The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 4

May is building her house. Of petal and blade, Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made, With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, traveling green things strayed.

Her windows, the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing, The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea: out of winter's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's.

Here is the Place where Loveliness keeps House. [Madison Cawein]

Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house, Between the river and the wooded hills, Within a valley where the Springtime spills Her firstling wind-flowers under blossoming boughs: Where Summer sits braiding her warm, white brows With bramble-roses; and where Autumn fills Her lap with asters; and old Winter frills With crimson haw and hip his snowy blouse.

Here you may meet with Beauty. Here she sits Gazing upon the moon, or all the day Tuning a wood-thrush flute, remote, unseen: Or when the storm is out, 't is she who flits From rock to rock, a form of flying spray, Shouting, beneath the leaves' tumultuous green.

Water Fantasy. [Fannie Stearns Davis]

O brown brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to me If I take off my heavy shoon and wade you childishly?

O take them off, and come to me.

You shall not fall. Step merrily!

But, cool brook, but, quick brook, and what if I should float White-bodied in your pleasant pool, your bubbles at my throat?

If you are but a mortal maid, Then I shall make you half afraid.

The water shall be dim and deep, And silver fish shall lunge and leap About you, coward mortal thing.

But if you come desiring To win once more your naiadhood, How you shall laugh and find me good -- My golden surfaces, my glooms, My secret grottoes' dripping rooms, My depths of warm wet emerald, My mosses floating fold on fold!

And where I take the rocky leap Like wild white water shall you sweep; Like wild white water shall you cry, Trembling and turning to the sky, While all the thousand-fringed trees Glimmer and glisten through the breeze.

I bid you come! Too long, too long, You have forgot my undersong.

And this perchance you never knew: E'en I, the brook, have need of you.

My naiads faded long ago, -- My little nymphs, that to and fro Within my waters sunnily Made small white flames of tinkling glee.

I have been lonesome, lonesome; yea, E'en I, the brook, until this day.

Cast off your shoon; ah, come to me, And I will love you lingeringly!

O wild brook, O wise brook, I cannot come, alas!

I am but mortal as the leaves that flicker, float, and pa.s.s.

My body is not used to you; my breath is fluttering sore; You clasp me round too icily. Ah, let me go once more!

Would G.o.d I were a naiad-thing whereon Pan's music blew; But woe is me! you pagan brook, I cannot stay with you!

Bacchus. [Frank Dempster Sherman]

Listen to the tawny thief, Hid beneath the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast Fill his cup with wine distilled From the dew the dawn has spilled: Stored away in golden casks Is the precious draught he asks.

Who, -- who makes this mimic din In this mimic meadow inn, Sings in such a drowsy note, Wears a golden-belted coat; Loiters in the dainty room Of this tavern of perfume; Dares to linger at the cup Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus 't is, come back again To the busy haunts of men; Garlanded and gaily dressed, Bands of gold about his breast; Straying from his paradise, Having pinions angel-wise, -- 'T is the honey-bee, who goes Reveling within a rose!

Da Leetla Boy. [Thomas Augustine Daly]

Da spreeng ees com'! but oh, da joy Eet ees too late!

He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.

I no can count how manny week, How manny day, dat he ees seeck; How manny night I seet an' hold Da leetla hand dat was so cold.

He was so patience, oh, so sweet!

Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; An' all he evra ask ees w'en Ees gona com' da spreeng agen.

Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere Ees raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla pot Of -- w'at-you-call? -- forgat-me-not.

So smalla flower, so leetla theeng!

But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng: "Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng!

Da leetla plant ees glad for know Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow.

So, too, I am grow warm and strong."

So lika dat he seeng hees song.

But, Ah! da night com' down an' den Da weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da night Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla pot Of -- w'at-you-call? -- forgat-me-not.

All night da leetla hand I hold Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joy Eet ees too late!

He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.

Agamede's Song. [Arthur Upson]

Grow, grow, thou little tree, His body at the roots of thee; Since last year's loveliness in death The living beauty nourisheth.

Bloom, bloom, thou little tree, Thy roots around the heart of me; Thou canst not blow too white and fair From all the sweetness hidden there.

Die, die, thou little tree, And be as all sweet things must be; Deep where thy petals drift I, too, Would rest the changing seasons through.