The Fleur de Lis Poets.
BY SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY
NEW YORK. J. SELWIN TAIT AND SONS, NUMBER SIXTY-FIVE FIFTH AVENUE.
BY J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS NEW YORK
A Dream, 1 Dream-Song, 8 Doubt, 9 Song, 13 Anticipation, 14 Song, 18 Misunderstanding, 19 Shadow-Song, 23 Revulsion, 24 A Song of Dawn, 27 Weariness, 28 A Song of Rest, 31 Death, 33 Battle-Song, 38 Content, 39 Sea-Song, 42 Gratitude, 44 Song, 48 Prayer, 49 Song, 53 Loneliness, 54 Sea-Song, 57 Incompleteness, 59 Song, 65 Life's Joys, 65 Song, 70 Barter, 72 Song, 76 To-morrow, 78 Song, 82
I stood far off above the haunts of men Somewhere, I know not, when the sky was dim From some worn glory, and the morning hymn Of the gay oriole echoed from the glen. Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I sought A visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.
I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed, Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowers Drank in the morning mist, dawn's tender showers, And looked forth for the Day-god who had blazed His heart away and died at sundown. Far In the gray west faded a loitering star.
It seemed that I had wandered through long years, A life of years, still seeking gropingly A thing I dared not name; now I could see In the still dawn a hope, in the soft tears Of the deep-hearted violets a breath Of kinship, like the herald voice of Death.
Slow moved the morning; where the hill was bare Woke a reluctant breeze. Dimly I knew My Day was come. The wind-blown blossoms threw Their breath about me, and the pine-swept air Grew to a shape, a mighty, formless thing, A phantom of the wood's imagining.
And as I gazed, spell-bound, it seemed to move Its tendril limbs, still swaying tremulously As if in spirit-doubt; then glad and free Crystalled the being won from waiting grove Into a human likeness. There he stood, The vine-browed shape of Nature's mortal mood.
"Now have I found thee, Vision I have sought These years, unknowing; surely thou art fair And inly wise, and on thy tasselled hair Glows Heaven's own light. Passion and fame are naught To thy clear eyes, O Prince of many lands,— Grant me thy joy," I cried, and stretched my hands.
No answer but the flourish of the breeze Through the black pines. Then, slowly, as the wind Parts the dense cloud-forms, leaving naught behind But shapeless vapor, through the budding trees Drifted some force unseen, and from my sight Faded my god into the morning light.
Again alone. With wistful, straining eyes I waited, and the sunshine flecked the bank Happy with arbutus and violets where I sank Hearing, near by, a host of melodies, The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo'd.
He ceased; the fresh moss-odors filled the grove With a strange sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs Moved soft, as though they heard the brooklet rouse To its spring soul, and whisper low of love. The white-robed birches stood unbendingly Like royal maids, in proud expectancy.
Athwart the ramage where the young leaves press It came to me, ah, call it what you will Vision or waking dream, I see it still! Again a form born of the woodland stress Grew to my gaze, and by some secret sign Though shadow-hid, I knew the form was thine.
The glancing sunlight made thy ruddy hair A crown of gold, but on thy spirit-face There was no smile, only a tender grace Of love half doubt. Upon thy hand a rare Wild bird of Paradise perched fearlessly With radiant plumage and still, lustrous eye.
And as I gazed I saw what I had deemed A shadow near thy hand, a dusky wing, A bird like last year's leaves, so dull a thing Beside its fellow; as the sunshine gleamed Each breast showed letters bright as crystalled rain, The fair bird bore "Delight," the other "Pain."
Then came thy voice: "O Love, wilt have my gift?" I stretched my glad hands eagerly to grasp The heaven-blown bird, gold-hued, and longed to clasp It close and know it mine. Ere I might lift The shining thing and hold it to my breast Again I heard thy voice with vague unrest.
"These are twin birds and may not parted be." Full in thine eyes I gazed, and read therein The paradox of life, of love, of sin, As on a night of cloud and mystery One darting flash makes bright the hidden ways, And feet tread knowingly though thick the haze.
Thy gift, if so I chose,—no other hand Save thine.—I reached and gathered to my heart The quivering, sentient things.—Sometimes I start To know them hidden there.—If I should stand Idly, some day, and one,—God help me!—breast A homing breeze,—my brown bird knows its nest.
