Rose and Roof-Tree — Poems

ROSE AND ROOF-TREE: The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rose and Roof-Tree — Poems This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : Rose and Roof-Tree — Poems Author : George Parsons Lathrop Release date : December 1, 2004 [eBook #7110] Most recently updated: November 6, 2012 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7110 Credits : Produced by Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE AND ROOF-TREE — POEMS *** Produced by Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. ROSE AND ROOF-TREE: POEMS by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP [Illustration: JESSAMINE] Upon the enchanted ladder of his rhymes, Round after round and patiently The poet ever upward climbs. DEDICATION . I need give my verse no hint as to whom it sings for. The rose, knowing her own right, makes servitors of the light-rays to carry her color. So every line here shall in some sense breathe of thee, and in its very face bear record of her whom, however unworthily, it seeks to serve and honor. CONTENTS. WINDFALLS. ROSE AND ROOF-TREE MUSIC OF GROWTH A SONG LONG AGO MELANCHOLY CONTENTMENT PART FIRST. AN APRIL ARIA THE BOBOLINK THE SUN-SHOWER JUNE LONGINGS A RUNE OF THE RAIN THE SONG-SPARROW FAIRHAVEN BAY CHANT FOR AUTUMN BEFORE THE SNOW THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH THE LILY-POND PART SECOND. FIRST GLANCE "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" "WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE" WITHIN A YEAR THE SINGING WIRE MOODS OF LOVE: I. In Absence II. Heart's Fountain III. South-Wind Song IV. The Lover's Year V. New Worlds VI. Wedding-Night LOVE'S DEFEAT MAY AND MARRIAGE THE FISHER OF THE CAPE SAILOR'S SONG JESSAMINE GRIEF'S HERO A FACE IN THE STREET THE BATHER HELEN AT THE LOOM "O WHOLESOME DEATH" BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER ARISE, AMERICAN! THE SILENT TIDE WINDFALLS. ROSE AND ROOF-TREE. O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high, Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy? "The pulses of the wind my life uplift, And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift; "And all my fibres, in a quick consent Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent. "I feel the shaking of the far-off sea, And all things growing blend their life with me: "When men and women on me look, there glows Within my veins a life not of the rose. "Then let me grow, until I touch the sky, And let me grow and grow until I die!" So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher, And scales the roof upon its wings of fire, And pricks the air, in lovely discontent, With thorns that question still of its intent. But when it reached the roof-tree, there it clung, Nor ever farther up its blossoms flung. O wayward rose, why hast thou ceased to climb? Hast thou forgot the ardor of thy prime? "O hearken!"—thus the rose-spray, listening,— "With what weird music sweet these full hearts ring! "What mazy ripples of deep, eddying sound, Rise, touch the roof-tree old, and drift around, "Bearing aloft the burden musical Of joys and griefs from human hearts that fall! "Green stem and fair, flush'd circle I will lay Along the roof, and listen here alway; "For rose and tree, and every leafy growth That toward the sky unfolds with spiry blowth, "No purpose hath save this, to breathe a grace O'er men, and in men's hearts to seek a place. "Therefore, O poet, thou who gav'st to me The homage of thy humble sympathy, "No longer vest thy verse in rose-leaves frail:— Let the heart's voice loud through thy pæan wail!" * * * * * Lo, at my feet the wind of autumn throws A hundred turbulent blossoms of the rose, Full of the voices of the sea and grove And air, and full of hidden, murmured love, And warm with passion through the roof-tree sent; Dew-drenched with tears;—all in one wild gush spent! MUSIC OF GROWTH. Music is in all growing things; And underneath the silky wings Of smallest insects there is stirred A pulse of air that must be heard. Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings. If poet from the vibrant strings Of his poor heart a measure flings, Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows: It may be that Heaven hears and knows His language of low listenings. A SONG LONG AGO. Through the pauses of thy fervid singing Fell crystal sound That thy fingers from the keys were flinging Lightly around: I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging About my soul; And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing, The full tear stole! MELANCHOLY. Daughter of my nobler hope That dying gave thee birth, Sweet Melancholy! For memory of the dead, In her dear stead, 'Bide thou with me, Sweet Melancholy! As purple shadows to the tree, When the last sun-rays sadly slope Athwart the bare and darkening earth, Art thou to me, Sweet Melancholy! CONTENTMENT. Glad hours have been when I have seen Life's scope and each dry day's intent United; so that I could stand In silence, covering with my hand The circle of the universe, Balance the blessing and the curse, And trust in deeds without chagrin, Free from to-morrow and yesterday—content. PART FIRST. AN APRIL ARIA. When the mornings dankly fall With a dim forethought of rain, And the robins richly call To their mates mercurial, And the tree-boughs creak and strain In the wind; When the river's rough with foam, And the new-made clearings smoke, And the clouds that go and come Shine and darken frolicsome, And the