Acanthus and Wild Grape Part 4

BIRDS

I lie beneath a dark green pine Where sunbeams scarcely ever s.h.i.+ne, And if I'm still as still can be Shy forest birds come down to me.

Brown thrushes run along the ground, Goldfinches flit without a sound, And humming-birds with ruby throats Alight to smooth their emerald coats.

And when some day alone I lie Beneath the ever-changing sky, I'm glad to know the birds will come To welcome me to my new home.

For I will lie so still that they Will linger by me all the day, And lulled at evening by their song I shall not find the darkness long.

THE BLUEBIRD'S WING

One day I saw the bluebird's wing Agleam upon a waving sea Of emerald-coloured timothy.

We walked together--you and I-- We saw the bluebird gliding by; He came so near--the mad, wild thing-- We almost touched his sapphire wing, But ere across our path he flew He rose and vanished in the blue.

To-day I saw the bluebird's wing; I heard wood-thrushes round me sing; Wind-blown across the April sky, Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by; And on the sky-line's silver sheen White birches danced in frills of green, And all the world was mad with spring.

But you were miles and miles away; The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.

THE ANSWER

Why do I lie upon the ground And listen to the silver sound Of water flowing from a spring?

It sings a song I cannot sing.

Why am I gazing at the sky To watch the clouds go trailing by?

--Pearl s.h.i.+ps upon a sapphire sea-- They seek a land unknown to me.

Why do I listen to the song Of pine-boughs singing all day long?

The secret that their songs unfold Ten thousand bards have left untold.

WILD GRAPE

WILD GRAPE

Beneath the crawling shadow Of a crumbling temple to G.o.ds long-forgotten, The wild grape twines amid the fragments Of shattered pillars p.r.o.ne upon the ground, And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures Of faun and youth and maiden, That once stood in the temple pediment, Young, naked, beautiful.

In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus leaves of the crumbling columns, And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.

The wild bees hum and buzz Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume, Under the drowsy noonday sun, That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the thirsting hillside.

Wanton and wild, Like an unhappy lover Clinging to the breast of his dead mistress, The vine clings in voluptuous embrace About the naked, pallid forms, And mingles there with the eternal beauty Of youth and age And life and death.

TO A GREEK STATUE

Beautiful statue of Parian marble, Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight, Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon; I follow, I follow.

Slender and white is your beautiful body, Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you; Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleeping Is the dream you emprison;--

A dream of beauty that lingers forever, A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight, A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters, Reflecting white temples.

Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow, My dream goes forth with your dream to wander; You lead me into a moonlit garden Beside the aegean.

White in the moonlight gleams the temple Cutting the purple sky with its pediment; Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain; Black are the cypress trees.

The G.o.ds are asleep in the silent temple; Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating With the bells of the fountain.

Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool gra.s.ses, Not in vain are your white arms lifted; And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal Embrace in the moonlight.

OMNIPRESENCE

What are the great pine boughs That stretch over me so lovingly s.h.i.+elding me from the heat?

They are the sheltering arms of G.o.d, Visible Against white drifting clouds.

And the trailing white clouds,-- What are they?

They are the tattered, worn-out clothes, Bordered with broken pearls, Cast off by the angels and archangels, And by G.o.d himself.

MY CATHEDRAL

All my life long I have loved cathedrals; Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches Are the home of peace and beauty, And sometimes, too, of hope.

Their roofs of stone and walls of painted gla.s.s Shut out the noisy world, And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.

Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts; Their blue welling clouds of incense Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers, And their gleaming candles Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.

And now I have a cathedral all my own.

It has great pine trunks for pillars, For painted windows red and golden leaves; White slender birches are the singing-boys, And the great organ the winds of G.o.d Playing among the pine-boughs.

The prim little spruces are virgin nuns, Telling their beads in drops of dew; And the bare broken tree-stumps Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms, But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.

The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me; The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell; From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense; And from the great high altar of eternal rock, G.o.d himself looks forth In the red glory of the dawn.

THE FOUNDRY