Song-waves Part 4

A flash in crystal waters cold-- O dream in silver, red, and gold-- The speckled trout above the gravel Lies by the rock where the stream is rolled!

Gra.s.shoppers chirp and crickets chir, The rich-tagged alders nod and pur, The kine bells drowse the distant pasture,-- All nature waits for the coming stir.

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This golden-browed September land Is rich of heart and free of hand; Fresh from the mint of G.o.d, and taintless, Are flung her guineas of gold, like sand.

Here where the road winds round the hill, And down beside the tidal mill, Marsh goldenrod and its plumed sister Their spangled ore in a largess spill.

The Sabbath sabbatize, said He,-- This gold is sacred unto me,-- Rich gift of G.o.d unknown of mammon, Kingdom of Heaven by the roadside, free!

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I keep one picture in my heart, To be of life a cherished part,-- A picture waiting yet its canvas From master hand of divinest art:

A wan blind man and Christ sun-brown, Hand in His hand, are walking down The thronged street into the open Beyond the walls of Bethsaida town.

Light of the world with night in kiss!

Pathetic scene--a scene of bliss!

The rayless eyes are touched to healing!

Was ever picture so sweet as this?

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As turns my heart its crimson leaves, And life's own diary freshly weaves, I see the pages glow intenser, A wondrous story my bosom heaves.

Beneath the careless lines there writ Appear in beauty, clear, sunlit, Mysterious Love's own tender story, How this poor heart to His own was knit.

Mine, mine, while moons the waters move!

Mine, while Heaven lasts, and Love is Love!

Methinks He hid this sweet love favor That I might find it--my treasure-trove.

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Sure in this realm of Sense and Time Pa.s.ses an endless pantomime Of life and thought, whose tone and color A shadow is of a heavenly prime.

The rose unfolds from the unseen; It was not to the senses keen; 'Tis broken to the vision softly, A crown of crowns of the summer's green.

In hushed and breathless Beauty's name, From out the veiled deeps as flame It comes, a thing of sense, of spirit, And pa.s.seth out by the way it came.

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All day an ashen light serene Has brooded o'er this longed-for scene, Its tints and damask flush all hiding, As if obscured by a dusky screen.

Here when a child I used to lie For hours, and watch the clouds go by, See the black shadows climb the mountain Or safely ride o'er the billowy rye.

O Beauty, shy as sylvan run, Demure as some sweet-hooded nun, And wrapt about with grey of gloaming, Unveil thy face to the sinking sun.

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Never before has my ear heard A sweeter music, pa.s.sion stirred, Nor depth and purity so azurn, Of breathing dawn and of morning bird.

She comes, in heyday of her blood, Over the groves and waiting flood!

The air is vital with her presence, And banners wave from the woodbine's bud.

AEolian sylphs touch soft their lutes, Brooks tinkle, tinkle past the roots, As Beauty, hidden in the cover, Fingers the stops of her melting flutes.

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Dimly beheld, thou excellent, Ideal of grace! 'tis ravishment To breathe thy atmosphere, O Beauty, Whene'er thou stirr'st in thy greening tent.

I cannot see thee as thou art, Nor trace thy goings but in part; O dearer thus, like starry music Half heard, that thrills with its string my heart.

If thou shouldst part thy sheeny veil And strike thy fires, my heart would quail Beneath the eye of naked glory, The molten sun, as the moon, be pale.

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Fair as the light on fire-tipt hills, From out her hollow hand she spills The pale and powdery moonbeams, sifting O'er sleeping farms and the winking rills.

The silvered leaves smile in their sleep; Headlands their h.o.a.ry watches keep; The glimmering s.h.i.+ps the moonglade furrow-- The path where beauty fore-walks the deep.

And now the powdery beam is thrown On marguerite and pearl moonstone, On fluffy bird with wing aweary,-- Soft, dreaming child! 'tis her silver blown.

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With lathe of viewless hyaline, She shapes the sh.e.l.l and scale and fin, Dropping unseen her pearls of moonlight, And blushes all as her kith and kin.

Distaff of light is in her hand, From which she spins the lily, and The sendal robes of field and forest, With dewy odors in every strand.

And from her snow-white palette's dyes She paints the peac.o.c.k's hundred eyes, The robin's egg, the apple blossom, And domes the world with her sapphire skies.