Читать книгу: «Verses», страница 6

EASTER

 
  When dawns on earth the Easter sun
    The dear saints feel an answering thrill.
    With whitest flowers their hands they fill;
  And, singing all in unison,
 
 
  Unto the battlements they press—
    The very marge of heaven—how near!
    And bend, and look upon us here
  With eyes that rain down tenderness.
 
 
  Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,
    Their lilies fair they raise on high;
    "Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry;
  "Christ is arisen; we prove it true!
 
 
  "Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears
    With which your Easter flowers are stained;
    Share in our bliss, who have attained
  The rapture of the eternal years;
 
 
  "Have proved the promise which endures,
    The Love that deigned, the Love that died;
    Have reached our haven by His side—
  Are Christ's, but none the less are yours;
 
 
  "Yours with a nearness never known
    While parted by the veils of sense;
    Infinite knowledge, joy intense,
  A love which is not love alone,
 
 
  "But faith perfected, vision free,
    And patience limitless and wise—
    Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise!
  And dare to be as glad as we!"
 
 
  We do rejoice, we do give thanks,
    O blessed ones, for all your gain,
    As dimly through these mists of pain
  We catch the gleaming of your ranks.
 
 
  We will arise, with zeal increased,
    Blending, the while we strive and grope,
    Our paler festival of Hope
  With your Fruition's perfect feast.
 
 
  Bend low beloved, against the blue;
    Lift higher still the lilies fair,
    Till, following where our treasures are,
  We come to join the feast with you.
 

BIND-WEED

 
  In the deep shadow of the porch
    A slender bind-weed springs,
  And climbs, like airy acrobat,
    The trellises, and swings
  And dances in the golden sun
    In fairy loops and rings.
 
 
  Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,
    Like pearly chalices,
  Hold cooling fountains, to refresh
    The butterflies and bees;
  And humming-birds on vibrant wings
    Hover, to drink at ease.
 
 
  And up and down the garden-bed,
    Mid box and thyme and yew,
  And spikes of purple lavender,
    And spikes of larkspur blue,
  The bind-weed tendrils win their way,
    And find a passage through.
 
 
  With touches coaxing, delicate,
    And arts that never tire,
  They tie the rose-trees each to each,
    The lilac to the brier,
  Making for graceless things a grace,
    With steady, sweet desire.
 
 
  Till near and far the garden growths.
    The sweet, the frail, the rude,
  Draw close, as if with one consent,
    And find each other good,
  Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops,
    In a dear brotherhood.
 
 
  Like one fair sister, slender, arch,
    A flower in bloom and poise,
  Gentle and merry and beloved,
    Making no stir or noise,
  But swaying, linking, blessing all
    A family of boys.
 

APRIL

 
  Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping,
    Comes a voice all clamorous with despair;
  It is April, crying sore and weeping,
    O'er the chilly earth, so brown and bare.
 
 
  "When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing,
    "All my violet-banks were starred with blue;
  Who, O, who has been here, basely robbing
    Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?
 
 
  "Who has reft the robin's hidden treasure,—
    All the speckled spheres he loved so well?
  And the buds which danced in merry measure
    To the chiming of the hyacinth's bell?
 
 
  "Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying?
    And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair,
  Like the spray from silver fountains playing,
    Where the elm-tree's column rose in air?
 
 
  "All are vanished, and my heart is breaking;
    And my tears they slowly drip and fall;
  Only death could listen without waking
    To the grief and passion of my call!"
 
 
  Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices.
    Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,
  Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,
    Ring the answer, "We are here again.
 
 
  "We were hiding, April. Did you miss us?
    None of us were really gone away;
  Stoop thy pretty head and gently kiss us
    Once before we all come out to play.
 
 
  "Here are all the clustering burls of roses,
    And the dandelion's mimic sun;
  Of thy much-beloved and vanished posies
    None are missing, not a single one!"
 
 
  Little points of green push out to greet her,
    Little creepers grasp her garment's hem,
  Hidden sweetnesses grow ever sweeter
    As she bends and brightly smiles at them.
 
 
  Every tear is answered by a blossom,
    Every high with songs and laughter blent,
  Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them.
    April knows her own, and is content.
 

MAY

 
  New flowery scents strewed everywhere,
  New sunshine poured in largesse fair,
    "We shall be happy now," we say.
  A voice just trembles through the air,
        And whispers, "May."
 
 
  Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud
  But thrills with rapture at the flood
    Of fresh young life which stirs to-day.
  The same wild thrill irradiates our blood;
        Why hint of "May"?
 
 
  For us are coming fast and soon
  The delicate witcheries of June;
    July, with ankles deep in hay;
  The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune
        Again sounds, "May."
 
