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Title: Willow Pollen
Author: Jeannette Augustus Marks
Release date: September 20, 2016 [eBook #53099]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLOW POLLEN ***
WILLOW POLLEN
WILLOW POLLEN
BY
JEANNETTE MARKS
Boston
The Four Seas Company
1921
Copyright, 1921, by
The Four Seas Company
The Four Seas Press
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
TO
The Memory of
My Mother
JEANNETTE HOLMES COLWELL MARKS
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Many of these poems were first published in Ainslee’s, Bellman, Century, Churchman, Contemporary Verse, Everybody’s, Freeman, Forum, Holland’s Magazine, McClure’s, Metropolitan, Nation, New Republic, North American Review, Outlook, Poetry (Chicago), Poetry Journal, The Bookman, Smart Set and other magazines.
Fleur de Lys
September 27, 1920.
CONTENTS
WILLOW POLLEN
PROEM
Beautiful she was to look upon
And beautiful to know,
And all who knew her loved her.
There was none to whom she was not tender,
Compassionate in her word or her silence;
There was none of whom she did not think well.
And beautiful to know,
And all who knew her loved her.
There was none to whom she was not tender,
Compassionate in her word or her silence;
There was none of whom she did not think well.
In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,
Often have I heard her heart beat,
Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,
And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.
But of her own sorrows she spoke not;
She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;
And her speech was silence,
Murmur of wind,
Mute spaces of sky,—
These were her caresses and her healing,
And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—
Not separate.
Often have I heard her heart beat,
Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,
And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.
But of her own sorrows she spoke not;
She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;
And her speech was silence,
Murmur of wind,
Mute spaces of sky,—
These were her caresses and her healing,
And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—
Not separate.
She is gone.
Remember her if you will!
For me she is still everywhere
And never to be forgotten!
Out of the dawn
The fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;
Through the hot day
The shadow of her presence revolves upon me
As the cool finger on the sun dial;
In the afternoon
Shaken light burns in the memory of her hair;
And at evening
All my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,
Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silence
And I am come back to my Mother
And to sleep.
Remember her if you will!
For me she is still everywhere
And never to be forgotten!
Out of the dawn
The fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;
Through the hot day
The shadow of her presence revolves upon me
As the cool finger on the sun dial;
In the afternoon
Shaken light burns in the memory of her hair;
And at evening
All my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,
Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silence
And I am come back to my Mother
And to sleep.
WILLOW POLLEN
Fleur de Lys on Lake Champlain, June 3, 1920
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms,
At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes;
A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips,
Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves.
In the willow pollen the bees hum;
In the apple bloom the bees hum;
Fluttering up like a begging hand
The ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf,
The thrush its song.
At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes;
A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips,
Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves.
In the willow pollen the bees hum;
In the apple bloom the bees hum;
Fluttering up like a begging hand
The ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf,
The thrush its song.
O beautiful world, what are you?
And who made you?
Are you no more than a fragrant dream,
A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon,
A swaying mirror,
Willow pollen,
A twirling song,
A crumbling leaf?
And who made you?
Are you no more than a fragrant dream,
A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon,
A swaying mirror,
Willow pollen,
A twirling song,
A crumbling leaf?
YOU
I
You are the sunshine,
I am the sod:
Flame to my leaf-mould,
And goldenrod.
I am the sod:
Flame to my leaf-mould,
And goldenrod.
II
You are the shadow,
I am the rock:
Coolness of sheep bells,
Stilling the flock.
I am the rock:
Coolness of sheep bells,
Stilling the flock.
III
You are the starlight,
I am the stream:
Trees dripping lustre
Into our dream.
I am the stream:
Trees dripping lustre
Into our dream.
CROSS ROADS
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,—
All the festivals of spring your name has lain
Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip
In the rain?
All the festivals of spring your name has lain
Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip
In the rain?
I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,—
Every step a song, every song a flight home to you
While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day
And I pray?
Every step a song, every song a flight home to you
While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day
And I pray?
I wonder if the heavens know I love you,—
Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate
Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I
Say goodbye?
Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate
Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I
Say goodbye?
CALENDAR
Of a Little Garden on Lake Champlain
Sometimes the sun, like a big bee
Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,
Dreams over my garden,
So still the dust shines on his burning wings.
