Later Poems Part 6

Now the lonely winds of autumn Moan about my gusty eaves, As I sit beside the fire Listening to the flying leaves.

As the dying embers settle And the twilight falls apace, Through the gloom I see a vision Full of ardor, full of grace.

When the Architect of Beauty Breathed the lyric soul in man, Lo, the being that he fas.h.i.+oned Was of such a mould and plan!

Bravely through the deepening shadows Moves that figure half divine, With its tenderness of bearing, With its dignity of line.

Eyes more wonderful than evening With the new moon on the hill, Mouth with traces of G.o.d's humor In its corners lurking still.

Ah, she smiles, in recollection; Lays a hand upon my brow; Rests this head upon Love's bosom!

Surely it is April now!

A Water Color

There's a picture in my room Lightens many an hour of gloom,--

Cheers me under fortune's frown And the drudgery of town.

Many and many a winter day When my soul sees all things gray,

Here is veritable June, Heart's content and spirit's boon.

It is scarce a hand-breadth wide, Not a span from side to side,

Yet it is an open door Looking back to joy once more,

Where the level marshes lie, A quiet journey of the eye,

And the unsubstantial blue Makes the fine illusion true.

So I forth and travel there In the blessed light and air,

Miles of green tranquillity Down the river to the sea.

Here the sea-birds roam at will, And the sea-wind on the hill

Brings the hollow pebbly roar From the dim and rosy sh.o.r.e,

With the very scent and draft Of the old sea's mighty craft.

I am standing on the dunes, By some charm that must be June's,

When the magic of her hand Lays a sea-spell on the land.

And the old enchantment falls On the blue-gray orchard walls

And the purple high-top boles, While the orange orioles

Flame and whistle through the green Of that paradisal scene.

Strolling idly for an hour Where the elder is in flower,

I can hear the bob-white call Down beyond the pasture wall.

Musing in the scented heat, Where the bayberry is sweet,

I can see the shadows run Up the cliff-side in the sun.

Or I cross the bridge and reach The mossers' houses on the beach,

Where the bathers on the sand Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.

Thus I pa.s.s the gates of time And the boundaries of clime,

Change the ugly man-made street For G.o.d's country green and sweet.

f.a.g of body, irk of mind, In a moment left behind,

Once more I possess my soul With the poise and self-control

Beauty gives the free of heart Through the sorcery of art.

Threnody for a Poet

Not in the ancient abbey, Nor in the city ground, Not in the lonely mountains, Nor in the blue profound, Lay him to rest when his time is come And the smiling mortal lips are dumb;

But here in the decent quiet Under the whispering pines, Where the dogwood breaks in blossom And the peaceful sunlight s.h.i.+nes, Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold, When spring comes back in her green and gold.

And when that mortal likeness Has been dissolved by fire, Say not above the ashes, "Here ends a man's desire."

For every year when the bluebirds sing, He shall be part of the lyric spring.

Then dreamful-hearted lovers Shall hear in wind and rain The cadence of his music, The rhythm of his refrain, For he was a blade of the April sod That bowed and blew with the whisper of G.o.d.

Dust of the Street

This cosmic dust beneath our feet Rising to hurry down the street,

Borne by the wind and blown astray In its erratic, senseless way,