Past midnight, gathering from the west,
With rolling rain the storm came on,
And tore and tossed until the dawn,
Like some dark demon of unrest:
The stairways creaked! the chimneys boomed;
I heard the wild leaves blown about
The windy windows; and the shout
Of forests that the storm had doomed.
With rolling rain the storm came on,
And tore and tossed until the dawn,
Like some dark demon of unrest:
The stairways creaked! the chimneys boomed;
I heard the wild leaves blown about
The windy windows; and the shout
Of forests that the storm had doomed.
I listened, and remembered how
On yesterday I went alone
A sunlit path through fields o’ergrown
With sumac brakes, turned crimson now;
Where asters strung blue pearls and white
Beside the goldenrod’s soft ruff;
Where thistles, silvery puff on puff,
Danced many a twinkling witch’s-light.
On yesterday I went alone
A sunlit path through fields o’ergrown
With sumac brakes, turned crimson now;
Where asters strung blue pearls and white
Beside the goldenrod’s soft ruff;
Where thistles, silvery puff on puff,
Danced many a twinkling witch’s-light.
XXXII
What sympathies of Heaven and Earth
The human ego enters in!
The universal stain of sin
Which qualifies it from its birth,
Denying it their highest worth.
There is a parallel of kin
’Twixt earth and man, that dignifies
Endeavor with such sympathies.
The human ego enters in!
The universal stain of sin
Which qualifies it from its birth,
Denying it their highest worth.
There is a parallel of kin
’Twixt earth and man, that dignifies
Endeavor with such sympathies.
The all mysterious wisdom waits
In mountain, wood, and waterfall,
Sky, rock and sea, to hear the call
Of something—firmer than the Fates—
Deep in the soul it elevates;
And to the splendor of the All
Advances, through the night’s immense,
The spirit of experience.
So think I now while, long and loud,
The wind its maniac music beats,
And storm a madman’s song repeats
To echoes in the rushing cloud;
While all the world to wrath is vowed,
And nothing conquers or defeats
The darkness and the rain that raves
Above the all-unheeding graves.
In mountain, wood, and waterfall,
Sky, rock and sea, to hear the call
Of something—firmer than the Fates—
Deep in the soul it elevates;
And to the splendor of the All
Advances, through the night’s immense,
The spirit of experience.
So think I now while, long and loud,
The wind its maniac music beats,
And storm a madman’s song repeats
To echoes in the rushing cloud;
While all the world to wrath is vowed,
And nothing conquers or defeats
The darkness and the rain that raves
Above the all-unheeding graves.
XXXIII
All night the rain-gusts shook the leaves
Around my window; and the blast
Rumbled the flickering flue, and fast
The storm streamed from the dripping eaves.
As if—’neath skies gone mad with fear—
The witches’ Sabboth galloped past,
The forests leapt like startled deer.
Around my window; and the blast
Rumbled the flickering flue, and fast
The storm streamed from the dripping eaves.
As if—’neath skies gone mad with fear—
The witches’ Sabboth galloped past,
The forests leapt like startled deer.
All night I heard the sweeping sleet;
And when the morning came, as slow
As pale affliction, with the woe
Of all the world dragged at her feet,
No spear of purple shattered through
The dark-gray of the east; no bow
Of gold, whose arrows cleft the blue.
And when the morning came, as slow
As pale affliction, with the woe
Of all the world dragged at her feet,
No spear of purple shattered through
The dark-gray of the east; no bow
Of gold, whose arrows cleft the blue.
But rain, that whipped the windows; filled
The spouts with rushing; and around
The garden stamped, and sowed the ground
With limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filled
With overgurgling.—Bleak and cold
The fields looked, where the foot-path wound
Through teasel and bur-marigold....
The spouts with rushing; and around
The garden stamped, and sowed the ground
With limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filled
With overgurgling.—Bleak and cold
The fields looked, where the foot-path wound
Through teasel and bur-marigold....
Yet there is kindness in such days
Of gloom, that doth console regret
With sympathy of tears, which wet
Old eyes that watch the back-log blaze—
A kindness, alien to the deep
Glad blue of sunny days that let
No thought in of the lives that weep.
Of gloom, that doth console regret
With sympathy of tears, which wet
Old eyes that watch the back-log blaze—
A kindness, alien to the deep
Glad blue of sunny days that let
No thought in of the lives that weep.
