Songs, Merry and Sad Part 8

Vision

The wintry sun was pale On hill and hedge; The wind smote with its flail The seeded sedge; High up above the world, New taught to fly, The withered leaves were hurled About the sky; And there, through death and dearth, It went and came,-- The Glory of the earth That hath no name.

I know not what it is; I only know It quivers in the bliss Where roses blow, That on the winter's breath It broods in s.p.a.ce, And o'er the face of death I see its face, And start and stand between Delight and dole, As though mine eyes had seen A living Soul.

And I have followed it, As thou hast done, Where April shadows flit Beneath the sun; In dawn and dusk and star, In joy and fear, Have seen its glory far And felt it near, And dared recall his name Who stood unshod Before a fireless flame, And called it G.o.d.

September

I have not been among the woods, Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods,

The downy thistle-seeds take wing, Nor the squirrel at his garnering.

And yet I know that, up to G.o.d, The mute month holds her goldenrod,

That clump and copse, o'errun with vines, Twinkle with cl.u.s.tered muscadines,

And in deserted churchyard places Dwarf apples smile with sunburnt faces.

I know how, ere her green is shed, The dogwood pranks herself with red;

How the pale dawn, chilled through and through, Comes drenched and draggled with her dew;

How all day long the sunlight seems As if it lit a land of dreams,

Till evening, with her mist and cloud, Begins to weave her royal shroud.

If yet, as in old Homer's land, G.o.ds walk with mortals, hand in hand,

Somewhere to-day, in this sweet weather, Thinkest thou not they walk together?

Barefooted

The girls all like to see the bluets in the lane And the saucy johnny-jump-ups in the meadow, But, we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again, Throwin' a sort of summer-lookin' shadow; For the very first mild mornin' when the woods are white (And we needn't even ask a soul about it) We leave our shoes right where we pulled them off at night, And, barefooted once again, we run and shout it: You may take the country over-- When the bluebird turns a rover, And the wind is soft and hazy, And you feel a little lazy, And the hunters quit the possums-- It's the time for dogwood blossoms.

We feel so light we wish there were more fences here; We'd like to jump and jump them, all together!

No sleds for us, no guns, nor even 'simmon beer, No nothin' but the blossoms and fair weather!

The meadow is a little sticky right at first, But a few short days 'll wipe away that trouble.

To feel so good and gay, I wouldn't mind the worst That could be done by any field o' stubble.

O, all the trees are seemin' sappy!

O, all the folks are smilin' happy!

And there's joy in every little bit of room; But the happiest of them all At the Shanghai rooster's call Are we barefoots when the dogwoods burst abloom!

Pardon Time

Give over now; forbear. The moonlight steeps In silver silence towered castle-keeps And cottage crofts, where apples bend the bough.

Peace guards us round, and many a tired heart sleeps.

Let me brush back the shadow from your brow.

Give over now.

On such a night, how sweet, how sweet is life, Even to the insect piper with his fife!

And must your troubled face still bear the blight Of strength that runs itself to waste in strife?

For love's own heart should throb through all the light Of such a night.

The Rattlesnake

Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait, Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate.

Is 't lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing, To lead stark life where mailed death is king;

Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill, Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill, And life and death fight equal in her will.

The Prisoner

From pacing, pacing without hope or quest He leaned against his window-bars to rest And smelt the breeze that crept up from the west.

It came with sundown noises from the moors, Of milking time and loud-voiced rural ch.o.r.es, Of lumbering wagons and of closing doors.

He caught a whiff of furrowed upland sweet, And certain scents stole up across the street That told him fireflies winked among the wheat.