frogs at evening croak Undefined Mysteries of monotone, And by melting beds of snow Wind-flowers blossom all alone; Then I know That the bitter winter's dead. Over his head The damp sod breaks so mellow,— Its mosses tipped with points of yellow,— I cannot but be glad; Yet this sweet mood will borrow Something of a sweeter sorrow, To touch and turn me sad. THE BOBOLINK. How sweetly sang the bobolink, When thou, my Love, wast nigh! His liquid music from the brink Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, Built in the blue-domed sky. How sadly sings the bobolink! No more my Love is nigh: Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,— Once more before I die! THE SUN-SHOWER. A penciled shade the sky doth sweep, And transient glooms creep in to sleep Amid the orchard; Fantastic breezes pull the trees Hither and yon, to vagaries Of aspect tortured. Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge That locked their tears, Falls on the hills a mist of rain,— So faint, it seems to fade again; Yet swiftly nears. Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright, With drops swept down in arrow-flight, Keen, quivering lines. Ceased in a breath the showery sound; And teasingly, now, as I look around, Sweet sunlight shines! JUNE LONGINGS. Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown Light vapors white, like thistle-down, That from their softened silver heaps opaque Scatter delicate flake by flake, Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving Forms of fancies past believing, And, with fantastic show of mute despair, As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair, Melt in the silent voids of sunny air. All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune: Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it, Far and faint as a fairy spirit! Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging, Leaves a heart-ache for his singing, A frustrate passion haunts me evermore For that which closest dwells to beauty's core. O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore? A RUNE OF THE RAIN. I. O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest! At first it would allure The earth to kinder mood, With dainty flattering Of soft, sweet pattering: Faintly now you hear the tramp Of the fine drops falling damp On the dry, sun-seasoned ground And the thirsty leaves around. But anon, imbued With a sudden, bounding access Of passion, it relaxes All timider persuasion, And, with nor pretext nor occasion, Its wooing redoubles; And pounds the ground, and bubbles In sputtering spray, Flinging itself in a fury Of flashing white away; Till the dusty road Flings a perfume dank abroad, And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, The vines, the flowers in their beds, The vivid corn that to the breeze Rustles along the garden-rows, Visibly lift their heads,— And, as the shower wilder grows, Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. Then, the slow and pleasant murmur Of its subsiding, As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, And the steady rain Drops into a cadenced chiding. Deep-breathing rain, The sad and ghostly noise Wherewith thou dost complain,— Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, Heard thus at close of day Through vaults of twilight-gray,— Doth vex me with sweet pain! And still my soul is fain To know the secret of that yearning Which in thine utterance I hear returning. Hush, oh hush! Break not the dreamy rush Of the rain: Touch not the marring doubt Words bring, to the certainty Of its soft refrain, But let the flying fringes flout Their gouts against the pane, And the gurgling throat of the water-spout Groan in the eaves amain. The earth is wedded to the shower. Darkness and awe, gird round the bridal-hour! II. O many-tonèd rain! It hath caught the strain Of a wilder tune, Ere the same night's noon, When dreams and sleep forsake me, And sudden dread doth wake me, To hear the booming drums of heaven beat The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, With an echoing loud, Bursts asunder At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; And the fountains of the air, Unsealed again sweep, ruining, everywhere, To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. III. O myriad sweet voices of the rain! When the airy war doth wane, And the storm to the east hath flown, Cloaked close in the whirling wind, There's a voice still left behind In each heavy-hearted tree, Charged with tearful memory Of the vanished rain: From their leafy lashes wet Drip the dews of fresh regret For the lover that's gone! All else is still. But the stars are listening; And low o'er the wooded hill Hangs, upon listless wing Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, Watching, like a bird of evil That knows no mercy nor reprieval, The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. IV. But soon, returning duly, Dawn whitens the wet hill-tops bluely. To her vision pure and cold The night's wild tale is told On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, The garden mold turned dark and cool, And the meadow's trampled acres. But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers! For now the moanings bitter, Left by the rain, make harmony With the swallow's matin-twitter, And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree: The infant morning breathes sweet breath, And with it is blent The wistful, wild, moist scent Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: And behold! The last reluctant drop of the storm, Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm And turned to gold; For in its veins doth run The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! THE SONG-SPARROW. Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where, so light, from post to picket Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; Who, with meekly folded wing, Comes to sun himself and sing. It was there, perhaps, last year, That his little house he built; For he seems to perk and peer, And to twitter, too, and tilt The bare branches in between, With a fond, familiar mien. Once, I know, there was a nest, Held there by the sideward thrust Of those twigs that touch his breast; Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust Caught it, over-full of snow,— Bent the bush,—and robbed it so Thus our highest holds are lost, By the ruthless winter's wind, When, with swift-dismantling frost, The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd Of their leafage, grow too cold For frail hopes of summer's mold. But if we, with spring-days mellow, Wake to woeful wrecks of change, And the sparrow's ritornello Scaling still its old sweet range; Can we do a better thing Than, with him, still build and sing? Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed Thought in me beyond all telling; Shootest through me sunlight, seed, And fruitful blessing, with that welling Ripple of ecstatic rest, Gurgling ever from thy breast! And thy breezy carol spurs Vital motion in my blood, Such as in the sapwood stirs, Swells and shapes the pointed bud Of the lilac; and besets The hollows thick with violets. Yet I know not any charm That can make the fleeting time Of thy sylvan, faint alarm Suit itself to human rhyme: And my yearning rhythmic word, Does thee grievous wrong, dear bird. So, however thou hast wrought This wild joy on heart and brain, It is better left untaught. Take thou up the song again: There is nothing sad afloat On the tide that swells thy throat! FAIRHAVEN BAY. I push on through the shaggy wood, I round the hill: 't is here it stood; And there, beyond the crumbled walls, The shining Concord slowly crawls, Yet seems to make a passing stay, And gently spreads its lilied bay, Curbed by this green and reedy shore, Up toward the ancient homestead's door. But dumbly sits the shattered house, And makes no answer: man and mouse Long since forsook it, and decay Chokes its deep heart with ashes gray. On what was once a garden-ground Dull red-bloomed sorrels now abound; And boldly whistles the shy quail Within the vacant pasture's pale. Ah, strange and savage, where he shines, The sun seems staring through those pines That once the vanished home could bless With intimate, sweet loneliness. The ignorant, elastic sod The feet of them that daily trod Its roods hath utterly forgot: The very fire-place knows them not. For, in the weedy cellar, thick The ruined chimney's mass of brick Lies strown. Wide heaven, with such an ease Dost thou, too, lose the thought of these? Yet I, although I know not who Lived here, in years that voiceless grew Ere I was born,—and never can,— Am moved, because I am a man. Oh glorious gift of brotherhood! Oh sweet elixir in the blood, That makes us live with those long dead, Or hope for those that shall be bred Hereafter! No regret can rob My heart of this delicious throb; No thought of fortunes haply wrecked, Nor pang for nature's wild neglect. And, though the hearth be cracked and cold, Though ruin all the place enfold, These ashes that have lost their name Shall warm my life with lasting flame! CHANT FOR AUTUMN. Veiled in visionary haze, Behold, the ethereal autumn days Draw near again! In broad array, With a low, laborious hum These ministers of plenty come, That seem to linger, while they steal away. O strange, sweet charm Of peaceful pain, When yonder mountain's bended arm Seems wafting o'er the harvest-plain A message to the heart that grieves, And round us, here, a sad-hued rain Of leaves that loosen without number Showering falls in yellow, umber, Red, or russet, 'thwart the stream! Now pale Sorrow shall encumber All too soon these lands, I deem; Yet who at heart believes The autumn, a false friend, Can bring us fatal harm? Ah, mist-hung avenues in dream Not more uncertainly extend Than the season that receives A summer's latest gleam! But the days of death advance: They tarry not, nor turn! I will gather the ashes of summer In my heart, as an urn. Oh draw thou nearer, Thou Spirit of the distant height, Whither now that slender flight Of swallows, winging, guides my sight! The hill cloth seem to me A fading memory Of long delight, And in its distant blue Half hideth from my view This shrinking season that must now retire; And so shall hold it, hopeful, a desire And knowledge old as night and always new. Draw nigher! And, with bended brow, I will be thy reverer Through the long winter's term! So, when the snows hold firm, And the brook is dumb; When sharp winds come To flay the hill-tops bleak, And whistle down the creek; While the unhappy worm Crawls deeper down into the ground, To 'scape Frost's jailer on his round; Thy form to me shall speak From the wide valley's bound, Recall the waving of the last bird's wing, And help me hope for spring. BEFORE THE SNOW. Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air, Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain! How soon death settles on us, and the snow Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood Of that which makes moods dear,—some shoot of spring Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood We walked in,—memory's rare environing. And, though they die, the seasons only take A ruined substance. All that's best remains In the essential vision that can make One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains. THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH. Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep. Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems, Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams! With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems, And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep. But such ethereal slumber may not bide The ascending sun's bright scorn—not long, I fear; And all its visions on the golden tide Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear. Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear! THE LILY-POND. Some fairy spirit with his wand, I think, has hovered o'er the dell, And spread this film upon the pond, And touched it with this drowsy spell. For here the musing soul is merged In moods no other scene can bring, And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bees' murmuring. One ripple streaks the little lake, Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break To let a straying sunbeam in. How came we through the yielding wood, That day, to this sweet-rustling shore? Oh, there together while we stood, A butterfly was wafted o'er, In sleepy light; and even now His glimmering beauty doth return Upon me, when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. The yielding wood? And yet 't was both To yield unto our happy march; Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Could pass its green, elastic arch. Yet there, at last, upon the marge We found ourselves, and there, behold, In hosts the lilies, white and large, Lay close, with hearts of downy gold! Deep in the weedy waters spread The rootlets of the placid bloom: So sprung my love's flower, that was bred In deep, still waters of heart's-gloom. So sprung; and so that morn was nursed To live in light, and on the pool Wherein its roots were deep immersed Burst into beauty broad and cool. Few words were said; a moment passed; I know not how it came—that awe And ardor of a glance that cast Our love in universal law! But all at once a bird sang loud, From dead twigs of the gleamy beech; His notes dropped dewy, as out of a cloud, A blessing on our married speech. Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now, That moment and that mood return Upon me, when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn! PART SECOND. FIRST GLANCE. A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; A laughing face;—and laughing hair, So ruddy does it rise From off that forehead fair; Frank fervor in whate'er she said, And a shy grace when she was still; A bright, elastic tread; Enthusiastic will; These wrought the magic of a maid As sweet and sad as the sun in spring, Joyous, yet half-afraid Her joyousness to sing. What weighs the unworthiness of earth When beauty such as this finds birth? Rare maid, to look on thee Gives all things harmony! "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES." The sunshine of thine eyes, (Oh still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills With the life of its lambent gleam. The sunshine of thine eyes, Oh let it fall on me! Though I be but a mote of the air, I could turn to gold for thee! "WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE." When, looking deeply in thy face, I catch the undergleam of grace That grows beneath the outward glance, Long looking, lost as in a trance Of long desires that fleet and meet Around me like the fresh and sweet White showers of rain which, vanishing, 'Neath heaven's blue arches whirl, in spring; Suddenly then I seem to know Of some new fountain's overflow In grassy basins, with a sound That leads my fancy, past all bound, Into a region of retreat From this my life's bewildered heat. Oh if my soul might always draw From those deep fountains full of awe, The current of my days should rise Unto the level of thine eyes! WITHIN A YEAR I. Lips that are met in love's Devotion sweet, While parting lovers passionately greet, And earth through heaven's arc more swiftly moves— Oh, will they be less dear Within a year? II. Eyes in whose shadow-spell Far off I read That which to lovers taking loving heed Dear women's eyes full soon and plainly tell— Oh, will you give such cheer This time a year? III. Behold! the dark year goes, Nor will reveal Aught of its purpose, if for woe or weal, Swift as a stream that o'er the mill-weir flows: Mayhap the end draws near Within the year! IV. Yet, darling, once more touch Those lips to mine. Set on my life that talisman divine; Absence, new friends, I fear not overmuch—— Even Death, should he appear Within the year! THE SINGING WIRE. Hark to that faint, ethereal twang That from the bosom of the breeze Has caught its rise and fall: there rang Æolian harmonies! I looked; again the mournful, chords, In random rhythm lightly flung From off the wire, came shaped in words; And thus, meseemed, they sung. "I, messenger of many fates, Strung to the tones of woe or weal, Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates With all men know or feel,— "Oh, is it strange that I should wail? Leave me my tearless, sad refrain, When in the pine-top wakes the gale That breathes of coming rain. "There is a spirit in the post; It, too, was once a murmuring tree; Its