XXXIV
This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,—
As might a face within our sleep,
With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep,
And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,—
Is sunset to some sister land;
A land of ruins and of palms;
Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,—
Whose burning belt low mountains bar,—
That sees some brown Rebecca stand
Beside a well the camel-band
Winds down to ’neath the evening-star.
As might a face within our sleep,
With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep,
And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,—
Is sunset to some sister land;
A land of ruins and of palms;
Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,—
Whose burning belt low mountains bar,—
That sees some brown Rebecca stand
Beside a well the camel-band
Winds down to ’neath the evening-star.
O sunset, sister to this dawn!
O dawn, whose face is turned away!
Who gazest not upon this day,
But back upon the day that’s gone!
Enamored so of loveliness,
The retrospect of what thou wast,
Oh, to thyself the present trust!
And as thy past make beautiful
With hues, that never can grow less!
Waiting thy pleasure to express
New beauty, lest the world grow dull.
O dawn, whose face is turned away!
Who gazest not upon this day,
But back upon the day that’s gone!
Enamored so of loveliness,
The retrospect of what thou wast,
Oh, to thyself the present trust!
And as thy past make beautiful
With hues, that never can grow less!
Waiting thy pleasure to express
New beauty, lest the world grow dull.
XXXV
At daybreak from the woodland come
Echoes of hunting; or the chop
Of some far woodman’s axe, that cleaves
The tingling oak, whose russet leaves
Drop slowly where the white chips drop:
The air is fragrant with the loam,
Where, through the mists of steaming gold,
The sudden sun strikes fold on fold.
Out of the window, filmed with fog,
I look into the wreck which was
The kitchen-garden, drenched with rain;
Among the death I mark again
One blue convolvulus—that draws
A gray vignette along a log,
With pencilled tendrils washed and wan—
The garden-story’s colophon.
Echoes of hunting; or the chop
Of some far woodman’s axe, that cleaves
The tingling oak, whose russet leaves
Drop slowly where the white chips drop:
The air is fragrant with the loam,
Where, through the mists of steaming gold,
The sudden sun strikes fold on fold.
Out of the window, filmed with fog,
I look into the wreck which was
The kitchen-garden, drenched with rain;
Among the death I mark again
One blue convolvulus—that draws
A gray vignette along a log,
With pencilled tendrils washed and wan—
The garden-story’s colophon.
XXXVI
More storm than calm, less gold than gray,
Along the years our lives must tread,
Makes sad the scenes around our way,
Makes grave the heavens overhead:
For on life’s storied page, behold,
Are adumbrations of the dead!
The neutral tint Time’s fingers lay
Around a tale that’s never told.
Along the years our lives must tread,
Makes sad the scenes around our way,
Makes grave the heavens overhead:
For on life’s storied page, behold,
Are adumbrations of the dead!
The neutral tint Time’s fingers lay
Around a tale that’s never told.
XXXVII
Down in the woods a sorcerer,
Out of rank rain and death, distils,—
Through chill alembics of the air,—
Aromas that brood everywhere
Among the dingles of the hills:
The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fills
Wet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach)
With sodden scents of wood decay;—
As if a spirit all the day
Sat breathing softly ’neath the beech.
Out of rank rain and death, distils,—
Through chill alembics of the air,—
Aromas that brood everywhere
Among the dingles of the hills:
The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fills
Wet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach)
With sodden scents of wood decay;—
As if a spirit all the day
Sat breathing softly ’neath the beech.
With other eyes I see her flit,
The wood-witch of the wild perfumes,
Among her sleepy owls,—that sit,
A fluffy white, in crescent-lit
Dim glens and opalescent glooms:—
Where, for her magic, buds and blooms
Mysterious perfumes, while she stands,
A fragrant shadow, summoning
The eery odors that take wing,
Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.
The wood-witch of the wild perfumes,
Among her sleepy owls,—that sit,
A fluffy white, in crescent-lit
Dim glens and opalescent glooms:—
Where, for her magic, buds and blooms
Mysterious perfumes, while she stands,
A fragrant shadow, summoning
The eery odors that take wing,
Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.
XXXVIII
With leagues of fog, which showed the sun
An agate-red without a ray,
And drowned the world in ghostly gray,
The chill, autumnal day begun:
A phantom in the mist, a run
Foamed over phantom ledges lone
In forests that seemed far away,
Wild woods of immaterial stone.
An agate-red without a ray,
And drowned the world in ghostly gray,
The chill, autumnal day begun:
A phantom in the mist, a run
Foamed over phantom ledges lone
In forests that seemed far away,
Wild woods of immaterial stone.
