Songs Ysame Part 6

And here and there a crocus smiles A friendly greeting, or a spray Of blooming lilacs, fresh and sweet, Leans down and nods across her way.

Till, rea.s.sured, she smiles and sings, And on she pa.s.ses, glad and fleet, And little children at their play Look up to catch her glances sweet.

Is it her robe's soft fluttering That gently fans the pa.s.ser by?

He only feels the freshened air, Nor knows the gracious presence nigh.

But some sweet influence he feels, That charms care's gloomy shade away, And pours into his wakened heart The golden gladness of the May.

So, like an angel visitant, She glides among the haunts of men, And faint hearts bound, and sad eyes smile, Because the Spring has come again.

Spring's Cophetua.

SHE came with garments scant and poor and thin, And white feet gleaming bare; With pallid smiles where April tears had been, And snowflakes on her hair.

Oh, never--Winter thought--such gentle look In all the land was seen!

From his gray locks the diadem he took And crowned her as his queen.

And now, in silken robes and gems arrayed, Fair Spring reigns in his stead.

Upon his throne she sits, the beggar maid-- "Cophetua" is dead.

Winter Beauty.

WHEN I go through the meadows brown, Where stand the tall weeds, sere and dead, Think you I find no beauty there, Since Summer through the fields has fled?

The edges of the frozen stream, Whose quiet waters late were crossed By shadows of the bending fern, Are fair with fringes of the frost.

Wherever cowslips crowded thick, Or banks of b.u.t.tercups would be, A host of airy forms in white, Like ghosts of flowers returned, I see.

It may be cl.u.s.tered flakes of snow, Or frozen dew still glistening there, But still it seems as if there came A rare, strange odor through the air.

October.

ACROSS the stubble fields the lazy breezes pa.s.s, From Autumn orchards sloping southward in the sun, Where dropping from the low-hung branches, one by one, The apples hide in tangles of the wind-blown gra.s.s.

A warm, sweet scent of mellow fruit fills all the air, And faintly over hills and hollows comes the cry Of some shrill bluejay, and his mate's far-off reply.

Like Ruth, the winds will go a-gleaning, by and by, And garner in the leaves till all the woods are bare.

But now my boyhood's love has come again to me, October--in her royal red and gold arrayed!

She comes with glowing cheeks, my dusky Indian maid, And all the world seems bright because so bright is she.

Unto her lips the wild grapes hold their spicy wine.

Persimmons, sweet and golden with an early frost, Drop at her feet; and where the narrow creek has crossed The woods, and in the ferns and flag its way has lost, Blood-red the corals of the dog-wood berries s.h.i.+ne.

And thus she comes, my Love I loved when I was young!

We wander for a little while across the hills, And, as of old, her sunny presence warms and fills My heart. But like a lute with one string left unstrung, When I would sing again the song of other years, Something is lost. The harmony is incomplete.

And though the same old melody I still repeat, One alto note of joy is gone that made it sweet, And something trembles in the Autumn haze like tears.

At Twilight.

A TINY bird flits through the twilight brown, When sunset dreams make all the garden fair, Whose soft notes fall into the quiet air Like olive leaves on waters smooth dropped down.

Emblems of rest, when floods of care do cease, Into my heart, as well, they fall and float, An olive leaf each faint and dreamy note-- I recognize their sign, and feel at peace.

The Prophet.

DARKNESS and silence, such as only fall At midnight, wrap the sleeping hamlets all; No life in all the dim world seems to be.

Then suddenly, Across the hills, far off and faint, I hear Sound through the dark, as through a dream, the call (How strange it seems!) of some bold chanticleer.

(Half in my sleep I hear that clarion ring, With distant calls, like echoes, answering; And, as at war's alarum, soldiers leap From guarded sleep And seize their arms, and hasten from their tents, So, at this sound, my drowsy senses spring, Alert to man the mind's dark battlements.)

To tell night's mid-hour tolls no startled bell; Only thy voice is heard, brave sentinel, Who, like the ancient watchman on the towers, Calls forth the hours, And to the wistful questioners, who see No gleam through pain's long vigil, dost foretell "The morning cometh," oft and cheerily.

How canst thou know when, weary with his race, The Day turns back, his pathway to retrace?

Canst thou the maiden Dawn's light footsteps hear, Approaching near?

Or dost thou stand in converse with the skies, And know what time she leaves her hiding-place By joyful flashes of their starry eyes?

Thou art a prophet, like to those of old, Who in the darkness sat, but firm and bold Looked with undaunted eyes towards the dim Horizon's rim, And thrilled with faith of waiting ages born, That soon from out the Night's strong prisonhold, Should burst the golden glory of the Morn.

The Potter's Field.

JUST outside of the noisy town, Half through thicket and wood revealed, Hemmed about by a wall of stone, Wide it lieth, the Potter's Field.

Brambles wander across the gra.s.s, Vines creep over the broken wall, Bindweeds blossom, and here and there Stands a waif of the forest tall.

There no columns of gleaming white Mark the dust that is sacred still; Swings the gate on its rusty hinge-- All may enter and roam at will.

Who should hinder the ruthless hand, Who protect from a vagrant's tread?

Guard the urns of the rich and great-- No one cares for the pauper dead!