Cam'st thou not nigh to me In that one glimpse of thee When thy lips, tremblingly, Said: "My Beloved." 'Twas but a moment's space, And in that crowded place I dared not scan thy face O! my Beloved.
Yet there may come a time (Though loving be a crime Only allowed in rhyme To us, Beloved), When safe 'neath sheltering arm I may, without alarm, Hear thy lips, close and warm, Murmur: "Beloved!"
I do not know if all the fault be mine, Or why I may not think of thee and be At peace with mine own heart. Unceasingly Grim doubts beset me, bygone words of thine Take subtle meaning, and I cannot rest Till all my fears and follies are confessed.
Perhaps the wild wind's questioning has brought My heart its melancholy, for, alone In the night stillness, I can hear him moan In sobbing gusts, as though he vainly sought Some bygone bliss. Against the dripping pane In storm-blown torrents beats the driving rain.
Nay I will tell thee all, I will not hide One thought from thee, and if I do thee wrong So much the more must I be brave and strong To show my fault. And if thou then shouldst chide I will accept reproof most willingly So it but bringeth peace to thee and me.
I dread thy past. Phantoms of other days Pursue my vision. There are other hands Which thou hast held, perchance some slender bands That draw thee still to other woodland ways Than those which we have known, some blissful hours I do not share, of love, and June, and flowers.
I dread her most, that woman whom thou knewest Those years ago,—I cannot bear to think That she can say: "My lover praised the pink Of palm, or ear," "The violets were bluest In that dear copse," and dream of some fair day When thou didst while her summer hours away.
I dread them too, those light loves and desires That lie in the dim shadow of the years; I fain would cheat myself of all my fears And, as a child watching warm winter fires, Dream not of yesterday's black embers, nor To-morrow's ashes that may strew the floor.
I did not dream of this while thou wert near, But now the thought that haunts me day by day Is that the things I love, the tender way Of mastery, the kisses that are dear As Heaven's best gifts, to other lips and arms Owe half their blessedness and all their charms.
Tell me that I am wrong, O! Man of men, Surely it is not hard to comfort me, Laugh at my fears with dear persistency, Nay, if thou must, lie to me! There, again, I hear the rain, and the wind's wailing cry Stirs with wild life the night's monotony.
If I had known That when the morrow dawned the roses would be dead I would have filled my hands with blossoms white and red. If I had known!
If I had known That I should be to-day deaf to all happy birds I would have lain for hours to listen to your words. If I had known!
If I had known That with the morning light you would be gone for aye I would have been more kind;—sweet Love had won his way If I had known.
Let us peer forward through the dusk of years And force the silent future to reveal Her store of garnered joys; we may not kneel For ever, and entreat our bliss with tears. Somewhere on this drear earth the sunshine lies, Somewhere the air breathes Heaven-blown harmonies.
Some day when you and I have fully learned Our waiting-lesson, wondering, hand in hand We shall gaze out upon an unknown land, Our thoughts and our desires forever turned From our old griefs, as swallows, home warding, Sweep ever southward with unwearied wing.
We shall fare forth, comrades for evermore. Though the ill-omened bird Time loves to bear Has brushed this cheek and left an impress there I shall be fierce and dauntless as of yore, Free as a bird o'er the wide world to rove, And strong and fearless, O my Love, to love.
What have we now? The haunting, vague unrest Of incompleted measures; and we dream Vainly, of the Musician and His theme, How the great Master in a day most blest Shall strike some mighty chords in harmony, And make an end, and set the music free!
We snatch from Fate our moments of delight, Few as, in April hours, the wooing calls Of orioles, or when the twilight falls First o'er the forest ere the approach of night The eyes of evening;—and Love's song is sung But once, Dear Heart, but once, and we are young.
Over the seas together, you and I, 'Neath blue Italian skies, or on the hills Of storied Greece,—where the warm sunlight fills Spain's mellow vineyards,—wandering reverently O'er the green plains of Palestine,—our days A golden holiday in Old World ways.
Yet would we linger not by southern shores; The bracing breath of Scandinavian snows Would draw us from our dreams. The North wind blows Upon thy cheek, my Norseman, and the roars Of the wild Baltic sound within my ears When to my dreams thy stalwart form appears.