With horses saffron to the knees
A country cart drove through the fog;
Its creaking wheels grown one great clog
Of clay, and clanking swingletrees:
Its smothered rumble did not cease
Till hidden in the woodland mist,
Where, leaning on his fresh-cut log,
The muffled woodman blew his fist.
A country cart drove through the fog;
Its creaking wheels grown one great clog
Of clay, and clanking swingletrees:
Its smothered rumble did not cease
Till hidden in the woodland mist,
Where, leaning on his fresh-cut log,
The muffled woodman blew his fist.
Another world I wander in
Of unlaid ghosts and dreams unfled;
A twilight world of drowsy-head
And mystery, built figment-thin
Between the worlds of death and sin:
Where dim and strange and incomplete,
And substanceless, seem things not dead,
And sorrowful as dimly sweet.
Of unlaid ghosts and dreams unfled;
A twilight world of drowsy-head
And mystery, built figment-thin
Between the worlds of death and sin:
Where dim and strange and incomplete,
And substanceless, seem things not dead,
And sorrowful as dimly sweet.
XXXIX
Among the woods they call to me—
The lights that haunt the strand and stream;
Voices of such white ecstasy
As moves with hushed lips through a dream:
They stand in nimbused radiances,
Or flash with glittering limbs across
Their golden shadows on the moss,
Or slip in silver through the trees.
The lights that haunt the strand and stream;
Voices of such white ecstasy
As moves with hushed lips through a dream:
They stand in nimbused radiances,
Or flash with glittering limbs across
Their golden shadows on the moss,
Or slip in silver through the trees.
What love can give the heart in me
More hope and exaltation than
The hand of light that tips the tree
And beckons far from marts of man?
That reaches foamy fingers through
The broken ripple, and replies
With sparkling speech of lips and eyes
To souls who seek and still pursue.
More hope and exaltation than
The hand of light that tips the tree
And beckons far from marts of man?
That reaches foamy fingers through
The broken ripple, and replies
With sparkling speech of lips and eyes
To souls who seek and still pursue.
XL
Oh, bright the day, and calm and cool
With clouds, like cotton-fields that swoon
Beneath the silver summer moon;
And, quiet as a forest pool,—
Where Autumn sits and combs her locks,
And strews with rainbow leaves and roon,—
The shadows rest upon the rocks.
With clouds, like cotton-fields that swoon
Beneath the silver summer moon;
And, quiet as a forest pool,—
Where Autumn sits and combs her locks,
And strews with rainbow leaves and roon,—
The shadows rest upon the rocks.
The sun pours airy amber on
The withered wood-ways, where the late
Green-crickets’ shell-like wings vibrate:
And, fainter than lost lines of dawn,
The fields shine labyrinthed with rays,
With gossamer-webs, that imitate
Cloud-figments, or a splintered haze.
The withered wood-ways, where the late
Green-crickets’ shell-like wings vibrate:
And, fainter than lost lines of dawn,
The fields shine labyrinthed with rays,
With gossamer-webs, that imitate
Cloud-figments, or a splintered haze.
Beyond the yarrow’s meekness now,
Wood-sorrel’s lowliness, and shy
Hepatica’s humility,
The Year is grown: makes brave her brow
With crowning crimson of the lands,
And robes her limbs in cardinal dye,
And by the lonely waters stands.
Wood-sorrel’s lowliness, and shy
Hepatica’s humility,
The Year is grown: makes brave her brow
With crowning crimson of the lands,
And robes her limbs in cardinal dye,
And by the lonely waters stands.
XLI
Pure thought-creations of the mind,
Within the circle of the soul,—
The emanations that control
Life to its God-predestined goal,—
Are spirit shapes no flesh can bind:
Within the soul desire ordains
Achievements which the will constrains;
And far above us, on before,
Our thoughts—a beautiful people—soar,
To wait us on celestial plains.
Within the circle of the soul,—
The emanations that control
Life to its God-predestined goal,—
Are spirit shapes no flesh can bind:
Within the soul desire ordains
Achievements which the will constrains;
And far above us, on before,
Our thoughts—a beautiful people—soar,
To wait us on celestial plains.
So Nature pours her thoughts in forms—
Realities we move among—
Of fragrance, color, and of song;
Sense emanations which belong,
Invisible, to spiritual charms;
The sensuous substance of her thought
From immaterial matter wrought—
Matter, which death can not annul,
That constitutes the Beautiful,
And, dead, repeats itself from naught.