sapless, sad, and withered ghost Echoes my melody. "Come close, and lay your listening ear Against the bare and branchless wood. Say, croons it not, so low and clear, As if it understood?" I listened to the branchless pole That held aloft the singing wire; I heard its muffled music roll, And stirred with sweet desire: "O wire more soft than seasoned lute, Hast thou no sunlit word for me? Though long to me so coyly mute, Sure she may speak through thee!" I listened; but it was in vain. At first, the wind's old, wayward will Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain: That ceased, and all was still. But suddenly some kindling shock Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock Rose with him, wheeled, and whirred. Then to my soul there came this sense: "Her heart has answered unto thine; She comes, to-night. Go, hie thee hence! Meet her: no more repine!" Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched; And yet, mayhap, it hinted true. Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched In mine, that gave me—you! And so more dear to me has grown, Than rarest tones swept from the lyre, The minor-movement of that moan In yonder singing wire. Nor care I for the will of states. Or aught besides, that smites that string, Since then so close it knit our fates, What time the bird took wing! MOODS OF LOVE. I. IN ABSENCE. My love for thee is like a winged seed Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower, And deftly guided by some breezy power To fall and rest, where I should never heed, In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed, With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,— Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower Its roots with life,—swiftly it 'gan to breed, Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads Like circling arms, to prison its own prison, Fretting the walls with blooms by myriads, And blazoning in my brain full summer-season: Thy face, whose dearness presence had not taught. In absence multiplies, and fills all thought. II. HEART'S FOUNTAIN. Her moods are like the fountain's, changing ever, That spouts aloft a sudden, watery dome, Only to fall again in shattering foam, Just where the wedded jets themselves dissever, And palpitating downward, downward quiver, Unfolded like a swift ethereal flower, That sheds white petals in a blinding shower, And straightway soars anew with blithe endeavor. The sun may kindle it with healthful fire; Upon it falls the cloud-gray's leaden load; At night the stars shall haunt the whirling spire: Yet these have but a transient garb bestowed. So her glad life, whate'er the hours impart, Plays still 'twixt heaven's cope and her own clear heart. III. SOUTH-WIND SONG. Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these Loth blushes faint and maidenly—rich Breeze, Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid The power to build or blight rich fruit of trees, The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, Both measureless, but either counted gain Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow Like tides upon us of the self-same sea. Tears are the gems of joy and misery! IV. THE LOVER'S YEAR Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall; For Nature left on thee a touch of all The moods that come to gladden or to grieve The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve From lagging sameness. So do these forestall In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. Scenes that I love to me always remain Beautiful, whether under summer's sun Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet one: Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see Thy constant change is changeful constancy. V. NEW WORLDS. With my beloved I lingered late one night. At last the hour when I must leave her came: But, as I turned, a fear I could not name Possessed me that the long sweet evening might Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight Should perish. What if Death, ere dawn, should claim One of us? What, though living, not the same Each should appear to each in morning-light? Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: Ne'er could I see her as of old again. That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away, And let her beauty pour through every vein Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover With each new morn a new world may discover. VI. WEDDING-NIGHT. At night, with shaded eyes, the summer moon In tender meditation downward glances At the dark earth, far-set in dim expanses, And, welcomer than blazoned gold of noon, Down through the air her steady lights are strewn. The breezy forests sigh in moonlit trances, And the full-hearted poet, waking, fancies The smiling hills will break in laughter soon. Oh thus, thou gentle Nature, dost thou shine On me to-night. My very limbs would melt, Like rugged earth beneath yon ray divine, Into faint semblance of what they have felt: Thine eye doth color me, O wife, O mine, With peace that in thy spirit long hath dwelt! LOVE'S DEFEAT. A thousand times I would have hoped, A thousand times protested; But still, as through the night I groped, My torch from me was wrested, and wrested. How often with a succoring cup Unto the hurt I hasted! The wounded died ere I came up; My cup was still untasted,— Untasted. Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain Endured, I ne'er repented. 