This will the future bring. See! Thou hast given From out the fulness of thy strength and will This courage to me. Though the rugged hill Looms high, and fronts our vision, yet our heaven (I see it when I sleep) with portals wide And shining towers, gleams on the farther side.
"Tshirr!" scolds the oriole Where the elms stir, Flaunting her gourd-like nest On the tree's swaying crest: "May's here, I cannot rest, Go away; tshirr!"
"Tshirr!" scolds the oriole Where the leaves blur, Giving her threads a jerk, Spying where rivals lurk, "May's here, and I'm at work. Go away, tshirr!"
Spring's face is wreathed in smiles. She had been driven Hither and thither at the surly will Of treacherous winds till her sweet heart was chill. Into her grasp the sceptre has been given And now she touches with a proud young hand The earth, and turns to blossoms all the land.
We catch the smile, the joyousness, the pride, And share them with her. Surely winter gloom Is for the old, and frost is for the tomb. Youth must have pleasure, and the tremulous tide Of sun-kissed waves, and all the golden fire Of Summer's noontide splendor of desire.
I have forgotten,—for the breath of buds Is on my temples, if in former days I have known sorrow; I remember praise, And calm content, and joy's great ocean-floods, And many dreams so sweet that, in their place, We would not welcome even Truth's fair face.
O Man to whom my heart hast leaned, dost know Aught of my life? Sometimes a strong despair Enters my soul and finds a lodging there; Thou dost not know me, and the years will go As these last months have gone, and I shall be Still far, still a strange woman unto thee.
I do not blame thee. If there is a fault Let it be mine, for surely had I tried The door of my heart's home to open wide No need had been for even Love's assault. And yet, methinks, somewhere there is a key Thou mightest have found, and entered happily.
I am no saint niched in a hallowed wall For men to worship, but I would compel A level gaze. You teachers who would tell A woman's place I do defy you all! While justice lives, and love with joy is crowned Woman and man must meet on equal ground.
The deepest wrong is falsehood. She who sells Her soul and body for a little gain In ease, or the world's notice, has a stain Upon her soul no lighter for the bells Of marriage rites, and purer far is she Who gives her all for love's sad ecstasy.
Canst thou not understand a nature strong And passionate, with impulses that sway, With yearning tenderness that must have way, Yet knows no ill desire, no touch of wrong? If thou canst not then in God's name I pray See me no more forever from this day.
The night is long And there are no stars,— Let me but dream That the long fields gleam With sunlight and song, Then I shall not long For the light of stars.
Let me but dream,— For there are no stars,— Dream that the ache And the wild heart-break Are but things that seem. Ah! let me dream For there are no stars.
I see the starting buds, I catch the gleam In the near distance of a sun-kissed pool, The blessed April air blows soft and cool, Small wonder if all sorrow grows a dream, And we forget that close around us lie A city's poor, a city's misery.
Of every outward vision there is some Internal counterpart. To-day I know The blessedness of living, and the glow Of life's dear spring-tide. I can bid thee come In thought and wander where the fields are fair With bursting life, and I, rejoicing, there.
Yet have I passed, Beloved, through the vale Of dark dismay, and felt the dews of death Upon my brow, have measured out my breath Counting my hours of joy, as misers quail At every footfall in the quiet night And clutch their gold and count it in affright.
I learned new lessons in that school of fear, Life took a fresh perspective; sad and brave The view is from the threshold of the grave. In that long, backward glance I saw her clear From fogs of gathering night, and all the show Of small things that seemed great a while ago.
Our dreams of fame, the stubborn power we call Our self-respect, our hopes of worldly good, Our jealousies and fears, how in the flood Of this new light they faded, poor and small; Showing our pettiness beside God's truth, Besides His age our poor, unlearned youth.
The earth yearns forth, impatient for the days Of its maturity, the ample sweets Of Summer's fulness; and its great heart beats With a fierce restlessness, for Spring delays Seeing her giddy reign end all too soon, Her bud-crown ravished by the hand of June.
And I,—I shall be happy,—promise me This one small thing, Beloved, for I long For happiness as the caged bird for song. Not where four walls close in the melody I want the fresh, sweet air, the water's gush, The strong, sane life with thee, the summer hush.
A Song of Dawn.