Realities we move among—
Of fragrance, color, and of song;
Sense emanations which belong,
Invisible, to spiritual charms;
The sensuous substance of her thought
From immaterial matter wrought—
Matter, which death can not annul,
That constitutes the Beautiful,
And, dead, repeats itself from naught.
XLII
Give me the streams, that counterfeit
The twilight of autumnal skies;
The silent, shadowy waters, lit
With fire like a woman’s eyes!
Slow waters that, in autumn, glass
The scarlet-strewn and golden grass,
And drink the sunset’s tawny dyes.
The twilight of autumnal skies;
The silent, shadowy waters, lit
With fire like a woman’s eyes!
Slow waters that, in autumn, glass
The scarlet-strewn and golden grass,
And drink the sunset’s tawny dyes.
Give me the pools, that lie among
The centuried forests! give me those,
Deep, dim, and sad as shadows hung
Dark ’neath the sunset’s sombre rose:
Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look—
Like ragged gipsies round a book
Of magic—trees in wild repose.
The centuried forests! give me those,
Deep, dim, and sad as shadows hung
Dark ’neath the sunset’s sombre rose:
Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look—
Like ragged gipsies round a book
Of magic—trees in wild repose.
No quiet thing, or innocent,
Of water, earth, or air shall please
My soul now: but the violent
Between the sunset and the trees:
The fierce, the splendid, and intense,
Like love matures in innocence,
Like mighty music, give me these!
Of water, earth, or air shall please
My soul now: but the violent
Between the sunset and the trees:
The fierce, the splendid, and intense,
Like love matures in innocence,
Like mighty music, give me these!
XLIII
As Nature in herself resolves
All parts of beauty to one whole,
And from the perfect whole evolves
The high ideas that control
Advancement, till the time be ripe
To doff disguise and, type by type,
Reveal the emanated soul:
All parts of beauty to one whole,
And from the perfect whole evolves
The high ideas that control
Advancement, till the time be ripe
To doff disguise and, type by type,
Reveal the emanated soul:
XLIV
I hold them here; they are no less;
I see them still—the changeful grays
Of threatening skies above the haze—
My hills! that roll long, murmuring miles
Of savage-painted wilderness,
On which the saddened sunlight smiles;
Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—
Severe beneath a burning crown—
Through sombre silvers, that oppress
With clouds its glory, rushes down.
I see them still—the changeful grays
Of threatening skies above the haze—
My hills! that roll long, murmuring miles
Of savage-painted wilderness,
On which the saddened sunlight smiles;
Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—
Severe beneath a burning crown—
Through sombre silvers, that oppress
With clouds its glory, rushes down.
I hear the coming storm again;
Again behold the streaming clouds;
The autumn wind drives down and crowds
Wild sibylline voices through the leaves,
To whispering octaves of the rain:
A wilder wind, vibrating, heaves
Vast music through the rolling woods—
Upon my soul the grandeur broods,
Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,
Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
Again behold the streaming clouds;
The autumn wind drives down and crowds
Wild sibylline voices through the leaves,
To whispering octaves of the rain:
A wilder wind, vibrating, heaves
Vast music through the rolling woods—
Upon my soul the grandeur broods,
Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,
Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
XLV
Such circumstance of passionate praise
Hath no religion; and the creeds
No pomp of worship or of grace
Like Nature’s, standing face to face
With God, whose inmost thought she reads:
No multitude of words she needs,
Since all her worship is one word
Of love, like that creation heard.
Hath no religion; and the creeds
No pomp of worship or of grace
Like Nature’s, standing face to face
With God, whose inmost thought she reads:
No multitude of words she needs,
Since all her worship is one word
Of love, like that creation heard.
God leaves progression in her care:
Through her it must materialize—
Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,
Majestic-browed, with hands that bare
Immortal fire from the skies:
Who looks, with no evasive eyes,
Through life, and, smiling, sees beneath
The beautiful, dark eyes of death.
Through her it must materialize—
Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,
Majestic-browed, with hands that bare
Immortal fire from the skies:
Who looks, with no evasive eyes,
Through life, and, smiling, sees beneath
The beautiful, dark eyes of death.
XLVI
Between the sunset and the stars
Long clouds lie—as fierce sachems loom,
In war-paint and the eagle-plume,
Among their wampumed warriors,
When council fires burn red and set
On stoic cheeks the battle-bloom,
That puff the smoking calumet.
