The House of the Trees & Other Poems

Where Pleasures Grow T HOUSANDS of childish ears, rough chidden, Never a sweet bird-note have heard, Deep in the leafy woodland hidden Dies, unlistened to, many a bird. For small soiled hands in the sordid city Blossoms open and die unbreathed; For feet unwashed by the tears of pity Streams around meadows of green are wreathed. Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander, Summer breezes out in the fields; Scarcely noticed, the green months squander All the wealth that the summer yields. Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity! Opulent stretch the country skies Over solitudes, while in the city Starving for beauty are childish eyes. Where Pleasures Grow W HERE pleasures grow as thick as grass, And joys of silence, soft, profound, Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound, The long, long days of summer pass. I see them sitting in the sun, Or moving river-like between The climbing and down-bending green, I watch them vanish one by one, And strive to clasp them as they flee, But only hold their shadows fast— The summer shadows that they cast Upon the path of memory. In the Heart of the Woods I LOST my heart in the heart of the woods; It stayed there through the day, It stayed there through the solitudes Of a night with no moon ray. Through the day so dusty, worn and sere My heart was cool and free, Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear, My heart slept peacefully. I found my heart in the heart of the woods, I looked on it and smiled; And over it still the woodland broods, As a mother over her child. Frost W HEN the sun is growing weaker, And his look is meek and meeker, Comes the frost—the pale betrayer— Light of foot, a stealthy slayer. In the night abroad he stealeth, For each trembling leaf he feeleth; Something softened by its pleading, Kills it not but leaves it bleeding. The Chipmunk T O -day the green hill was at strife With me; it robbed my feet of life. The wind that loudly speaks his mind, Said in my presence nothing kind. The sky’s clear face was from me turned, Behind a cloud his great fire burned. An exile in his native cot, Who finds his very name forgot, Was I this afternoon, until At the wood’s edge behind the hill, A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb, And took my heart away with him. Give Me the Poorest Weed G IVE me the poorest weed To satisfy my spirit’s need. The brownest blade of grass Will know and greet me when I pass. Of their own feeling wrought, They live like simple, vital thought; The mind could not invent A better thing than Nature meant. The Weeks that Walk in Green T HE weeks that walk in green Came to my willow lane, And wrapt me in their leafy screen Against the sun and rain. Then far and far we went By stream and wood and steep, Until, all love-worn and joy-spent, I yielded me to sleep. And they—they died unseen; Their ghosts are haunting me— The gentle ghosts that walk in green Through vales of memory. Noonday of the Year T HE streams that chattered in the cold Are sleeping in the sun; The winds of March were overbold Until their race was run. O mad with haste the morning went, But now love-warm and deep, The fields, their first ambition spent, Lie in their noonday sleep. The Wind World A LONE within the wind I lie, And reck not how the seasons go; The winter struggling through its snow, The light-winged summer flitting by. I am not of the cloud nor mold, I move between the stars and flowers, I know the tingling touch of hours When all the storms of night unfold. Within the wind world drifting free I hear naught of earth’s murmurings, Naught but the sound of songs and wings Among the tree-tops comes to me. At night earth stars flash out below, And heaven stars shine out above; I look down on the lights of love, And feel the higher love-lights glow. At the Window H OW thick about the window of my life Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets: Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife, Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets. If ’mid this swarm of smallnesses remain A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye I note before my freckled window-pane The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky. Come Back Again C HILD -thoughts, child-thoughts, come back again! Faint, fitful, as you used to be; The dusty chambers of my brain Have need of your fair company, As when my child-head reached the height Of the wild rose-bush at the door, And all of heaven and its delight Bloomed in the flow’rs the old bush bore. Come back, sweet long-departed year, When, sitting in a hollow oak, I heard the sheep bells far and clear, I heard a voice that silent spoke, And felt in both a vague appeal, And both were mingled in my dreams With leaves that viewless breezes feel, And skies clear mirrored in the streams. Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again! Bring back the tall grass at my cheek, The grief more swift than summer rain, The joy that knew no words to speak. The buttercup’s uplifted gold That strives to reach my hands in vain, The love that never could grow cold— Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again! A Rainy Morning T HE low sky, and the warm, wet wind, And the tender light on the eyes; A day like a soul that has never sinned, New dropped from Paradise. And ’tis oh, for a long walk in the rain, By the side of the warm, wet breeze, With the thoughts washed clean of dust and stain As the leaves on the shining trees. June Apples G REEN apple branches full of green apples All around me unfurled, Here where the shade and the sunlight dapples A grass-green, apple-green world. Little green children stirred with the heaving Of the warm breast of the air, When your old nurse, the wind, is grieving Comfortlessly you fare. But now an old-time song she is crooning, Nestle your heads again, While I dream on through the golden nooning, Or look for the first red stain On some round cheek that the sunshine dapples, Near me where I lie curled Under green trees athrong with green apples, In a grass-green, apple-green world. Beginning and End O NCE it was in my life’s beginning, Roses were tall in their summer beds, Dandelions within my fingers Thrust their confident golden heads; Wading waist-deep ’mid the daisies, Feeling the grasses about me climb— Thus it was in my life’s beginning; What have you done to me, Father Time? So shall it be when life has ended: Roses shall bloom above my head, Dandelions will know I am lying Hidden in grass from foot to head. Hidden in grass and hidden in daisies, Over my breast I shall feel them climb, Thus it will be when life has ended; This will you do to me, Father Time. Not at Home T HE Weariness of Idleness, She waited all the day In the parlor of her neighbor, The Weariness of Labor— A visit she had long meant to pay. But not until the evening Did her hostess come in sight; Then the Weariness of Labor Explained unto her neighbor That she lived but a brief hour at night. The Wind of Memory R ED curtains shut the storm from sight, The inner rooms are live with light; The fireside faces all aglow See not the pale ghost in the snow, The pale ghost at the window pressed, With the wind moaning in her breast. She sees the face she hurt with scorn, The other face where joy, new born, Died out at her cheap mockery; The eyes she filled, how bitterly! The head that drooped beneath her jest— The wind is moaning in her breast. Invisible, unfelt, unknown, She lingers trembling. She alone Notes tenderly her vacant place, And sees in it her vanished face; She only—of this happy nest! The wind is moaning in her breast. Star-like the happy windows glow, Framed in with mile on mile of snow; And from their light a thing of death, Of grief and memory vanisheth, Her sin not deep but unredressed, And the wind moaning in her breast. Philippa A GENEROUS gentleness that flowed, Stream-like, beside a dusty road; Gave laborers shade, and prisoners sun, And easeful joy to every one; With liquid melodies for such As worked or wearied overmuch, And ministrations cool and sweet For fevered hands and aching feet. So delicately fair she moved— That stream-like girl, of all beloved. Along her path no grief nor care But lulled and lightened unaware. She bore the sky within her breast, And child-like winds her soul caressed, Until her spring of life was dried, And with a smile Philippa died. The Student T HE student sits within his room, So small and worn and white; His lamp flames out remote and strange Through all the hours of night. And all day long within his face, So small and worn and white, His eyes flame out—those lamp-like eyes, So weirdly, strangely bright. Unspoken M Y lover comes down the long leafy street Through tenderly falling rain; His footsteps near our portal veer, Go past—then turn again. O can it be he is knocking below, Or here at my door above? So gentle and small it sounds in the hall, So loud in the ear of love. But never a word of love has he said, And never a word crave I, For why should one long for the daylight strong When the dawn is in the sky? O a dewy rose-garden is the house, A garden shut from the sun; The breath of it sweet floats up, as my feet Float down to my waiting one. But if ever a word of love thinks he, It falls from his heart still-born; Who bends to the rose does not haste to close His hand around bud and thorn. The beautiful soul that is in him turns His beautiful face agleam; My own soul flies to feast in his eyes, Where the silent love-words teem. Our talk is of books, and of thoughts and moods, Of the wild flowers in the rain; And he leans his cheek, when we do not speak, On his chair where my hand had lain. Yet never a word of love does he say, And never a word crave I; For the faint green May would wither away At the quick touch of July. And at last—at last we look our last, And the dim day grows more dim; But his eyes still shine in these eyes of mine, And my soul goes forth with him. For though not a word of love does he say, Still never a word crave I; For the words of earth are of little worth When a song drops out of the sky. Under the King L OVE with the deep eyes and soft hair, Love with the lily throat and hands, Is done to death, and free as air Am I of all my King’s commands. How shall I celebrate my joy? Or dance with feet that once were fleet In his adorable employ? Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet? How can I at his lifeless face Aim any sharp or bitter jest, Since roguish destiny did place That tender target in my breast? Nay, let me be sincere and strong; I cannot rid me of my chains, I cannot to myself belong, My King is dead—his soul still reigns. The Secret S OME chance moment life confesses That her insect nothingnesses Carry honey with their stings, But ’tis only to their kings— Those who know how best to use them, Those who know how to refuse them— That the secret is made free, And souls are loosed from tyranny. Limitation B EYOND the far horizon’s farthest bound A farther boundary lies; No spirit wing can reach the utmost round, No spirit eyes. The soul has limitations such as space, Such as eternity; The farthest star to which thou setst thy face Belongs to thee. Three Years Old W HAT is it like, I wonder, to roam Down through the tall grass hidden quite? To feel very far away from home When the dear house is out of sight? To want to play with the broken moon In the star garden of the skies? To sleep through twilight eves of June Beneath the sound of lullabies? To hold up hurts for all to see, Sob at imaginary harms, To clasp in welcome a father’s knee, And fit so well to a mother’s arms? To have life bounded by one dull road, A wood and a pond, and to feel no lack, To gaze with pleasure upon a toad, And caress a mud-turtle’s horny back? To follow the robin’s cheerful hop With all the salt small hands can hold, And plead in vain for it to stop— What is it like to be three years old? Ah, once I knew, but ’twas long ago; I try to recall it in vain—in vain! And now I know I shall never know What it is to be a child again. Sometime, I Fear S OMETIME , I fear, but God alone knows when, Mine eyes shall gaze on your unseeing eyes, On your unheeding ears shall fall my cries, Your clasp shall cease, your soul go from my ken, Your great heart be a fire burned out.—Ah, then, What shall remain for me beneath the skies Of glad, or good, or beautiful, or wise, That can relume and thrill my life again? This shall remain, a love that cannot fail, A life that joys in your great joy, yet grieves In memory of sweet days fled too soon. Sadness divine! as when November pale Sits broken-hearted ’mong her withered leaves, And feels the wind about her warm as June. Joy W HEN airy joy doth hail me I follow on behind, And lest my feet should fail me I follow on the wind; I hear her lightsome laughter Go floating past the door, And swift I follow after As she flies on before. When I am faint and falling, And lose her skyey wings, I hear her liquid calling, And feel the charm she flings On all the earth and o’er me, Then eagerly I rise, And see her skirts before me Go glittering up the skies. The best of life would daunt me Ungirdled by her grace, And foreign demons haunt me Whene’er she hides her face. Up roughest steeps with laughter My airy joy doth soar, As wind-like I come after, And she flies on before. In the Dark A LL in the dark he crossed the border! All in the dark, for the lamp of faith Had never been used, and was not in order— So all in the dark he encountered Death. Words I LIKE those words that carry in their veins The blood of lions. “Liberty” is one, And “Justice,” and the heart leaps to the sun When the thrilled note of “Courage! Courage!” rains Upon the sorely stricken will. No pains Survive when “Life” and “Light,” twin glories, run From the quick page to some poor soul undone, And beggar by their glow all other gains. How splendidly does “Morning” flood our night! How the word “Ocean” drowns our insect cares, And drives a strong wind through our housed-up grief. While “Honor” lifts us to the mountain height; And “Loyalty” the heaviest burden bears As lightly as a tree a crimson leaf. The Wind of Death T HE wind of death that softly blows The last warm petal from the rose, The last dry leaf from off the tree, To-night has come to breathe on me. There was a time I learned to hate As weaker mortals learn to love; The passion held me fixed as fate, Burned in my veins early and late— But now a wind falls from above— The wind of death, that silently Enshroudeth friend and enemy. There was a time my soul was thrilled By keen ambition’s whip and spur; My master forced me where he willed, And with his power my life was filled, But now the old-time pulses stir How faintly in the wind of death! That bloweth lightly as a breath. And once, but once, at Love’s dear feet I yielded strength and life and heart; His look turned bitter into sweet, His smile made all the world complete— The wind blows loves like leaves apart— The wind of death, that tenderly Is blowing ’twixt my love and me. O wind of death, that darkly blows Each separate ship of human woes Far out on a mysterious sea, I turn, I turn my face to thee. Printed at the Everett Press Boston *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE TREES & OTHER POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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