
Thy greeting at the gate,
And at the gate thy kiss?
How long, my love, my bliss!