Long clouds lie—as fierce sachems loom,
In war-paint and the eagle-plume,
Among their wampumed warriors,
When council fires burn red and set
On stoic cheeks the battle-bloom,
That puff the smoking calumet.
XLVII
I sat alone with song and sleep,
And in the singing silence heard
The darkness draw from forth the deep
With star on star, like word on word:
A sound of twilight and swift shades
Materializing into night,
Who hears the breaking waves of light,
And towards the shores of morning wades.
And in the singing silence heard
The darkness draw from forth the deep
With star on star, like word on word:
A sound of twilight and swift shades
Materializing into night,
Who hears the breaking waves of light,
And towards the shores of morning wades.
XLVIII
The dead gold of the marybud,
The dusky, tarnished orange-red
Of zinnias, flush the flower-bed,
Like frosty autumn gleams that scud
Tempestuous dusks and stormy dawns
Above the wind-dishevelled lawns.
The dusky, tarnished orange-red
Of zinnias, flush the flower-bed,
Like frosty autumn gleams that scud
Tempestuous dusks and stormy dawns
Above the wind-dishevelled lawns.
With tired eyes and heart grown grave,
And thoughts more weary than the night,
I watch the dwindling of the light,
And hear the rising night-winds rave,
As one might hear, when half asleep,
Another self make moan and weep.
And thoughts more weary than the night,
I watch the dwindling of the light,
And hear the rising night-winds rave,
As one might hear, when half asleep,
Another self make moan and weep.
XLIX
Behold, the winds have speech and speak!
The stars of heaven are eloquent!
A voice within us bids us seek
The word the flowers say in scent:
The paraclete encouragement
Of beauty that the burning scrolls
Of eve and morning give our souls.
The stars of heaven are eloquent!
A voice within us bids us seek
The word the flowers say in scent:
The paraclete encouragement
Of beauty that the burning scrolls
Of eve and morning give our souls.
L
When thorn-tree copses still were bare
And black along the turbid brook;
When catkined willows blurred and shook
Great tawny tangles in the air;
In bottomlands, the first thaw makes
An oozy bog, beneath the trees,
Prophetic of the spring that wakes,
Sang the sonorous hylodes.
And black along the turbid brook;
When catkined willows blurred and shook
Great tawny tangles in the air;
In bottomlands, the first thaw makes
An oozy bog, beneath the trees,
Prophetic of the spring that wakes,
Sang the sonorous hylodes.
LI
Night,—who within heaven’s uttermost
Dark walls uncloses shadowy gates,—
Beyond the Spirit of Light she hates,
Speeds like a ghost before a ghost
Upon the twilight-haunted coast
Of death between the seas of sleep:
Her lips are dumb with awe that hears;
And in her eyes, that never weep,
Is anguish of eternal tears.
Dark walls uncloses shadowy gates,—
Beyond the Spirit of Light she hates,
Speeds like a ghost before a ghost
Upon the twilight-haunted coast
Of death between the seas of sleep:
Her lips are dumb with awe that hears;
And in her eyes, that never weep,
Is anguish of eternal tears.
Out of the terrible gulfs of God
Into God’s awful deeps she goes,
Revealing in heaven’s gold and rose
The ways her footsteps tread and trod
From period to period:
Her lips are still—for she hath heard
God’s voice that moves the universe:
Her eyes are sad beyond the word—
The eyes of Vastness gazed in hers.
Into God’s awful deeps she goes,
Revealing in heaven’s gold and rose
The ways her footsteps tread and trod
From period to period:
Her lips are still—for she hath heard
God’s voice that moves the universe:
Her eyes are sad beyond the word—
The eyes of Vastness gazed in hers.
LII
And still my soul holds phantom tryst,
When chestnuts hiss among the coals,
Upon the Evening of All Souls,
When all the night is moon and mist,
And all the world is mystery;
I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed,
And look in eyes no man may see,
Filled with a love long lost to me.
When chestnuts hiss among the coals,
Upon the Evening of All Souls,
When all the night is moon and mist,
And all the world is mystery;
I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed,
And look in eyes no man may see,
Filled with a love long lost to me.
I hear the night-wind’s ghostly glove
Flutter the window: then the knob
Of some dark door turn, with a sob
As when love comes to gaze on love
Who lies pale-coffined in a room:
And then the iron gallop of
The storm, who rides outside, his plume
Sweeping the night with dread and gloom.
