Produced by Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks

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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.