And could I love it more—this simple scene
Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,
That lie as if forgotten were all green,
So bare, so dead!
Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,
That lie as if forgotten were all green,
So bare, so dead!
Or could my gaze more tenderly entwine
Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore
Outreaching arms in patience to divine
If winter's o'er?
Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore
Outreaching arms in patience to divine
If winter's o'er?
Ah no, the wind has blown into my veins
The blue infinity of sky, the sense
Of meadows free to-day from icy pains—
From wintry vents.
The blue infinity of sky, the sense
Of meadows free to-day from icy pains—
From wintry vents.
And sunny peace more virgin than the glow
Falling from eve's first star into the night,
Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know
With mortal sight.
Falling from eve's first star into the night,
Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know
With mortal sight.
WANTON JUNE
I knew she would come!
Sarcastic November
Laughed cold and glum
On the last red ember
Of forest leaves.
He was laughing, the scorner,
At me forlorner
Than any that grieves—
Because I asked him if June would come!
Sarcastic November
Laughed cold and glum
On the last red ember
Of forest leaves.
He was laughing, the scorner,
At me forlorner
Than any that grieves—
Because I asked him if June would come!
But I knew she would come
When snow-hearted winter
Gripped river and loam,
And the wind sped flinter
On icy heel,
I was chafing my sorrow
And yearning to borrow
A hope that would steal
Across the hours—till June should come.
When snow-hearted winter
Gripped river and loam,
And the wind sped flinter
On icy heel,
I was chafing my sorrow
And yearning to borrow
A hope that would steal
Across the hours—till June should come.
And now she is here—
The wanton!—I follow
Her steps, ever near,
To the shade of the hollow
Where violets blow:
And chide her for leaving,
Tho' half believing
She taunted me so,
To make her abided return more dear.
The wanton!—I follow
Her steps, ever near,
To the shade of the hollow
Where violets blow:
And chide her for leaving,
Tho' half believing
She taunted me so,
To make her abided return more dear.
SPIRIT OF RAIN
(Miyanoshita, Japan, 1905)
Spirit of rain—
With all thy mountain mists that wander lonely
As a gray train
Of souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!
With all thy mountain mists that wander lonely
As a gray train
Of souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!
Spirit of rain!
Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onward
Till not in vain
They tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.
Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onward
Till not in vain
They tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.
Spirit of rain!
So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher,
Till they regain
Birth and the beauty of a new life's fire.
So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher,
Till they regain
Birth and the beauty of a new life's fire.
AUTUMN AT THE BRIDGE
Brown dropping of leaves,
Soft rush of the wind,
Slow searing of sheaves
On the hill;
Green plunging of frogs,
Cool lisp of the brook,
Far barking of dogs
At the mill;
Hot hanging of clouds,
High poise of the hawk,
Flush laughter of crowds
From the Ridge;
Nut-falling, quail-calling,
Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—
Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,
Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Soft rush of the wind,
Slow searing of sheaves
On the hill;
Green plunging of frogs,
Cool lisp of the brook,
Far barking of dogs
At the mill;
Hot hanging of clouds,
High poise of the hawk,
Flush laughter of crowds
From the Ridge;
Nut-falling, quail-calling,
Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—
Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,
Of an autumn day at the bridge!
TEARLESS
Do women weep when men have died?
It cannot be!
For I have sat here by his side,
Breathing dear names against his face,
That he must list to, were his place
Over God's throne—
Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
It cannot be!
For I have sat here by his side,
Breathing dear names against his face,
That he must list to, were his place
Over God's throne—
Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
Do women weep—not gaze stone-eyed?
Grief seems in vain.
Do women weep?—I was his bride—
They brought him to me cold and pale—
Upon his lids I saw the trail
Of deathly pain.
They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."
Grief seems in vain.
Do women weep?—I was his bride—
They brought him to me cold and pale—
Upon his lids I saw the trail
Of deathly pain.
They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."
I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,
Dropped on his lids,
Might burn him back to life and years
Of yearning love, would any rise
To flood the anguish from my eyes—
And I'm his bride!
Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
Dropped on his lids,
Might burn him back to life and years
Of yearning love, would any rise
To flood the anguish from my eyes—
And I'm his bride!
Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
SUNSET-LOVERS
Upon how many a hill,
Across how many a field,
Beside how many a river's restful flowing,
They stand, with eyes a-thrill,
And hearts of day-rue healed,
Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!
Across how many a field,
Beside how many a river's restful flowing,
They stand, with eyes a-thrill,
And hearts of day-rue healed,
Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!
They have forgotten life,
Forgotten sunless death;
Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?
No memory of strife
Have they, or pain-sick breath.
No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.
Forgotten sunless death;
Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?
No memory of strife
Have they, or pain-sick breath.
No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.
Silent the gold steals down
The west, and mystery
Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.
'Tis faded—the day's crown;
But strange and shadowy
They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.
The west, and mystery
Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.
'Tis faded—the day's crown;
But strange and shadowy
They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.
Like priests whose altar fires
Are spent, immovable
They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.
Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,
The starry deeps are full,
Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.
Are spent, immovable
They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.
Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,
The starry deeps are full,
Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.
Ah, sunset-lovers, though
Time were but pulsing pain,
And death no more than its eternal ceasing,
Would you not choose the throe,
Hold the oblivion vain,
To have beheld so many a day's releasing?
Time were but pulsing pain,
And death no more than its eternal ceasing,
Would you not choose the throe,
Hold the oblivion vain,
To have beheld so many a day's releasing?
THE EMPTY CROSS
The eve of Golgotha had come,
And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb:
Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,
How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!
And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb:
Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,
How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!
The hill grew dim—the pleading cross
Reached empty arms toward the closing gate.
Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!
Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!
Reached empty arms toward the closing gate.
Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!
Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!
Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain!
The murmurous multitude within the wall
Already had forgot His pain—
To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!
The murmurous multitude within the wall
Already had forgot His pain—
To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!
They knew not Rome, before its sign,
Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,
Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine
In servitude unto the Nazarene.
Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,
Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine
In servitude unto the Nazarene.
Nor knew that millions would forsake
Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time,
And lifting up its token shake
Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.
Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time,
And lifting up its token shake
Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.
With empty arms aloft it stood:
Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!
The cross emblotted with His blood
Mounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!
Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!
The cross emblotted with His blood
Mounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!
UNBURTHENED
Not grief nor the sunny wine
Of gladness steeps my spirit as I gaze
Over these meads that lie engarmented
In stubble robes of winter-weary brown.
For, as those solitary trees afar
Have reached unbudding boughs to the dim day
And melted on the infinite calm of space,
So have I reached, and am no more distraught
With the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.
But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,
Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,
Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift clouds
Away to the sullen shades of the low west,
Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude—
And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.
Of gladness steeps my spirit as I gaze
Over these meads that lie engarmented
In stubble robes of winter-weary brown.
For, as those solitary trees afar
Have reached unbudding boughs to the dim day
And melted on the infinite calm of space,
So have I reached, and am no more distraught
With the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.
But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,
Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,
Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift clouds
Away to the sullen shades of the low west,
Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude—
And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.
SONG
Her voice is vibrant beauty dipt
In dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.
Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis slipt
And lo, words spring that breathe immortal.
In dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.
Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis slipt
And lo, words spring that breathe immortal.
TO HER WHO SHALL COME
1
Out of the night of lovelessness I call
Thee, as, in a chill chamber where no rays
Of unbelievable light and freedom fall,
Might cry one manacled! And tho' the ways
Thou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's sore
With emptiness when morning's silent grays
Wake me to long aloneness; yet I know
Thou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt go
Beside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
Thee, as, in a chill chamber where no rays
Of unbelievable light and freedom fall,
Might cry one manacled! And tho' the ways
Thou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's sore
With emptiness when morning's silent grays
Wake me to long aloneness; yet I know
Thou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt go
Beside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
2
So in the garden of my heart each day
I plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,
And now the lily, faith—or now a spray
Of the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er cease
Around the still unblossoming rose of love
To bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.
Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,
The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runs
With brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
I plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,
And now the lily, faith—or now a spray
Of the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er cease
Around the still unblossoming rose of love
To bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.
Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,
The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runs
With brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
3
But where now art thou? Watching with love's eye
The eve-star wander? Listening through dim trees
Some thrilled muezzin of the forest cry
From his leafy minaret? Or by the sea's
Blue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangs
Like the faery isle of Avalon, do these
My yearnings speak to thee of days thy feet
Have never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,
My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
The eve-star wander? Listening through dim trees
Some thrilled muezzin of the forest cry
From his leafy minaret? Or by the sea's
Blue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangs
Like the faery isle of Avalon, do these
My yearnings speak to thee of days thy feet
Have never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,
My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
4
And will be soon! For last night near to-day,
Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphere
Of heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and lay
Thine ear unto my Heart—there thou shalt hear
The secrets of this world where evils war."
Such things I heard as must rend mortal clay
To tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,
Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee sing
Out of thy window to the morning star!
Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphere
Of heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and lay
Thine ear unto my Heart—there thou shalt hear
The secrets of this world where evils war."
Such things I heard as must rend mortal clay
To tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,
Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee sing
Out of thy window to the morning star!
STORM-TWILIGHT
Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,
Beaten abaft by the rain,
The swallows high in the sodden sky
Circle oft and again.
Beaten abaft by the rain,
The swallows high in the sodden sky
Circle oft and again.
They rise and sink and drift and swing,
Twitterless in the chill;
A-haste, for stark is the coming dark
Over the wet of the hill.
Twitterless in the chill;
A-haste, for stark is the coming dark
Over the wet of the hill.
Wildly, swiftly, at last they stream
Into their chimney home.
A livid gash in the west, a crash—
Then silence, sadness, gloam.
Into their chimney home.
A livid gash in the west, a crash—
Then silence, sadness, gloam.
SLAVES
A host of bloody centuries lie prone
Upon the fields of Time—but still the wake
Of Progress loud is haunted with the groan
Of myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slake
His scarlet thirst, has War, fierce Polypheme
Of fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.