In the east a lightening; Where the woods are chill Moves an unseen finger, Wakes a sudden thrill;
In my soul a glimmer, Hush! no words are heard! In heart-ambush hidden Chirrup of a bird;
Tremble heart and forest Like a frightened fawn, Gleam the distant tree-tops, Hither comes the dawn!
This April sun has wakened into cheer The wintry paths of thought, and tinged with gold These threadbare leaves of fancy brown and old. This is for us the wakening of the year And May's sweet breath will draw the waiting soul To where in distance lies the longed-for goal.
The summer life will still all questioning, The leaves will whisper peace, and calm will be The wild, vast, blue, illimitable sea. And we shall hush our murmurings, and bring To Nature, green below and blue above, A whole life's worshipping, a whole life's love.
We will not speak of sometime fretting fears, We will not think of aught that may arise In future hours to cloud our golden skies. Some souls there are who love their woes and tears, Gaining their joy by contrast, but for thee And me, Beloved, peace is ecstasy.
It was not always so, there was a time When I would choose the rocky mountain way, And climb the hills of doubt to find the day. Fresh effort brought fresh zest, and winter's rime Chilled not but crowned endeavor, and the heat Of summer thrilled, and made the pulses beat.
But now I am so weary that I turn From labor with a shudder, and from pain As from an enemy; I see no gain In suffering, and cleansing fires must burn As keenly as desire, so let me know Quiet with thee, and twilight's afterglow.
I, who have boasted of my strength and will, And ventured daring flights, and stood alone In fearless, flushed defiance, I have grown Humble, and seek another hand to fill Life's cup, and other eyes to pierce the skies Of Wisdom's dear, sad, mighty mysteries.
Ah! I will lie so quiet in thine arms I will not stir thee; and thy whisperings Shall teach me patience, and so many things I have not learned as yet. And all alarms Will melt in peace when, safe from tempest's rage My wind-tossed ship has found its anchorage.
A Song of Rest.
The world may rage without, Quiet is here; Statesmen may toil and shout, Cynics may sneer; The great world—let it go— June warmth be March's snow, I care not—be it so Since I am here.
Time was when war's alarm Called for a fear, When sorrow's seeming harm Hastened a tear; Naught care I now what foe Threatens, for scarce I know How the year's seasons go Since I am here.
This is my resting-place Holy and dear, Where Pain's dejected face May not appear. This is the world to me, Earth's woes I will not see But rest contentedly Since I am here.
Is't your voice chiding, Love, My mild career? My meek abiding, Love, Daily so near? "Danger and loss" to me? Ah, Sweet, I fear to see No loss but loss of Thee And I am here.
If days should pass without a written word To tell me of thy welfare, and if days Should lengthen out to weeks, until the maze Of questioning fears confused me, and I heard. Life-sounds as echoes; and one came and said After these weeks of waiting: "He is dead!"
Though the quick sword had found the vital part, And the life-blood must mingle with the tears, I think that, as the dying soldier hears The cries of victory, and feels his heart Surge with his country's triumph-hour, I could Hope bravely on, and feel that God was good.
I could take up my thread of life again And weave my pattern though the colors were Faded forever. Though I might not dare Dream often of thee, I should know that when Death came to thee upon thy lips my name Lingered, and lingers ever without blame.
Aye, lingers ever. Though we may not know Much that our spirits crave, yet is it given To us to feel that in the waiting Heaven Great souls are greater, and if God bestow A mighty love He will not let it die Through the vast ages of eternity.
But if some day the bitter knowledge swept Down on my life,—bearing my treasured freight To founder on the shoals of scorn,—what Fate Smiling with awful irony had kept Till life grew sweeter,—that my god was clay, That 'neath thy strength a lurking weakness lay;
That thou, whom I had deemed a man of men Faulty, as great men are, but with no taint Of baseness,—with those faults that shew the saint Of after days, perhaps,—wert even then When first I loved thee but a spreading tree Whose leaves shewed not its roots' deformity;
I should not weep, for there are wounds that lie Too deep for tears,—and Death is but a friend Who loves too dearly, and the parting end Of Love's joy-day a paltry pain, a cry To God, then peace,—beside the torturing grief When honor dies, and trust, and soul's belief.