Flutter the window: then the knob
Of some dark door turn, with a sob
As when love comes to gaze on love
Who lies pale-coffined in a room:
And then the iron gallop of
The storm, who rides outside, his plume
Sweeping the night with dread and gloom.
So fancy takes my mind, and paints
The darkness with eidolon light,
And writes the deads’ romance in white
On the dim Evening of All Saints:
Unheard the hissing nuts; the clink
Of falling coals, whose shadow faints
Around me where I sit and think,
Borne far beyond the actual’s brink.
The darkness with eidolon light,
And writes the deads’ romance in white
On the dim Evening of All Saints:
Unheard the hissing nuts; the clink
Of falling coals, whose shadow faints
Around me where I sit and think,
Borne far beyond the actual’s brink.
LIII
No thing occult of Heaven or Earth,
Or influence of such, I feel
But hath a meaning and a worth
God, in His wisdom, doth conceal:
Reflections of another birth,
Existent with and kin to ours,
Announcing through supernal powers
Facts of a world it would reveal.
Or influence of such, I feel
But hath a meaning and a worth
God, in His wisdom, doth conceal:
Reflections of another birth,
Existent with and kin to ours,
Announcing through supernal powers
Facts of a world it would reveal.
In Nature I perceive it, too,
This other life I can not see:
A spirit sparkles in the dew,
The trees have tongues that speak to me:
That Earth is green and Heaven, blue,
The sight alone may satisfy;
The soul sees with a different eye
The meaning ’neath the mystery.
This other life I can not see:
A spirit sparkles in the dew,
The trees have tongues that speak to me:
That Earth is green and Heaven, blue,
The sight alone may satisfy;
The soul sees with a different eye
The meaning ’neath the mystery.
LIV
The shadow of uncertain things
And all unearthly whisperings,—
That premonitions death and blight,—
Leans from the sepulchre of night;
And on the Earth fall shadowings;
And prophecies of near decay;
But, lovelier than a dead delight,
The starlit skies of glittering gray.
Still shall the Season claim and keep
Her wild-girl beauty; doubly deep
The purport of her dreams shall rise
Out of her heart into her eyes,
Till very dreaming makes her weep;
And death, with pale, pure lips and arms,
Shall touch her from the frosty skies,
Making a memory of her charms.
And all unearthly whisperings,—
That premonitions death and blight,—
Leans from the sepulchre of night;
And on the Earth fall shadowings;
And prophecies of near decay;
But, lovelier than a dead delight,
The starlit skies of glittering gray.
Still shall the Season claim and keep
Her wild-girl beauty; doubly deep
The purport of her dreams shall rise
Out of her heart into her eyes,
Till very dreaming makes her weep;
And death, with pale, pure lips and arms,
Shall touch her from the frosty skies,
Making a memory of her charms.
LV
Sometime shall Beauty hide no more
The fair conceptions she conceives
Beneath the abstract veil she weaves
Before her face the few adore;
The self-denying few, who long
Live lofty lives of art and song,
And, dying, leave the world less poor.
The fair conceptions she conceives
Beneath the abstract veil she weaves
Before her face the few adore;
The self-denying few, who long
Live lofty lives of art and song,
And, dying, leave the world less poor.
LVI
The ghost of what was loveliness
Sits in the waning woods, with bare
And bleeding feet, and wintry hair,
And brows the thorns of care distress;
She makes a passion of despair
And, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red,
Refuses to be comforted.
Sits in the waning woods, with bare
And bleeding feet, and wintry hair,
And brows the thorns of care distress;
She makes a passion of despair
And, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red,
Refuses to be comforted.
To funeral torches for the Year,
Tree by tall tree, the forests turned;
Then, fiery coals in ashes, burned
A few last leaves among the sear;
Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearned
To die, like some sad queen, and died
Crowned with magnificence and pride.
Tree by tall tree, the forests turned;
Then, fiery coals in ashes, burned
A few last leaves among the sear;
Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearned
To die, like some sad queen, and died
Crowned with magnificence and pride.
LVII
She meets us with impressive hands
And eyes of earnest emphasis
Between the known and unknown lands,
And fills our souls with untold bliss,
This spirit of the solitude
Named Meditation; thought-imbued,
On whom all beauty ministers;
Whose silent, dreaming worshipers
Lay unresisting hands in hers,
Knowing their hearts are understood.
And eyes of earnest emphasis
Between the known and unknown lands,
And fills our souls with untold bliss,
This spirit of the solitude
Named Meditation; thought-imbued,
On whom all beauty ministers;
Whose silent, dreaming worshipers
Lay unresisting hands in hers,
Knowing their hearts are understood.