We bid the courier lightning leap along
Its instant path with spirit speed—command
Stars lost in night-eternity to throng
Before the magnet eye of Science—stand
On Glory's peak and triumphingly cry
Out mastery of earth and sea and air.
But unto War's necessity we bare
Our piteous breasts—and impotently die.
Upon the fields of Time—but still the wake
Of Progress loud is haunted with the groan
Of myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slake
His scarlet thirst, has War, fierce Polypheme
Of fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.
We bid the courier lightning leap along
Its instant path with spirit speed—command
Stars lost in night-eternity to throng
Before the magnet eye of Science—stand
On Glory's peak and triumphingly cry
Out mastery of earth and sea and air.
But unto War's necessity we bare
Our piteous breasts—and impotently die.
AVOWAL TO THE NIGHTINGALE
Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delight
Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love,
Yet must I sing thy singing! For the Night
Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven
As they who hear thee say thou dost above
The wood such ecstasies as were not given
By nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.
Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love,
Yet must I sing thy singing! For the Night
Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven
As they who hear thee say thou dost above
The wood such ecstasies as were not given
By nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.
2
Oft have I watched the moon with her fair gold
Still clung to by the tattered mists of day
Arise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.
And almost I could see how the near laurels
Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway
Of bards who wreathed thee with unfading chorals
Has held my longing lips from this poor lay.
Still clung to by the tattered mists of day
Arise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.
And almost I could see how the near laurels
Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway
Of bards who wreathed thee with unfading chorals
Has held my longing lips from this poor lay.
3
But take it now. And if the lark—who is
Too high for earth—may vie for praise with thee
In aery rhapsody, yet it is his
To sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrow
And night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt be
More dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrow
From grief the healing for life's mystery.
Too high for earth—may vie for praise with thee
In aery rhapsody, yet it is his
To sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrow
And night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt be
More dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrow
From grief the healing for life's mystery.
WILDNESS
To drift with the drifting clouds,
And blow with the blow of breezes,
To ripple with waves and murmur with caves
To soar, as the sea-mew pleases!
And blow with the blow of breezes,
To ripple with waves and murmur with caves
To soar, as the sea-mew pleases!
To dip with the dipping sails,
And burn with the burning heaven—
My life! my soul! for the infinite roll
Of a day to wildness given!
And burn with the burning heaven—
My life! my soul! for the infinite roll
Of a day to wildness given!
BEFORE AUTUMN
Summer's last moon has waned—
Waned
As amber fires
Of an Aztec shrine.
The invisible breath of coming death has stained
The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—
Autumn's near.
Waned
As amber fires
Of an Aztec shrine.
The invisible breath of coming death has stained
The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—
Autumn's near.
Winds in the woodland moan—
Moan
As memories
Of a chilling yore.
Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown
From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—
Autumn's near.
Moan
As memories
Of a chilling yore.
Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown
From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—
Autumn's near.
Solitude slowly steals,
Steals
Her silent way
By the songless brook.
At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,
The musing joy of sadness in her look—
Autumn's near.
Steals
Her silent way
By the songless brook.
At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,
The musing joy of sadness in her look—
Autumn's near.
Yes, with her golden days—
Days
When hope and toil
Are at peace and rest—
Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praise
Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast—
Autumn's near.
Days
When hope and toil
Are at peace and rest—
Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praise
Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast—
Autumn's near.
FULFILMENT
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,
Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,
The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by one
Along the creek.
Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,
The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by one
Along the creek.
The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;
Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,
Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—
Life's flow is weak.
Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,
Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—
Life's flow is weak.
Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause—
Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose caws
Seem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awes
Of forest deeps.
Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose caws
Seem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awes
Of forest deeps.
Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,
Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;
Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God,
Who never sleeps.
Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;
Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God,
Who never sleeps.
And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,
Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;
Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,
The while she reaps.
Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;
Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,
The while she reaps.
LAST SIGHT OF LAND
The clouds in woe hang far and dim:
I look again, and lo,
Only a faint and shadow line
Of shore—I watch it go.
I look again, and lo,
Only a faint and shadow line
Of shore—I watch it go.
The gulls have left the ship and wheel
Back to the cliff's gray wraith.
Will it be so of all our thoughts
When we set sail on Death?
Back to the cliff's gray wraith.
Will it be so of all our thoughts
When we set sail on Death?
And what will the last sight be of life
As lone we fare and fast?
Grief and the face we love in mist—
Then night and awe too vast?
As lone we fare and fast?
Grief and the face we love in mist—
Then night and awe too vast?
Or the dear light of Hope—like that,
Oh, see, from the lost shore
Kindling and calling "Onward, you
Shall reach the Evermore!"
Oh, see, from the lost shore
Kindling and calling "Onward, you
Shall reach the Evermore!"
SILENCE
Silence is song unheard,
Is beauty never born,
Is light forgotten—left unstirred
Upon Creation's morn.
Is beauty never born,
Is light forgotten—left unstirred
Upon Creation's morn.