Travellers have told that in the Java isles The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out Into the air; there needs no hand about Its branches for the poison's deadly wiles To work a strong man's hurt, for there is death Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.
So would I breathe thy poison in my soul, Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew. Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole From his far sister, I should bear thy blight Upon me as I passed into the night.
Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much To me, Dear Heart? Oh! I am full of tears To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears. Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch, For Time is long, and though I may not will To question Fate, I am a woman still.
Clear sounds the call on high: "To arms and victory!" Brave hearts that win or die, Dying, may win; Proudly the banners wave, What though the goal's the grave? Death cannot harm the brave,— Through death they win.
Softly the evening hush Stilling strife's maddened rush Cools the fierce battle flush,— See the day die; A thousand faces white Mirror the cold moonlight And glassy eyes are bright With Victory.
I have been wandering where the daisies grow, Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow From timothy and yellow buttercup, So by their fearless beauty lifted up.
Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill. So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink, To smell the clover blossoms white and pink, To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can scarce believe It is the same sad woman full of dreams Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems I am a child again, and can deceive My soul with daisies, plucking one by one The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness I try My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup," Then, lower, "passionement, pas du tout;" Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."
I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me "passionately" or "not at all." Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above passion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
A dash of spray, A weed-browned way,— My ship's in the bay, In the glad blue bay,— The wind's from the west And the waves have a crest, But my bird's in the nest And my ship's in the bay!
At dawn to stand Soft hand to hand, Bare feet on the sand,— On the hard brown sand,— To wait, dew-crowned, For the tarrying sound Of a keel that will ground On the scraping sand.
A glad surprise In the wind-swept skies Of my wee one's eyes,— Those wondering eyes. He will come, my sweet, And will haste to meet Those hurrying feet And those sea-blue eyes.
I know the day Must weary away, And my ship's in the bay,— In the clear, blue bay,— Ah! there's wind in the west, For the waves have a crest, But my bird's in the nest And my ship's in the bay!
There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far To say in written words than when we sit Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit. Not that there is between us any bar Of shyness or reserve; the day is past For that, and utter trust has come at last.
Only, when shut alone and safe inside These four white walls,—hearing no sound except Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept Stealthily round us,—as the incoming tide Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.
Or out on the green hillside, even there There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still. For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill With wondrous echoes all the waiting air. We listen, and in listening must forget Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;
Even our joys,—thou knowest;—when the air Is full to overflowing with the sense Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence. There is no place for words; we do not dare To break Love's stillness, even though the power Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.
But here in quietness I can recall All I would tell thee, how thou art to me Impulse and inspiration, and with thee I can but smile though all my idols fall. I wait my meed as others who have known Patience till to their utmost stature grown.
As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest A glory fills the tender, troubled West That glads the closing of November's day, So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded sky When day is over and I know thee nigh.
Thou art so much, all this and more, to me, And what am I to thee? Can I repay These many gifts? Is there no royal way Of recompense, so I may proudly see The man my heart delights to praise renowned For wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?
Ah! though there is no recompense in love Yet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee, Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me, Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall prove No worship of thee by my soul confessed? And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.
I have known a thousand pleasures,— Love is best— Ocean's songs and forest treasures, Work and rest, Jewelled joys of dear existence, Triumph over Fate's resistance, But to prove, through Time's wide distance, Love is best.
I stood upon a hill, and watched the death Of the day's turmoil. Still the glory spread Cloud-top to cloud-top, and each rearing head Trembled to crimson. So a mighty breath From some wild Titan in a rising ire Might kindle flame in voicing his desire.
Soft stirred the evening air; the pine-crowned hills Glowed in an answering rapture where the flush Grew to a blood-drop, and the vesper hush Moved in my soul, while from my life all ills Faded and passed away. God's voice was there And in my heart the silence was a prayer.
There was a day when to my fearfulness Was born a joy, when doubt was swept afar A shadow and a memory, and a star Gleamed in my sky more bright for the distress. The stillness breathed thanksgiving, and the air Wafted, methought, the incense of a prayer.
Heaven sets no bounds of bead-roll or appeal; And when the fiery heart with mute embrace Bends, tremblingly, but for a moment's space It needs no words that cry, no limbs that kneel. As meteors flash, so, in a moment's light, Life, darting forth, touches the Infinite.