'T is not of these I would complain: With these I were contented,— Contented. Here lies the misery, to feel No work of love completed; In prayerless passion still to kneel, And mourn, and cry: "Defeated Defeated!" MAY AND MARRIAGE. THE LOVER WHO THINKS. Dost thou remember, Love, those hours Shot o'er with random rainy showers, When the bold sun would woo coy May? She smiled, then wept—and looked another way. We, learning from the sun and season, Together plotted joyous treason 'Gainst maiden majesty, to give Each other troth, and henceforth wedded live. But love, ah, love we know is blind! Not always what they seek they find When, groping through dim-lighted natures, Fond lovers look for old, ideal statures. What then? Is all our purpose lost? The balance broken, since Fate tossed Uneven weights? Oh well beware That thought, my sweet: 't were neither fit nor fair! Seek not for any grafted fruits From souls so wedded at the roots; But whatsoe'er our fibres hold, Let that grow forth in mutual, ample mold! No sap can circle without flaw Into the perfect sphere we saw Hanging before our happy eyes Amid the shade of marriage-mysteries; But all that in the heart doth lurk Must toward the mystic shaping work: Sweet fruit and bitter both must fall When the boughs bend, at each year's autumn-call. Ah, dear defect! that aye shall lift Us higher, not through craven shift Of fault on common frailty;—nay, But twofold hope to help with generous stay! I shall be nearer, understood: More prized art thou than perfect good. And since thou lov'st me, I shall grow Thy other self—thy Life, thy Joy, thy Woe! THE FISHER OF THE CAPE. At morn his bark like a bird Slips lightly oceanward— Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay And beak that drinks the wild spray. In his eyes beams cheerily A light like the sun's on the sea, As he watches the waning strand, Where the foam, like a waving hand Of one who mutely would tell Her love, flutters faintly, "Farewell." But at night, when the winds arise And pipe to driving skies, And the moon peers, half afraid, Through the storm-cloud's ragged shade, He hears her voice in the blast That sighs about the mast, He sees her face in the clouds As he climbs the whistling shrouds; And a power nerves his hand, Shall bring the bark to land. SAILOR'S SONG. The sea goes up; the sky comes down. Oh, can you spy the ancient town,— The granite hills so hard and gray, That rib the land behind the bay? O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Three years? Is it so long that we Have lived upon the lonely sea? Oh, often I thought we'd see the town, When the sea went up, and the sky came down. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Even the winter winds would rouse A memory of my father's house; For round his windows and his door They made the same deep, mouthless roar. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! And when the summer's breezes beat, Methought I saw the sunny street Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand She gazed far out, far out from land. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed That I was with her. Then, it seemed A single stride the ocean wide Had bridged, and brought me to her side. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home. O ye ho! But though so near we're drawing, now, 'T is farther off——I know not how. We sail and sail: we see no home. Would we into the port were come! O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! At night, the same stars o'er the mast: The mast sways round—however fast We fly—still sways and swings around One scanty circle's starry bound. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Ah, many a month those stars have shone, And many a golden morn has flown, Since that so solemn, happy morn, When, I away, my babe was born. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! And, though so near we're drawing, now, 'T is farther off—I know not how— I would not aught amiss had come To babe or mother there, at home! O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! 'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush The seas, beneath. I hear the crush Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! Patience, my mates! Though not this eve We cast our anchor, yet believe, If but the wind holds, short the run: We 'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho! JESSAMINE. Here stands the great tree still, with broad, bent head, And wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves Strange garlands now amongst the darkening leaves. And the moon hangs low in the elm . Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine Walked with her lover long ago, and in This moon-made shade he questioned; and she spoke: Then on them both love's rarer radiance broke. And the moon hangs low in the elm . Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown, Gathering from each alike a perfect white, Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night. And the moon hangs low in the elm . And for this sweetness Walt, her lover, sought To win her; wooed her here, his heart full-fraught With fragrance of her being, and gained his plea. So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree." And the moon hangs low in the elm . Was it unfaith, or faith more full to her, Made him, for fame and fortune longing, spur Into the world? Far from his home he sailed: And life paused; while she watched joy vanish, vailed. And the moon hangs low in the elm . Oh, better at the elm tree's sun-browned feet If he had been content to let life fleet Its wonted way!