And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star
To fill his basket claws with night.
Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,
Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—
And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose
And blood-red columbine,—
It’s July then.
Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,
Scours it with pollen from his back
And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—
Then it’s June.
Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,
Dreams over my garden,
So still the dust shines on his burning wings.
And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star
To fill his basket claws with night.
Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,
Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—
And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose
And blood-red columbine,—
It’s July then.
Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,
Scours it with pollen from his back
And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—
Then it’s June.
At times he scoops the white crest off a wave
Into the basket of his claws—
I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—
Then zi-ig! He’s back again
Spreading some lilies by the sandy path,
White with gold dashed on their lips
Where he clings—the big bee—sucking.
I know he’s there because the bells ring so:
Seven lilies, then five, then four,
I count them on their stems,
An octave’s length of melody,
A little running song of happiness,—
It’s August then.
Into the basket of his claws—
I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—
Then zi-ig! He’s back again
Spreading some lilies by the sandy path,
White with gold dashed on their lips
Where he clings—the big bee—sucking.
I know he’s there because the bells ring so:
Seven lilies, then five, then four,
I count them on their stems,
An octave’s length of melody,
A little running song of happiness,—
It’s August then.
But now he’s quiet.
Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,
And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters
Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.
For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold
With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.
Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,
Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—
It is September then,—October, too.
Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,
And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters
Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.
For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold
With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.
Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,
Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—
It is September then,—October, too.
The bee, the big bee, the burning bee
Begins and ends in gold.
In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,
He climbs the sky with fagots on his back
To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;
And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,
Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—
It’s May then, and April, too.
Begins and ends in gold.
In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,
He climbs the sky with fagots on his back
To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;
And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,
Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—
It’s May then, and April, too.
Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.
Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.
What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes
Or a saffron butterfly
Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk!
Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.
What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes
Or a saffron butterfly
Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk!
I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly
About my little garden’s pool,
But not for long.
He has his mysteries.
His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.
Who would not like the change?...
I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
I know!
About my little garden’s pool,
But not for long.
He has his mysteries.
His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.
Who would not like the change?...
I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
I know!
WILD GRAPE VINE
I will be like a wild grape vine,
I will climb the sun gathering color;
Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,
Cupped in brown-gold,
Dusted with silver.
I will cling with my dry stem
Until my stem is strong as brown cedar.
Then will I swing from tree to tree,
Twisting, turning, blowing,
Binding all trees with my tendrils,
Embracing them, leaping with them,
Woven in and out of them,
One!
I will climb the sun gathering color;
Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,
Cupped in brown-gold,
Dusted with silver.
I will cling with my dry stem
Until my stem is strong as brown cedar.
Then will I swing from tree to tree,
Twisting, turning, blowing,
Binding all trees with my tendrils,
Embracing them, leaping with them,
Woven in and out of them,
One!
And the wild bee shall love me,
And the wild bee shall follow me
With song!
And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk
And sweet odor at dawn.
And then!—And then
Among all beloved trees which can resist me!
They will yield themselves to me
And I shall swing over the whole world,—
Every forest of earth,
Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,
Every wilderness,—
Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,
Beating upon the stars with my gold,
Kissing the dawn with my silver,
Resting in my brown upon earth,
My roots in her, my fruit her being!
And the wild bee shall follow me
With song!
And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk
And sweet odor at dawn.
And then!—And then
Among all beloved trees which can resist me!
They will yield themselves to me
And I shall swing over the whole world,—
Every forest of earth,
Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,
Every wilderness,—
Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,
Beating upon the stars with my gold,
Kissing the dawn with my silver,
Resting in my brown upon earth,
My roots in her, my fruit her being!
Wind, Wind,
Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,—
The wild bee clinging!
Wind, Wind,
Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,—
The wild bee following!
Wind, Wind,
Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,—
The wild bee singing!
Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,—
The wild bee clinging!
Wind, Wind,
Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,—
The wild bee following!
Wind, Wind,
Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,—
The wild bee singing!
TO SOME FLOWERS
Growing Near a Wall of Portland Harbor
What will you bring today?
Nod once if it be grave,
Nod thrice if it be gay!
Nod once if it be grave,
Nod thrice if it be gay!
Primrose with eyes for night,
Sweet-peas with wings for flight,
Poppies with cups for dew,
Love in the midst of rue:
Which nods to me?
