Songs, Merry and Sad Part 6

A Caged Mocking-Bird

I pa.s.s a cobbler's shop along the street And pause a moment at the door-step, where, In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet, The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near, Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year, And twitter where the autumn hedges run, Join all the months of music into one.

I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there, And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell; Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhere A bluebird's tweedle pa.s.ses o'er the fell; From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell; And when the oriole sets his full heart free Barefooted boyhood comes again to me.

The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail Before a dusty window, looking dim On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale; The sad-eyed pa.s.sers have no time for him.

His captor sits, with beaded face and grim, Plying a listless awl, as in a dream Of pastures winding by a shady stream.

Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?

For now, when every songster finds his love And makes his nest where woods are deep and green, Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.

If I were thou, my grief in moans should move At thinking--otherwhere, by others' art Charmed and forgetful--of mine own sweetheart.

But I, who weep when fortune seems unkind To prison me within a s.p.a.ce of walls, When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrined And every love is cruel when it calls; Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged waterfalls,-- I blush to offer sorrow unto thee, Master of fate, scorner of destiny!

Dawn

The hills again reach skyward with a smile.

Again, with waking life along its way, The landscape marches westward mile on mile And time throbs white into another day.

Though eager life must wait on livelihood, And all our hopes be tethered to the mart, Lacking the eagle's wild, high freedom, would That ours might be this day the eagle's heart!

Harvest

Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold; Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold; A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere; The twitter of killdees keen in the air; The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam On the last load home.

There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.

The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh, And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam On the last load home.

Two Pictures

One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, A halo, like an angel's, on her hair.

She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm.

A holy presence hovers round her there, And she, for all her mother-pains more fair, Is happy, seeing that all sweet thoughts that stir The hearts of men bear wors.h.i.+p unto her.

Another wanders where the cold wind blows, Wet-haired, with eyes that sting one like a knife.

Homeless forever, at her bosom close She holds the purchase of her love and life, Of motherhood, unglorified as wife; And bitterer than the world's relentless scorn The knowing her child were happier never born.

Whence are the halo and the fiery shame That fas.h.i.+on thus a crown and curse of love?

Have roted words such power to bless and blame?

Ay, men have stained a raven from many a dove, And all the grace and all the grief hereof Are the two words which bore one's lips apart And which the other h.o.a.rded in her heart.

He who stooped down and wrote upon the sand, The G.o.d-heart in him touched to tenderness, Saw deep, saw what we cannot understand,-- We, who draw near the shrine of one to bless The while we scourge another's sore distress, And judge like G.o.ds between the ill and good, The glory and the guilt of womanhood.

October

The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes, O, month of memories!

Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of, Old joy, dead hope, dear love,

I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet To cast down at thy feet The garnered largess of the fruitful year, And on thy cheek a tear.

Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf To blind the eyes of grief; Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit That sorrow may be mute;

A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep, Ere the gray dusk may creep Sober and sad along thy dusty ways, Like a lone nun, who prays;

High and faint-heard thy pa.s.sing migrant calls; Thy lazy lizard sprawls On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep About thy hedge, asleep;

The sun swings farther toward his love, the south, To kiss her glowing mouth; And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers, Is deeply hid in flowers.

Would that thy streams were Lethe, and might flow Where lotus blossoms blow, And all the sweets wherewith thy riches bless Might hold no bitterness!

Would, in thy beauty, we might all forget Dead days and old regret, And through thy realm might fare us forth to roam, Having no thought for home!

And yet I feel, beneath thy queen's attire, Woven of blood and fire, Beneath the golden glory of thy charm Thy mother heart beats warm,

And if, mayhap, a wandering child of thee, Weary of land and sea, Should turn him homeward from his dreamer's quest To sob upon thy breast,

Thine arm would fold him tenderly, to prove How thine eyes brimmed with love, And thy dear hand, with all a mother's care, Would rest upon his hair.

The Old Clock

All day low clouds and slanting rain Have swept the woods and dimmed the plain.