Dreams and Days: Poems Part 6

A RUNE OF THE RAIN

O many-toned rain!

O myriad sweet voices of the rain!

How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the moist and glowing west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.

At first it would allure The earth to kinder mood, With dainty flattering Of soft, sweet pattering: Faintly now you hear the tramp Of the fine drops, falling damp On the dry, sun-seasoned ground And the thirsty leaves, resound.

But anon, imbued With a sudden, bounding access Of pa.s.sion, it relaxes All timider persuasion.

And, with nor pretext nor occasion, Its wooing redoubles; And pounds the ground, and bubbles In sputtering spray, Flinging itself in a fury Of flas.h.i.+ng white away; Till the dusty road, Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; And the gra.s.s, and the wide-hung trees, The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- The virid corn that to the breeze Rustles along the garden-rows,-- Visibly lift their heads, And, as the quick shower wilder grows, Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.

Then, the slow and pleasant murmur Of its subsiding, As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, And the steady rain Drops into a cadenced chiding!

Deep-breathing rain, The sad and ghostly noise Wherewith thou dost complain--- Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, Heard thus at close of day Through vaults of twilight gray-- Vexes me with sweet pain; And still my soul is fain To know the secret of that yearning Which in thine utterance I hear returning.

Hush, oh hus.h.!.+

Break not the dreamy rush Of the rain: Touch not the marring doubt Words bring to the certainty Of its soft refrain; But let the flying fringes flout Their drops against the pane, And the gurgling throat of the water-spout Groan in the eaves amain.

The earth is wedded to the shower; Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour!

II

O many-toned rain!

It hath caught the strain Of a wilder tune, Ere the same night's noon, When dreams and sleep forsake me, And sudden dread doth wake me, To hear the booming drums of heaven beat The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, With an echoing loud, Bursts asunder At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; And the fountains of the air, Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere, To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet.

III

O myriad sweet voices of the rain!

When the airy war doth wane, And the storm to the east hath flown, Cloaked close in the whirling wind, There's a voice still left behind In each heavy-hearted tree, Charged with tearful memory Of the vanished rain: From their leafy lashes wet Drip the dews of fresh regret For the lover that's gone!

All else is still; Yet the stars are listening, And low o'er the wooded hill Hangs, upon listless wing Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, Watching, like a bird of evil That knows nor mercy nor reprieval, The slow and silent death of the pallid moon.

IV

But soon, returning duly, Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely.

To her vision pure and cold The night's wild tale is told On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, The garden mold turned dark and cool, And the meadows' trampled acres.

But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers!

For now the moanings bitter, Left by the rain, make harmony With the swallow's matin-twitter, And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree.

The infant morning breathes sweet breath, And with it is blent The wistful, wild, moist scent Of the gra.s.s in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: And behold!

The last reluctant drop of the storm, Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm And turned to gold; For in its veins doth run The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun!

BREAKERS

Far out at sea there has been a storm, And still, as they roll their liquid acres, High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.

The air is laden, moist, and warm With the dying tempest's breath; And, as I walk the lonely strand With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers, Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling, Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling-- Watch, and muse, and vainly listen To the inarticulate mumbling Of the h.o.a.ry-headed deep; For who may tell me what it saith, Muttering, moaning as in sleep?

Slowly and heavily Comes in the sea, With memories of storm o'erfreighted, With heaving heart and breath abated, Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow, And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow.

Slowly and heavily Grows the green water-mound; But drawing ever nigher, Towering ever higher, Swollen with an inward rage Naught but ruin can a.s.suage, Swift, now, without sound, Creeps stealthily Up to the sh.o.r.e-- Creeps, creeps and undulates; As one dissimulates Till, swayed by hateful frenzy, Through pa.s.sion grown immense, he Bursts forth hostilely; And rising, a smooth billow-- Its swelling, sunlit dome Thinned to a tumid ledge With keen, curved edge Like the scornful curl Of lips that snarl-- O'ertops itself and breaks Into a raving foam; So springs upon the sh.o.r.e With a hungry roar; Its first fierce anger slakes On the stony shallow; And runs up on the land, Licking the smooth, hard sand, Relentless, cold, yet wroth; And dies in savage froth.

Then with its backward swirl The sands and the stones, how they whirl!

O, fiercely doth it draw Them to its chasm'd maw, And against it in vain They linger and strain; And as they slip away Into the seething gray Fill all the thunderous air With the horror of their despair, And their wild terror wreak In one hoa.r.s.e, wailing shriek.

But scarce is this done, When another one Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun, And sucks away the sh.o.r.e As that did before: And another shall smother it o'er.

Then there's a lull--a half-hush; And forward the little waves rush, Toppling and hurrying, Each other worrying, And in their haste Run to waste.

Yet again is heard the trample Of the surges high and ample: Their dreadful meeting-- The wild and sudden breaking-- The dinting, and battering, and beating, And swift forsaking.

And ever they burst and boom, A numberless host; Like heralds of doom To the trembling coast; And ever the tangled spray Is tossed from the fierce affray, And, as with spectral arms That taunt and beckon and mock, And scatter vague alarms, Clasps and unclasps the rock; Listlessly over it wanders; Moodily, madly maunders, And hissingly falls From the glistening walls.

So all day along the sh.o.r.e Shout the breakers, green and h.o.a.r, Weaving out their weird tune; Till at night the full moon Weds the dark with that ring Of gold that you see her fling On the misty air.

Then homeward slow returning To slumbers deep I fare, Filled with an infinite yearning, With thoughts that rise and fall To the sound of the sea's hollow call, Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach, To scatter a spray on my dreams; Till the slow and measured rote Brings a drowsy ease To my spirit, and seems To set it soothingly afloat On broad and buoyant seas Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge Of the melancholy surge.

BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO

"Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say.

Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, If you'd been here. Now,--he's gone away.

Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use If you'd called here earlier. His excuse Always was, whenever folks would ask him Where he hailed from, an' _would_ tease an' task him;-- What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know."

That was truth. He came here long ago; But, before that, he'd been born somewhere: The conundrum started first, right there.

Little shaver--afore he knew his name Or the place from whereabouts he came-- On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him.

Killed the old folks! But this cus'--they brought him Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows.

So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows: They was merciful;--treated him real good; Brought him up to man's age well's they could.

Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad, For all they used him so, went to the bad: Leastways left the red men, that he knew, 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;-- Goldarned white folks that he never saw.

Queerest thing was--though he loved a squaw, 'T was on her account he planned escape; Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while; Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile, Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well, _I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell.

Bocanegra--Spanish term--I've heard Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird, Known as Bocanegra, gave his life Most for others. First, he saved his wife; Her I spoke of;--nothin' but a squaw.

You might wonder by what sort of law He, a white man born, should come to love her.

But 't was somehow so: he _did_ discover Beauty in her, of the holding kind.

Some men love the light, an' some the shade.

Round that little Indian girl there played Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark Under trees; yet now an' then a spark, Quick 's a firefly, flas.h.i.+ng from her eyes, Made you think of summer-midnight skies.

She was faithful, too, like midnight stars.

As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars Made by wounds he suffered for her sake, You'd have called _him_ true, and no mistake.

Growin' up a man, he scarcely met Other white folks; an' his heart was set On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait.

You must never be my wedded mate Till we reach the white man's country. There, Everything that's done is fair and square."

Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt, Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout Some safe track. He told her: "You go first.

All my joy goes with you:--that's the worst!

But _I_ wait, to guard or hide the trail."