The Garden of Dreams Part 12

And I found the cohosh coigne the same, Tossing with torches of pearly flame.

The owlet dingle of vine and brier, That the b.u.t.terfly-weed flecked fierce with fire.

The elder edge with its warm perfume, And the sapphire stars of the bluet bloom;

The moss, the fern, and the touch-me-not I breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.

And I saw the bird, that sang its best, In the moted sunlight building its nest.

And I saw the chipmunk's stealthy face, And the rabbit crouched in a gra.s.sy place.

And I watched the crows, that cawed and cried, Hunting the hawk at the forest-side;

The bees that sucked in the blossoms slim, And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.

And felt the silence, the dusk, the dread Of the spot where they buried the unknown dead.

The water murmur, the insect hum, And a far bird calling, _Come, oh, come!_--

What sweeter music can mortals make To ease the heart of its human ache!--

And it seemed in my dream, that was all too true, That I met in the woods again with you.

A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees, And a hand stained red with dewberries.

And we stood a moment some thing to tell, And then in the woods we said farewell.

But once I met you; yet, lo! it seems Again and again we meet in dreams.

And I ask my soul what it all may mean; If this is the love that should have been.

And oft and again I wonder, _Can_ _What G.o.d intends be changed by man?_

HOME.

Among the fields the camomile Seems blown steam in the lightning's glare.

Unusual odors drench the air.

Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare.

The way for me to-night?--To-night, Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with dripping rain-drops. Till, Between the boughs, a star-like light-- Our home upon the hill.

The path for me to take?--It goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, 'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock.

Bright on the old-time flower-place The lamp streams through the foggy pane.

The door is opened to the rain; And in the door--her happy face, And eager hands again.

ASHLY MERE.

Come! look in the shadowy water here, The stagnant water of Ashly Mere: Where the stirless depths are dark but clear, What is the thing that lies there?-- A lily-pod half sunk from sight?

Or sp.a.w.n of the toad all water-white?

Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?

Or a woman's face and eyes there?

Now lean to the water a listening ear, The haunted water of Ashly Mere: What is the sound that you seem to hear In the ghostly hush of the deeps there?-- A withered reed that the ripple lips?

Or a night-bird's wing that the surface whips?

Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?

Or a woman's voice that weeps there?

Now look and listen! but draw not near The lonely water of Ashly Mere!-- For so it happens this time each year As you lean by the mere and listen: And the moaning voice I understand,-- For oft I have watched it draw to land, And lift from the water a ghastly hand And a face whose eyeb.a.l.l.s glisten.

And this is the reason why every year To the hideous water of Ashly Mere I come when the woodland leaves are sear, And the autumn moon hangs h.o.a.ry: For here by the mere was wrought a wrong ...

But the old, old story is over long-- And woman is weak and man is strong ...

And the mere's and mine is the story.

BEFORE THE TOMB.

The way went under cedared gloom To moonlight, like a cactus bloom, Before the entrance of her tomb.

I had an hour of night and thin Sad starlight; and I set my chin Against the grating and looked in.

A gleam, like moonlight, through a square Of opening--I knew not where-- Shone on her coffin resting there.

And on its oval silver-plate I read her name and age and date, And smiled, soft-thinking on my hate.

There was no insect sound to chirr; No wind to make a little stir.

I stood and looked and thought on her.

The gleam stole downward from her head, Till at her feet it rested red On Gothic gold, that sadly said:--

"G.o.d to her love lent a weak reed Of strength: and gave no light to lead: Pray for her soul; for it hath need."

There was no night-bird's twitter near, No low vague water I might hear To make a small sound in the ear.

The gleam, that made a burning mark Of each dim word, died to a spark; Then left the tomb and coffin dark.

I had a little while to wait; And prayed with hands against the grate, And heart that yearned and knew too late.