—there rearing his small house; Mowing and milking, lord of corn and cows! And the moon hangs low in the elm . For as against a snarling sea one steers, Ever he battled with the beetling years; And ever Jessamine must watch and pine, Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line. And the moon hangs low in the elm . At last she heard no more. The neighbors said That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead. Yet naught her trust could move; the tryst she kept Each night still, 'neath this tree, before she slept. And the moon hangs low in the elm. So, circling years went by; and in her face Slow melancholy wrought a tempered grace Of early joy with sorrow's rich alloy— Refinèd, rare, no doom should e'er destroy. And the moon hangs low in the elm. Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine, Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused On love that so could live with love refused. And the moon hangs low in the elm. Nor none could hope for her. But she had grown Too high in love for hope, and bloomed alone, Aloft in pure sincerity secure; For fortune's failures, in her faith too sure. And the moon hangs low in the elm. Oh, well for Walt, if he had known her soul! Discouraged on disaster's changeful shoal Wrecking, he rested; starved on selfish pride Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide. And the moon hangs low in the elm. But, bitterly repenting of his sin, Oh, bitterly he learned to look within Sweet Jessamine's clear depth—when the past, dead, Mocked him, and wild, waste years forever fled! And the moon hangs low in the elm. Late, late, oh, late beneath the tree stood two! In awe and anguish wondering: "Is it true?" Two that were each most like to some wan wraith: Yet each on each looked with a living faith. And the moon hangs low in the elm. Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell; Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell. Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed; Beneath it many a year she lieth dead! And the moon hangs low in the elm. Here stands the great tree still. But age has crept Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite! And the moon hangs low in the elm. GRIEF'S HERO. A youth unto herself Grief took, Whom everything of joy forsook, And men passed with denying head, Saying: "'T were better he were dead." Grief took him, and with master-touch Molded his being. I marveled much To see her magic with the clay, So much she gave—and took away. Daily she wrought, and her design Grew daily clearer and more fine, To make the beauty of his shape Serve for the spirit's free escape. With liquid fire she filled his eyes. She graced his lips with swift surmise Of sympathy for others' woe, And made his every fibre flow In fairer curves. On brow and chin And tinted cheek, drawn clean and thin, She sculptured records rich, great Grief! She made him loving, made him lief. I marveled; for, where others saw A failing frame with many a flaw, Meseemed a figure I beheld Fairer than anything of eld Fashioned from sunny marble. Here Nature was artist with no peer. No chisel's purpose could have caught These lines, nor brush their secret wrought. Not so the world weighed, busily Pursuing drossy industry; But, saturated with success, Well-guarded by a soft excess Of bodily ease, gave little heed To him that held not by their creed, Save o'er the beauteous youth to moan: "A pity that he is not grown To our good stature and heavier weight, To bear his share of our full freight." Meanwhile, thus to himself he spoke: "Oh, noble is the knotted oak, And sweet the gush of sylvan streams, And good the great sun's gladding beams, The blush of life upon the field, The silent might that mountains wield. Still more I love to mix with men, Meeting the kindly human ken; To feel the force of faithful friends— The thirst for smiles that never ends. "Yet precious more than all of these I hold great Sorrow's mysteries, Whereby Gehenna's sultry gale Is made to lift the golden veil 'Twixt heaven's starry-spherèd light Of truth and our dim, sun-blent sight. Joy comes to ripen; but 'tis Grief That garners in the grainy sheaf. Time was I feared to know or feel The spur of aught but gilded weal; To bear aloft the victor, Fame, Would ev'n have champed a stately shame Of bit and bridle. But my fears Fell off in the pure bath of tears. And now with sinews fresh and strong I stride, to summon with a song The deep, invigorating truth That makes me younger than my youth. "O Sorrow, deathless thy delight! Deathless it were but for our slight Endurance! Truth like thine, too rare, We dare but take in scantiest share." He died: the creatures of his kind Fared on. Not one had known his mind. But the unnamed yearnings of the air, The eternal sky's wide-searching stare, The undertone of brawling floods, And the old moaning of the woods Grew full of memory. The sun Many a brave heart has shone upon Since then, of men who walked abroad For joy and gladness praising God. But widowed Grief lives on alone: She hath not chosen, of them, one. A FACE IN THE STREET. Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust— Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air;— They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare. Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust, And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st in flame And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay, Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame Took with her when she fled long since away. Ah God! rain fire upon this foul-souled city That gives such death, and spares its men,—for pity! THE BATHER. Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone, I raise the sparkling flight Of foam-flakes volatile. Now, in natural guise, I woo the deathless breeze, Through me rushing fleet The joy of life, in swift surprise: I grow with growing wheat, And burgeon with the trees. Lo! I fetter Time, So he cannot run; And in Eden again— Flash of memory sublime!— Dwell naked, without stain, Beneath the dazed sun. All yields brotherhood; Each least thing that lives, Wrought of primal spores, Deepens this wild sense of good That, on these shaggy shores, Return to nature gives. Oh, that some solitude Were ours, in woodlands deep, Where, with lucent eyes, Living lithe and limber-thewed, Our life's shape might arise Like mountains fresh from sleep! To sounds of water falling, Hosts of delicate dreams Should lull us and allure With a dim, enchanted calling, Blameless to live and pure Like these sweet springs and streams. But in a wilderness Alone may such life be? Why of all things framed, In my human form confessed Should I be ashamed, And blush for honesty? Rounded, strengthy limbs That knit me to my kind— Your glory turns to grief! Shall I for my soul sing hymns, Yet for my body find No clear, divine belief? Let me rather die, Than by faith uphold Dogmas weak that dare The form that once Christ wore deny Afraid with him to share A purity twofold; Yet, while sin remains On this saddened earth, Humbly walk my ways! For my garments are as chains; And I fear to praise My frame with careless mirth. Joy and penance go Hand in hand, I see! Would I could live so well, Soul of me should never know When my coverings fell, Nor feel this nudity! HELEN AT THE LOOM. Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom, Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over-deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full Of men that struggle close, complex; Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks Arching high; spear, shield, and all The panoply that doth recall Mighty war, such war as e'en For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. Purple is the groundwork: good! All the field is stained with blood. Blood poured out for Helen's sake; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) But the shapes of men that pass Are as ghosts within a glass, Woven with whiteness of the swan, Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan From the garment's purple fold Where Troy's tale is twined and told. Well may Helen, as with tender Touch of rosy fingers slender She doth knit the story in Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, Feel sharp filaments of pain Reeled off with the well-spun skein, And faint blood-stains on her hands From the shifting sanguine strands. Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: What has been must be to-morrow; Meekly to her fate she bows. Heavenly beauties still will rouse Strife and savagery in men: Shall the lucid heavens, then, Lose their high serenity, Sorrowing over what must be? If she taketh to her shame, Lo, they give her not the blame,— Priam's wisest counselors, Aged men, not loving wars: When she goes forth, clad in white, Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, With her fair hair, amber-hued As vapor by the moon imbued With burning brown, that round her clings, See, she sudden silence brings On the gloomy whisperers Who would make the wrong all hers. So, Helen, in thy silent room, Labor at the storied loom; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) Let thy aching sorrow make Something strangely beautiful Of this fabric, since the wool Comes so tinted from the Fates, Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. Thou shalt work with subtle force All thy deep shade of remorse In the texture of the weft, That no stain on thee be left;— Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, Grief and wrong, to soft relief. Speed the garment! It may chance. Long hereafter, meet the glance Of none; when her lord, Now thy Paris, shall go t'ward Ida, at his last sad end, Seeking her, his early friend, Who alone can cure his ill Of all who love him, if she will. It were fitting she should see In that hour thine artistry, And her husband's speechless corse In the garment of remorse! But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk. Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shalt rule, Still shalt work the colored crewl. Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet that exquisitest tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy. There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth. Look on Helen not with hate, Therefore, but compassionate. If she suffer not too much, Seldom does she feel the touch Of that fresh, auroral joy Lighter spirits may decoy To their pure and sunny lives. Heavy honey 't is, she hives. To her sweet but burdened soul All that here she doth control— What of bitter memories, What of coming fate's surmise, Paris' passion, distant din Of the war now drifting in To her quiet—idle seems; Idle as the lazy gleams Of some stilly water's reach, Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach A heavy arch, and, looking through, Far away the doubtful blue Glimmers, on a drowsy day, Crowded with the sun's rich gray, As she stands within her room, Weaving, weaving at the loom.

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