The holy harp she holds and smites
Was tuned among concordant spheres;
The heavenly pen with which she writes
Was dipped in angel smiles and tears:
Between her eyebrows and her eyes
The starry stamp of silence lies;
Between her symboled lips and tongue,
The song the stars of morning sung:
To this her heavenly harp is strung,
In that her holy pen is wise.
Was tuned among concordant spheres;
The heavenly pen with which she writes
Was dipped in angel smiles and tears:
Between her eyebrows and her eyes
The starry stamp of silence lies;
Between her symboled lips and tongue,
The song the stars of morning sung:
To this her heavenly harp is strung,
In that her holy pen is wise.
LVIII
Again the night is wild with rain;
Again distracted with the gale:
Upon the hills I hear a wail
Of lamentation and of pain,
As when, on some high burial-place,
Moaning among the windy graves,
The Indian squaws lament the braves,
Who fell in battle for their race.
Again distracted with the gale:
Upon the hills I hear a wail
Of lamentation and of pain,
As when, on some high burial-place,
Moaning among the windy graves,
The Indian squaws lament the braves,
Who fell in battle for their race.
LIX
No wind is this which cries forlorn
Around the hilltops and the woods!—
Earth, weary of her multitudes
Of dead, despairing of the morn,
Calls through illimitable night
The wailing words no thing may know;
Deep in her memory-haunted sight
Sleeps no remembrance of delight,
But death and everlasting woe.
Around the hilltops and the woods!—
Earth, weary of her multitudes
Of dead, despairing of the morn,
Calls through illimitable night
The wailing words no thing may know;
Deep in her memory-haunted sight
Sleeps no remembrance of delight,
But death and everlasting woe.
No wind! a voice whose sense is form;
A form whose sense is but a sound;
That smites the constant skies around,
And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:
Adown life’s desolate deep it cries
The words death’s sterile lips must learn
From Law, the Law that never dies—
Such utterless, wild speech as sighs
In stone and cinerary urn.
A form whose sense is but a sound;
That smites the constant skies around,
And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:
Adown life’s desolate deep it cries
The words death’s sterile lips must learn
From Law, the Law that never dies—
Such utterless, wild speech as sighs
In stone and cinerary urn.
LX
I heard the wind, before the morn
Stretched gaunt, gray fingers ’thwart my pane,
Drive clouds down, a dark dragon train;
Its iron visor closed, a horn
Of steel from out the north it wound.—
No morn like yesterday’s! whose mouth,
A cool carnation, from the south
Breathed through a golden reed the sound
Of days that drop clear gold upon
Cerulean silver floors of dawn.
Stretched gaunt, gray fingers ’thwart my pane,
Drive clouds down, a dark dragon train;
Its iron visor closed, a horn
Of steel from out the north it wound.—
No morn like yesterday’s! whose mouth,
A cool carnation, from the south
Breathed through a golden reed the sound
Of days that drop clear gold upon
Cerulean silver floors of dawn.
And all of yesterday is lost
And swallowed in to-day’s wild light—
The birth deformed of day and night,
The illegitimate, who cost
Its mother secret tears and sighs;
Unlovely since unloved; and chilled
With sorrows and the shame that filled
Its parents’ love; which was not wise
In passion as the night and day
That yestermorn made heaven all ray.
And swallowed in to-day’s wild light—
The birth deformed of day and night,
The illegitimate, who cost
Its mother secret tears and sighs;
Unlovely since unloved; and chilled
With sorrows and the shame that filled
Its parents’ love; which was not wise
In passion as the night and day
That yestermorn made heaven all ray.
LXI
We know not of one mood that’s hers,
Or glad or grave, which has not drawn
Its source from God’s deep universe,
As th’ hours draw the day from dawn—
Nature’s! who holds us quietly
But earnestly, as by a spell,
Whose contact with us seems to be
Actual and yet intangible.
Or glad or grave, which has not drawn
Its source from God’s deep universe,
As th’ hours draw the day from dawn—
Nature’s! who holds us quietly
But earnestly, as by a spell,
Whose contact with us seems to be
Actual and yet intangible.
In us she thus asserts her claims
Of kinship and divine control;
God-teacher of exalted aims,
The high consents of heart and soul:
Imperfectly man sees and feels,
Through earthly mediums of his fate,
The premonitions she reveals
For issues that shall elevate.