Sweet-peas with wings for flight,
Poppies with cups for dew,
Love in the midst of rue:
Which nods to me?
No, you turn your faces all one way
Against the wall,
Because a wind from off the sea
Draws its chill fingers down your cups
And bids your petals fall.
Against the wall,
Because a wind from off the sea
Draws its chill fingers down your cups
And bids your petals fall.
You do not nod,
You beckon neither once nor thrice
To me, but to the earth
There slips a cover manifold
Of every hue.
You beckon neither once nor thrice
To me, but to the earth
There slips a cover manifold
Of every hue.
And from the wall beside the sea
Curl mist and myriad broken wings.
Curl mist and myriad broken wings.
Such gift you give to me!
STARS
I
When joys were vivid I did sit
Within a golden field,
And there I pulled the whitest stars
Green earth can yield.
Within a golden field,
And there I pulled the whitest stars
Green earth can yield.
II
For Bethlehem those stars were named,
The Lord Christ sat with me;
And I was little and I leaned
Upon His knee.
The Lord Christ sat with me;
And I was little and I leaned
Upon His knee.
III
Now I am old and joys are gone,
Christ in this room I find
Who brings from distant Bethlehem
Stars for His blind.
Christ in this room I find
Who brings from distant Bethlehem
Stars for His blind.
GREEN GOLDEN DOOR
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
Fanning the life a man must live,
Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,
Love and hope that he calleth his,
Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin
Casting them forth and sucking them in,
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Fanning the life a man must live,
Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,
Love and hope that he calleth his,
Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin
Casting them forth and sucking them in,
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
Show me the youth that will not die,
Tell me the dream that has not waked,
Seek me the heart that never ached,
Speak me the truth men will not doubt!
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Show me the youth that will not die,
Tell me the dream that has not waked,
Seek me the heart that never ached,
Speak me the truth men will not doubt!
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing out!
Long is the wailing of man’s breath,
Short is the wail of death.
Long is the wailing of man’s breath,
Short is the wail of death.
BREAD
I
Dear and Unknown,
So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,
Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,
Clipping their stems,
Spreading them out in the bowl
Till the green leaves net the white water with silver,
Glisten with light,
Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,
With the breath of their draught of cool water,
With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,
Safe in the shadow of night,
Tasting the gift of new life.
So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,
Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,
Clipping their stems,
Spreading them out in the bowl
Till the green leaves net the white water with silver,
Glisten with light,
Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,
With the breath of their draught of cool water,
With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,
Safe in the shadow of night,
Tasting the gift of new life.
II
Once beauty was bread unto me.
But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.
God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.
Did God give me love?
What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?
What leaf?
In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?
Oh, now, what are roses to me,
Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?
Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?
What petals blow on this journey I go?
But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.
God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.
Did God give me love?
What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?
What leaf?
In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?
Oh, now, what are roses to me,
Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?
Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?
What petals blow on this journey I go?
III
Dear, my Unknown,
Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,
Once bread unto me;
Rain them on pulses that beat,
Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;
Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;
Feed them, I pray you,—
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—
To men who still hunger for bread!
Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,
Once bread unto me;
Rain them on pulses that beat,
Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;
Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;
Feed them, I pray you,—
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—
To men who still hunger for bread!
OBSCURITY
I
Someday I shall be a leaf
A shining green leaf, fan-folded,
One of many opening in a sunlit wind;
Or I shall be a bit of bark,
Say on the Poverty Birch—
Since I am obscure and poor and short of life
And my work of no account to commerce—,
And I shall flutter there in the wind,
My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin
And cross-hatched with lines of color;
Or—but I do not know what I shall be
And it does not matter.
God has made so much that alters beautiful:
The jigging shadows of trees
Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change;
The wind that tramps eternity;
The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;
Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam
And tosses into space the spinning stars.
A shining green leaf, fan-folded,
One of many opening in a sunlit wind;
Or I shall be a bit of bark,
Say on the Poverty Birch—
Since I am obscure and poor and short of life
And my work of no account to commerce—,
And I shall flutter there in the wind,
My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin
And cross-hatched with lines of color;
Or—but I do not know what I shall be
And it does not matter.
God has made so much that alters beautiful:
The jigging shadows of trees
Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change;
The wind that tramps eternity;
The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;
Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam
And tosses into space the spinning stars.