 
  Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet,
  Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet,
    And golden locks in breezy play,
  Half teasing and half tender, to repeat
        Her song of "May."
 
 
  Ah, month of hope! all promised glee,
  All merry meanings, lie in thee;
    Surely no cloud can daunt thy day.
  The ripe lips part in smiling mockery,
        And murmur, "May."
 
 
  Still from the smile a comfort may we glean;
  Although our "must-be's," "shall-be's," idle seem,
    Close to our hearts one little word we lay:
  We may not be as happy as we dream,
        But then we—may.
 

SECRETS

 
  In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee,
    When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay,
  Merry little voices sound from every tree,
    And they whisper secrets all the day.
 
 
  If we knew the language, we should hear strange things;
    Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat.
  "How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings?
    What was that sad tale about a cat?"
 
 
  "Where is your new cottage?" "Hush! I pray you, hush".
    Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise.
  It is on the lowest bough of the lilac bush.
    And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys.
 
 
  "Mr. Chirry chose the spot, without consulting me;
    Such a very public place, and insecure for it,
  I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but he
    Says I am a silly thing and doesn't mind a bit."
 
 
  "So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house?
    And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren?
  Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear; quiet as a mouse.
    These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."
 
 
  Close the downy dowagers nestle on the bough
    While the timorous voices soften low with dread,
  And we, walking underneath, little reckon their
    Mysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead.
 
 
  Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well
    When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago—
  Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fell
    There is nothing hidden from the eyes below.
 
 
  Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may see
    What Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day.
  In the place of rustling wings, cold winds rustling be,
    And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay.
 
 
  Shall we tease the birdies, when they come back in spring,—
    Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small,
  Every secret hiding-place and dear and precious, thing,
    Which they left behind the leaves, the red leaves, in the fall?
 
 
  They would only laugh at us and wink their saucy eyes,
    And answer, "Last year's secrets are all past and told.
  New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries,
    You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"
 

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

 
  I'll tell you how the leaves came down.
    The great Tree to his children said,
  "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
    Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
    It is quite time you went to bed."
 
 
  "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
    "Let us a little longer May;
  Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,
    'Tis such a very pleasant day
  We do not want to go away."
 
 
  So, just for one more merry day
    To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
  Frolicked and danced and had their way,
    Upon the autumn breezes swung,
    Whispering all their sports among,
 
 
  "Perhaps the great Tree will forget
    And let us stay until the spring
  If we all beg and coax and fret."
    But the great Tree did no such thing;
    He smiled to hear their whispering.
 
 
  "Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
    And ere the leaves could urge their prayer
  He shook his head, and far and wide,
    Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
    Down sped the leaflets through the air.
 
 
  I saw them; on the ground they lay,
    Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
  Waiting till one from far away,
    White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,
    Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
 
 
  The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
    "Good-night, dear little leaves" he said;
  And from below each sleepy child
    Replied "Good-night," and murmured,
    "It is so nice to go to bed."
 

BARCAROLES

I

 
  Over the lapsing lagune all the day
    Urging my gondola with oar-strokes light,
  Always beside one shadowy waterway
    I pause and peer, with eager, jealous sight,
  Toward the Piazza where Pepita stands,
    Wooing the hungry pigeons from their flight.
 
 
  Dark the canal; but she shines like the sun,
    With yellow hair and dreaming, wine-brown eyes.
  Thick crowd the doves for food. She gives ME none.
    She sees and will not see. Vain are my sighs.
  One slow, reluctant stroke. Aha! she turns,
    Gestures and smiles, with coy and feigned surprise.
 
 
  Shifting and baffling is our Lido track,
    Blind and bewildering all the currents flow.
  Me they perplex not. In the midnight black
    I hold my way secure and fearless row,
  But ah! what chart have I to her, my Sea,
    Whose fair, mysterious depths I long to know?
 
 
  Subtle as sad mirage; true and untrue
    She seems, and, pressing ever on in vain,
  I yearn across the mocking, tempting blue.
    Never she draws more near, never I gain
  A furlong's space toward where she sits and a miles;
    Smiles and cares nothing for my love and pain.
 
 
  How shall I win her? What may strong arm do
    Against such gentle distance? I can say
  No more than this, that when she stands to woo
    The doves beside the shadowy waterway,
  And when I look and long, sometimes—she smiles
    Perhaps she will do more than smile one day!
 

II

 
  Light and darkness, brown and fair,
    Ha! they think I do not see,—
  I behind them, swiftly rowing.
    Rowing? Yes, but eyes are free,
        Eyes and fancies:—
 
 
  Now what fire in looks and glances!
    Now the dark head bends, grown bolder.
  Ringlets mingle—silence—broken
    (All unconscious of beholder)
        By a kiss!
 