All my prayers wordless? Nay, I can recall A night not so long past but that each thought Lives at this hour, and throbs again unsought When Silence broods, and Night's chill shadows fall; Then Darkness' thousand pulses thrilled and stirred With the dear grace of a remembered word;
And I was still, thy voice enshrouding me. Like the strong sweep of ocean-breath the power Of one resistless thought transformed my hour Of love-dreams to a fear. All hopelessly I knew love's impotence, and my despair Stretched soul-hands forth, and quivered to a prayer.
My passionate heart cried out: "If his dear life Through stress of keen temptation merits aught Of penance or requital, be it wrought Upon my life. If only through the strife Is won the peace, through drudgery the gain, Give him the issue, and to me the pain!"
Some day, in our soul's course o'er trackless lands, Swayed oft by adverse winds, or swept along In Fate's wild current with the fluttering throng Towards Sin's engulfing maelstrom, spirit hands Will brace our trembling wings, and through the night Point and upbear in our last trembling flight.
Red gleams the mountain ridge, Slow the stream creeps Under the old bent bridge, And labor sleeps.
There are no restless birds, No leaves that stir, Dusk her gray mantle girds, Night's harbinger.
The storm-soul's change and start Pause, lull, and cease; In my unquiet heart Is born a peace.
Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is still As any hill-girt lake; the long brown beach Lies bare and wet. As far as eye can reach There is no motion. Even on the hill Where the breeze loves to wander I can see No stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.
There is a great red cliff that fronts my view A bare, unsightly thing; it angers me With its unswerving-grim monotony. The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askew Stands like a fire-swept forest, while the sea Laps it, with soothing sighs, continually.
There are no tempests in this sheltered bay, The stillness frets me, and I long to be Where winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously, To stand upon some hill-top far away And face a gathering gale, and let the stress Of Nature's mood subdue my restlessness.
An impulse seizes me, a mad desire To tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweep Its crest of trees and huts into the deep; To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire, And let rush in with motion glad and free The rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.
Sometimes I wonder if I am the child Of calm, law-loving parents, or a stray From some wild gypsy camp. I cannot stay Quiet among my fellows; when this wild Longing for freedom takes me I must fly To my dear woods and know my liberty.
It is this cringing to a social law That I despise, these changing, senseless forms Of fashion! And until a thousand storms Of God's impatience shall reveal the flaw In man's pet system, he will weave the spell About his heart and dream that all is well.
Ah! Life is hard, Dear Heart, for I am left To battle with my old-time fears alone I must live calmly on, and make no moan Though of my hoped-for happiness bereft. Thou wilt not come, and still the red cliff lies Hiding my ocean from these longing eyes.
It sings to me, it sings to me, The shore-blown voice of the blithesome sea! Of its world of gladness all untold, Of its heart of green, and its mines of gold, And desires that leap and flee.
It moans to me, it moans to me! The storm-stirred voice of the restive sea! Of the vain dismay and the yearning pain For hopes that will never be born again From the womb of the wavering sea.
It calls to me, it calls to me, The luring voice of the rebel sea! And I long with a love that is born of tears For the wild fresh life, and the glorying fears, For the quest and the mystery.
It wails to me, it wails to me, Of the deep dark graves in the yawning sea; And I hear the voice of a boy that is gone. But the lad sleeps sound till the judgment-dawn In the heart of the wind-swept sea.
Since first I met thee, Dear, and long before I knew myself beloved, save by the sense All women have, a shadowy confidence Half-fear, that feels its bliss nor asks for more, I have learned new desires, known Love's distress Sounded the deepest depths of loneliness.
I was a child at heart, and lived alone, Dreaming my dreams, as children may, at whiles, Between their hours of play, and Earth's broad smiles Allured my heart, and ocean's marvellous tone Woke no strange echoes, and the woods' complain Made chants sonorous, stirred no thoughts of pain.
And if, sometimes, dear Nature spoke to me In tones mysterious, I had learned so much Dwelling beside her daily, that her touch Made me discerning. Though I might not see Her purpose nor her meaning, I had part In the proud throbbing of that mighty heart.
But now the earth has put a tiring-cloth About her face; even in the mountains' cheer There is a lack, and in the sea a fear, The glad, rash sea, whose every mood, if wroth Or soothing mild, is dear to me as are Joy's new-born kisses on the lips of Care.
