Myth and Romance Part 10

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friends.h.i.+p, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

_Field and Forest Call_

There is a field, that leans upon two hills, Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills; That in its girdle of wild acres bears The anodyne of rest that cures all cares; Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent And fragrance--as in some old instrument Sweet chords--calm things, that nature's magic spell Distils from heaven's azure crucible, And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.

There lies the path, they say-- Come, away! come, away!

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams, Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams; That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief; Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things, Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings, Dews and cool shadows--that the mystic soul Of nature permeates with suave control, And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole.

There lies the road, they say-- Come, away! come, away!

_Meeting in Summer_

A tranquil bar Of rosy twilight under dusk's first star.

A glimmering sound Of whispering waters over gra.s.sy ground.

A sun-sweet smell Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.

A lazy breeze Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.

A vibrant cry, Pa.s.sing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.

And faintly now The katydid upon the shadowy bough.

And far-off then The little owl within the lonely glen.

And soon, full soon, The silvery arrival of the moon.

And, to your door, The path of roses I have trod before.

And, sweetheart, you!

Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

_Swinging_

Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing.

Her cheeks, with their happy blood, Were pink as the apple-bud.

Her eyes, with their deep delight, Were glad as the stars of night.

Her curls, with their romp and fun, Were hoiden as wind and sun.

Her lips, with their laughter shrill, Were wild as a woodland rill.

Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing.

And I,--who leaned on the fence, Watching her innocence,

As, under the boughs that bent, Now high, now low, she went,

In her soul the ecstasies Of the stars, the brooks, the breeze,--

Had given the rest of my years, With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,

To have been as she was then; And, just for a moment, again

A boy in the old rope-swing Under the boughs of spring.

_Rosemary_

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay; Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway-- Like cavaliers who ride the elves' highway-- Scarlet and blue, within a garden old.

Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town; Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed The purple west as if, with G.o.d imbued, Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.

Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, White as a star that comes to emphasize The mingled beauty of the earth and air.

Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, Gray with its twinkling windows--like the face Of calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease-- Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees, The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering s.p.a.ce.

Ah! whom she waited in the afterglow, Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the lily and rose, I do not know, I do not wish to know;-- It is enough I keep her picture so, Hung up, like poetry, o'er my life's dull prose.

A fragrant picture, where I still may find Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind, Glad spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

_Ghost Stories_

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is still, And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon, Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon; And under the willows, where waters lie, The torch of the firefly wanders by; They say that the miller walks here, walks here, All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff, And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh; The old lame miller hung many a year: When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, He walks alone by the rotting mill.

When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill, And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep, The starlight fails and the shadows sleep; And under the willows, that toss and moan, The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone; They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead, In a weedy s.p.a.ce that the lilies lace, A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face, The miller's young wife with a gash in her head: When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, She floats alone by the rotting mill.