One Day & Another Part 6

_She speaks, dreamily._

Earth gives its flowers to us And heaven its stars. Indeed, These are as lips that woo us, Those are as lights that lead, With love that doth pursue us, With hope that still doth speed.

Yet shall the flowers lie riven, And lips forget to kiss; The stars fade out of heaven, And lights lead us amiss-- As love for which we've striven; As hope that promises.

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_He laughs, wis.h.i.+ng to dispel her seriousness:_

If love I have had of you, you had of me, Then doubtless our loving were over; One would be less than the other, you see; Since what you returned to your lover Were only his own; and--

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_She interrupts him, speaking impetuously:_

But if I lose you, if you part with me, I will not love you less Loving so much now. If there is to be A parting and distress,-- What will avail to comfort or reprieve The soul that's anguished most?-- The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive, The love that it has lost.

You must acknowledge, under sun and moon All that we feel is old; Let morning flutter from night's brown coc.o.o.n Wide wings of flaxen gold; The moon split through the darkness, soaring o'er, Like some great moth and white, These have been seen a myriad times before And with the same delight.-- So 'tis with love--how old yet new it is!-- This only should we heed,-- To once have known, to once have felt love's bliss, Is to be rich indeed.-- Whether we win or lose, we lose or win, Within our gain or loss Some purpose lies, some end unseen of sin, Beyond our crown or cross.

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_Nearing home, he speaks._

True, true!--Perhaps it would be best To be that star within the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet s.h.i.+ning in your own blue eyes.

Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair.

Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth.

These thing I long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality.

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_At the gate. She speaks._

Sunday shall we ride together?-- Not the root-rough, rambling way Through the wood we went that day, In last summer's sultry weather.

Past the Methodist camp-meeting, Where religion helped the hymn Gather volume; and a slim Minister, with textful greeting

Welcomed us and still expounded.-- From the service on the hill We had gone three hills and still Very near the singing sounded.

Nor that road through weed and berry Drowsy days led me and you To the old-time barbecue, Where the country-side made merry.

Dusty vehicles together; Darkies with the horses near Tied to trees; the atmosphere Redolent of bark and leather.

As we went the homeward journey You exclaimed,--"They intermix Pleasure there with politics.

It reminds me of a tourney."

And the fiddles!--through the thickets, How the wind brought from the hill Remnants of the old quadrille!-- It was like the drone of crickets....

Neither road. The shady quiet Of that path by beech and birch, Winding to the ruined church Near the stream that sparkles by it.

Where the silent Sundays listen For the preacher--Love--we bring In our hearts to preach and sing Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.

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_He, at parting:_

Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.-- When the House of Day uncloses Portals that the stars adorn,-- Whence Light's golden presence throws his Fiery lilies, burning roses On the world,--how good to ride With one's sweetheart at one's side!

So to-morrow we will ride To the wood's cathedral places; Where the prayer-like wildflowers hide, Sweet religion in their faces; Where, in truest, untaught phrases, Wors.h.i.+p in each rhythmic word, G.o.d is praised by many a bird.

Look above you.--Pearly white, Star on star now crystallizes Out of darkness; and the night Hangs them round her like devices Of strange jewels. Vapour rises, Glimmering, from each wood and dell-- Till to-morrow, then, farewell.

PART III

LATE SUMMER

_Heat lightning flickers in one cloud, As in a flow'r a firefly; Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed, Jar through the leaves and dimly lie; Among the trees, now low, now loud, The whispering breezes sigh.

The place is lone; the night is hushed; Upon the path a rose lies crushed._

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_Musing he strolls among the quiet lanes by farm and field._

Now rests the season in forgetfulness, Careless in beauty of maturity; The ripened roses 'round brown temples, she Fulfils completion in a dreamy guess.

Now Time grants night the more and day the less; The gray decides; and brown Dim golds and drabs in dulling green express Themselves and redden as the year goes down.

Sadder the fields where, thrusting h.o.a.ry high Their ta.s.seled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die, And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.-- Deeper to tenderness, Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along The lonesome west; sadder the song Of the wild red-bird in the leaf.a.ge yellow.-- Deeper and dreamier, ay!

Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky Above lone orchards where the cider-press Drips and the russets mellow.

Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leaves The beech-nuts' burs their little pockets thrust, Bulged with the copper of the nuts that rust; Above the gra.s.s the spendthrift spider weaves A web of silver for which Dawn designs Thrice twenty rows of pearls; beneath the oak, That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,-- The polished acorns, from their saucers broke, Strew wildwood agates.--On sonorous pines The far wind organs, but the forest near Is silent; and the blue-white smoke Of burning brush, beyond that field of hay, Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere; But now it shakes--it breaks; and all the vines And tree-tops tremble;--see! the wind is here!

Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling day Rejoices with its clamor. Earth and sky Resound with glory of its majesty, Impetuous splendor of its rus.h.i.+ng by.-- But on those heights the forest yet is still, Expectant of its coming. Far away Each anxious tree upon each waiting hill Tingles antic.i.p.ation, as in gray Surmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play, Like little laughs, about their rippling spines; And now the wildwood, one exultant sway, Shouts--and the light at each tumultuous pause, The light that glooms and s.h.i.+nes, Seems hands in wild applause.

How glows that garden! though the white mists keep The vagabonding flowers reminded of Decay that comes to slay in open love, When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep; Unheeding still, their happy colors leap And laugh encircled of the scythe of death,-- Like lovely children he prepares to reap,-- Staying his blade a breath To mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep, He lays them dead and turns away to weep.-- Let me admire,-- Ere yet the sickle of the coming cold Has mown them down,--their beauties manifold:-- How like to spurts of fire That scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heap Yon s.p.a.ce of sunlight. And, as sparkles creep Through charring parchment, up that window's screen The cypress dots with crimson all its green, The haunt of many bees.

And, showering down cascaded lattices, That nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood, In cl.u.s.ters hanging 'mid the blue monk's-hood.

There in the garden old The bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfold Their formal flowers; and the marigold Lifts its pinched shred of orange sunset caught And elfed in petals. The nasturtium, All pungent leaved and bitter of perfume, Hangs up its goblin bonnet, fairy bought From Gnomeland. There, predominant, red, And arrogant the dahlia lifts its head, Beside the balsam's rosy horns of honey, Within the murmuring, sunny Dry wildness of the weedy flower bed; Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night, Sing dirges for the flowers that soon will die, For flowers already dead.-- I seem to hear the pa.s.sing Summer sigh; A voice, that seems to weep, "Too soon, too soon the Beautiful pa.s.ses by!"-- If I perchance might peep Beneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks, That the bland wind with odorous whispers rocks, I might behold her,--white And weary,--Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep, Her drowsy flowers asleep, The withered poppies knotted in her locks.

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