 
  What could lovers ask or miss
    In such moonlight, such June weather,
  But a boat like this, (me rowing!)
    And forever and together
        To be floating?
 
 
  Ah! if she and I such boating
    Might but share one day, some fellow
  With strong arms behind, Pasquale,
    Or Luigi, with gay awning,
        (She likes yellow!)
 
 
  She—I mean Pepita—mellow
    Moonlight on the waves, no other
  To break silence or catch whispers,
    All the love which now I smother
        Told and spoken,—
 
 
  Listened to, a kiss for token:
    How, my Signor? What! so soon
  Homeward bound? We, born of Venice,
    Live by night and nap by noon.
        If 'twere me, now,
 
 
  With my brown-eyed girl, this prow
    Would not turn for hours still;
  But the Signor bids, commands,
    I am here to do his will,
        He is master.
 
 
  Glide we on; so, faster, faster.
    Now the two are safely landed.
  Buono mano, grazie, Signor,
    They who love are open-handed.
        Now, Pepita!
 

III

TORCELLO

 
  She has said "yes," and the world is a-smite.
    There she sits as she sat in my dream;
    There she sits, and the blue waves gleam,
  And the current bears us along the while
  For happy mile after happy mile,
    A fairy boat on a fairy stream.
 
 
  The Angelus bells siring to and fro,
    And the sunset lingers to hear their swell,
    For the sunset loves such music well.
  A big, bright moon is hovering low,
  Where the edge of the sky is all aglow,
    Like the middle heart of a red, red shell.
 
 
  The Lido floats like a purple flower;
    Orange and rose are the sails at sea;
    Silk and pink the surf-line free
  Tumbles and chimes, and the perfect hour
  Clasps us and folds us in its power,
    Folds us and holds us, my love and me.
 
 
  Can there be sadness anywhere
    In the world to-night? Or tears or sighs
    Beneath such festal moon and skies?
  Can there be memory or despair?
  What is it, beloved? Why point you there,
    With sudden dew in those dearest eyes?
 
 
  Yes! one sad thing on the happy earth!
    Like a mourner's veil in the bridal array,
    Or a sorrowful sigh in the music gay,
  A shade on the sun, in the feast a dearth,
    Drawn like a ghost across our way,
  Torcello sits and rebukes our mirth.
 
 
  She sits a widow who sat as queen,
    Ashes on brows once crowned and bright;
    Woe in the eyes once full of light;
  Her sad, fair roses and manifold green,
    All bitter and pallid and heavy with night,
  Are full of the shadows of woes unseen.
 
 
  Let us hurry away from her face unblest,
    Row us away, for the song is done,
    The Angelus bells cease, one by one,
  Pepita's head lies on my breast;
  But, trembling and full of a vague unrest,
    I long for the morrow and for the sun.
 

MY RIGHTS

 
      Yes, God has made me a woman,
        And I am content to be
      Just what He meant, not reaching out
        For other things, since He
  Who knows me best and loves me most has ordered this for me.
 
 
      A woman, to live my life out
        In quiet womanly ways,
      Hearing the far-off battle,
        Seeing as through a haze
  The crowding, struggling world of men fight through their busy
  days.
 
 
      I am not strong or valiant,
        I would not join the fight
      Or jostle with crowds in the highways
        To sully my garments white;
  But I have rights as a woman, and here I claim my right.
 
 
      The right of a rose to bloom
        In its own sweet, separate way,
      With none to question the perfumed pink
        And none to utter a nay
  If it reaches a root or points, a thorn, as even a rose-tree may.
 
 
      The right of the lady-birch to grow,
        To grow as the Lord shall please,
      By never a sturdy oak rebuked,
        Denied nor sun nor breeze,
  For all its pliant slenderness, kin to the stronger trees.
 
 
      The right to a life of my own,—
        Not merely a casual bit
      Of somebody else's life, flung out
        That, taking hold of it,
  I may stand as a cipher does after a numeral writ.
 
 
      The right to gather and glean
        What food I need and can
      From the garnered store of knowledge
        Which man has heaped for man,
  Taking with free hands freely and after an ordered plan.
 
 
      The right—ah, best and sweetest!—
        To stand all undismayed
      Whenever sorrow or want or sin
        Call for a woman's aid,
  With none to call or question, by never a look gainsaid.
 
 
      I do not ask for a ballot;
        Though very life were at stake,
      I would beg for the nobler justice
        That men for manhood's sake
  Should give ungrudgingly, nor withhold till I must fight and take.
 
 
      The fleet foot and the feeble foot
        Both seek the self-same goal,
      The weakest soldier's name is writ
        On the great army-roll,
  And God, who made man's body strong, made too the woman's soul