Poems by William Dean Howells Part 16

And forth they went down to that stately stream, Bowed over by the ghostly sycamores (Awearily, as if some heavy dream Held them in languor), but whose opulent sh.o.r.es With pearled sh.e.l.ls and dusts of precious ores Were tremulous brilliance in the morning beam;

x.x.xIII.

Where waited them, beside the l.u.s.trous sand, A silk-winged shallop, sleeping on the flood; And smoothly wafted from the hither strand, Across the calm, broad stream they lightly rode, Under them still the silver fishes stood; The eager lilies, on the other land,

x.x.xIV.

Beckoned them; but where the castle shone With diamonded turrets and a wall Of gold-embedded pearl and costly stone, Their vision to its peerless splendor thrall The maiden fair, the young prince brave and tall, Thither with light, unlingering feet pressed on.

x.x.xV.

A gallant train to meet this loving pair, In silk and steel, moves from the castle door, And up the broad and ringing castle stair They go with gleeful minstrelsy before, And "Hail our prince and princess evermore!"

From all the happy throng is greeting there.

x.x.xVI.

And in the hall the prince's sire, King Cole, Sitting with crown and royal ermine on, His fiddlers three behind with pipe and bowl, Rises and moves to lift his kneeling son, Greeting his bride with kisses many a one, And tears and laughter from his jolly soul;

x.x.xVII.

Then both his children to a window leads That over daisied pasture-land looks out, And shows Bopeep where her lost flock wide feeds, And every frolic lambkin leaps about.

She hears Boy-Blue, that lazy shepherd, shout, Slow pausing from his pipe of mellow reeds;

x.x.xVIII.

And, turning, peers into her prince's eyes; Then, caught and clasped against her prince's heart, Upon her breath her answer wordless dies, And leaves her grat.i.tude to sweeter art,-- To lips from which the bloom shall never part, To looks wherein the summer never dies!

WHILE SHE SANG.

I.

She sang, and I heard the singing, Far out of the wretched past, Of meadow-larks in the meadow, In a breathing of the blast.

Cold through the clouds of sunset The thin red sunlight shone, Staining the gloom of the woodland Where I walked and dreamed alone;

And glinting with chilly splendor The meadow under the hill, Where the lingering larks were lurking In the sere gra.s.s hid and still.

Out they burst with their singing, Their singing so loud and gay; They made in the heart of October A sudden ghastly May,

That faded and ceased with their singing.

The thin red sunlight paled, And through the boughs above me The wind of evening wailed;--

Wailed, and the light of evening Out of the heaven died; And from the marsh by the river The lonesome killdee cried.

II.

The song is done, but a phantom Of music haunts the chords, That thrill with its subtile presence, And grieve for the dying words.

And in the years that are perished, Far back in the wretched past, I see on the May-green meadows The white snow falling fast;--

Falling, and falling, and falling, As still and cold as death, On the bloom of the odorous orchard, On the small, meek flowers beneath;

On the roofs of the village-houses, On the long, silent street, Where its plumes are soiled and broken Under the pa.s.sing feet;

On the green crest of the woodland, On the cornfields far apart; On the cowering birds in the gable, And on my desolate heart.

A POET.

From wells where Truth in secret lay He saw the midnight stars by day.

"O marvellous gift!" the many cried, "O cruel gift!" his voice replied.

The stars were far, and cold, and high, That glimmered in the noonday sky;

He yearned toward the sun in vain, That warmed the lives of other men.

CONVENTION.

He falters on the threshold, She lingers on the stair: Can it be that was his footstep?

Can it be that she is there?

Without is tender yearning, And tender love is within; They can hear each other's heart-beats, But a wooden door is between.

THE POET'S FRIENDS.

The robin sings in the elm; The cattle stand beneath, Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes And fragrant meadow-breath.

They listen to the flattered bird, The wise-looking, stupid things; And they never understand a word Of all the robin sings.

NO LOVE LOST.