Of kinship and divine control;
God-teacher of exalted aims,
The high consents of heart and soul:
Imperfectly man sees and feels,
Through earthly mediums of his fate,
The premonitions she reveals
For issues that shall elevate.
LXII
Down through the dark, indignant trees,
On indistinguishable wings
Of storm, the wind of evening swings;
Before its insane anger flees
Distracted leaf and the shattered bough:
There is a rushing, as when seas
Of thunder beat an iron prow
On reefs of wrath and roaring wreck:
’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speck
Of flickering blackness, driven by,
A mad bat whirls along the sky.
On indistinguishable wings
Of storm, the wind of evening swings;
Before its insane anger flees
Distracted leaf and the shattered bough:
There is a rushing, as when seas
Of thunder beat an iron prow
On reefs of wrath and roaring wreck:
’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speck
Of flickering blackness, driven by,
A mad bat whirls along the sky.
Like some sad shadow, in the eve’s
Deep melancholy—visible
As by some strange and twilight spell—
A gaunt girl stands among the leaves,
The night-wind in her dolorous dress:
Symbolic of the life that grieves,
Of toil that patience makes not less,
Her load of faggots fallen there.—
A wilder shadow sweeps the air,
And she is gone: Was it the dumb
Eidolon of the month to come?
Deep melancholy—visible
As by some strange and twilight spell—
A gaunt girl stands among the leaves,
The night-wind in her dolorous dress:
Symbolic of the life that grieves,
Of toil that patience makes not less,
Her load of faggots fallen there.—
A wilder shadow sweeps the air,
And she is gone: Was it the dumb
Eidolon of the month to come?
LXIII
No songs but what are sorrowful
And sweet in pensive notes and words,
Shall fill my heart,—as singing birds
Might build a nest within a skull....
The nun-like days, in stoles of white,
Chant requiems for the dying Year:
The monk-like nights about her bier,
In cowls of black, with lights that blear,
The service for the dead recite.
Into my soul the litanies
Of life and death strike golden bars:
I hear the far, responding stars,—
Uttering themselves within the skies,—
Reverberate from cause to cause
Results that terminate in man;
From world to world, the rounding plan
Of change,—God’s mighty artisan,—
Of which both life and death are laws.
And sweet in pensive notes and words,
Shall fill my heart,—as singing birds
Might build a nest within a skull....
The nun-like days, in stoles of white,
Chant requiems for the dying Year:
The monk-like nights about her bier,
In cowls of black, with lights that blear,
The service for the dead recite.
Into my soul the litanies
Of life and death strike golden bars:
I hear the far, responding stars,—
Uttering themselves within the skies,—
Reverberate from cause to cause
Results that terminate in man;
From world to world, the rounding plan
Of change,—God’s mighty artisan,—
Of which both life and death are laws.
LXIV
No sunlight strews with gold the plain;
No moonlight stains the hill with white;
Clouds, sullen with the undropped rain,
And motionless with unspent spite,
Dome deep with uninvaded gray
The dull, ignoble term of day,
The duller period of night.
No moonlight stains the hill with white;
Clouds, sullen with the undropped rain,
And motionless with unspent spite,
Dome deep with uninvaded gray
The dull, ignoble term of day,
The duller period of night.
LXV
The griefs of Nature, like her joys,
Are placid and yet passionate;
These, in her heart which knows no hate,
She for the beautiful employs....
Behold how thoughts of happiness
Rainbow the tears on sorrow’s face!
Upon, the brow of joy no less
Aureates the light of seriousness!
Each to the other lending grace.
Are placid and yet passionate;
These, in her heart which knows no hate,
She for the beautiful employs....
Behold how thoughts of happiness
Rainbow the tears on sorrow’s face!
Upon, the brow of joy no less
Aureates the light of seriousness!
Each to the other lending grace.
Oh, tenderness of grief that knows
Some happiness still lies before!
That for the rose that blooms no more
Will bloom a no less perfect rose!
Oh, pensiveness of joy that takes
Sweet dignity from grief that died!
Remembering that though morning shakes
Her bright locks from blue eyes and wakes,
Night sleeps on the same mountain side.
Some happiness still lies before!
That for the rose that blooms no more
Will bloom a no less perfect rose!
Oh, pensiveness of joy that takes
Sweet dignity from grief that died!
Remembering that though morning shakes
Her bright locks from blue eyes and wakes,
Night sleeps on the same mountain side.