Since I have known thee, Dear, all life has grown An expectation. As the swelling grain Trembles to harvesting, and earth in pain Travails till Spring is born, so felt alone Is the dumb reaching out of things unborn, The night's gray promise of the amber morn.
I long to taste my pleasures through thy lips, To sail with thee o'er foaming waves and feel Our spirits rise together with the reel Of waters and the wavering land's eclipse; To see thy fair hair damp with salt sea-spray And in thine eyes the wildness of the way.
I long to share my woods with thee, to fly To some black-hearted forest where the trail Of mortals lingers not,—to hear the gale. Sweep round us with a shuddering ecstasy, To feel, night's tumult passed, the cool soft hand Of the untroubled dawn move o'er the land.
To swim with thee far out into the bay, A trembling glitter on the waves, the shore Glowing with noontide fervor, nevermore To fear the treacherous depths, though long the way. Sweet beyond words the sighs that breathe and blow, The moist salt kisses, and the glad warm glow.
And when the unrest, the vague desires that rush Over our lives and may not be denied,— Gone in the tasting,—lure us where the tide Of men sweeps on, let us forget the hush Together, and in city madness drain Our cup of pleasure to its dregs of pain.
Ever I need thee. Incomplete and poor This life of mine. Yet never dream my soul Craves the old peace. Till I may have the whole My joy is my abiding, and what more Of dreams and waking bliss the Fates allow Comes as a gift of Love's great overflow.
Deep in the green bracken lying, Close by the welcoming sea, Dream I, and let all my dreaming Drift as it will, Love, to thee.
Sated with splendid caresses Showered by the sun in his pride, Scorched by his passionate kisses Languidly ebbs the tide.
I have been pondering what our teachers call The mystery of Pain; and lo! my thought After it's half-blind reaching out has caught This truth and held it fast. We may not fall Beyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy, Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.
Sometimes they steal across us like a breath Of Eastern perfume in a darkened room, These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloom Seeking some common thing, and from its sheath Unloose, unknowing, some bewildering scent Of spice-thronged memories of the Orient.
Sometimes they dart across our turbid sky Like a quick flash after a heated day. A moment, where the sombrous shadows lay We see a glory. Though it passed us by No earthly power can filch that dazzling glow From memory's eye, that instant's shine and show.
Life is so full of joys. The alluring sea, This morning clear and placid, may, ere night, Toss like a petulant child, and when the light Of a new morning dawns sweep grand and free A mighty power. If fierce, or mild, or bright, With every tide flows in a fresh delight.
I can remember well when first I knew The fragrance of white clover. There I lay On the warm July grass and heard the play Of sun-browned insects, and the breezes blew To my drowsed sense the scent the blossoms had; The subtle sweetness stayed, and I was glad.
Nor passed the gladness. Though the years have gone (A many years, Beloved, since that day,) Whenever by the roadside or away In radiant summer fields, wandering alone Or with glad children, to my restless sight Shows that pale head, comes back the old delight.
Oh! the dark water, and the filling sail! The scudding like a sea-mew, with the hand Firm on the tiller! See, the red-shored land Receding, as we brave the hastening gale! White gleam the wave-tops, and the breakers' roar Sounds thunderingly on the far distant shore.
This mad hair flying in the breeze blows wild Across my face. See, there, the gathering squall, That dark line to the eastward, watch it crawl Stealthily towards us o'er the snow-wreaths piled Close on each other! Ah! what joy to be Drunk with salt air, in battle with the sea!
So many joys, and yet I have but told Of simple things, the joys of air and sea! Not all these things are worth one hour with thee, One moment, when thy daring arms enfold My body, and all other, meaner joys, Fade from me like a child's forgotten toys.
One thought is ever with me, glorying all Life's common aims. Surely will dawn a day Bright with an unknown rapture, when thy way Will be my journey-road, and I can call These joys our joys, for thou wilt walk with me Down budding pathways to the abounding sea.
Low laughed the Columbine, Trembled her petals fine As the breeze blew; In her dove-heart there stirred Murmurs the dull bee heard, And Love, Life's wild white bird, Straightway she knew.
Resting her lilac cheek Gently, in aspect meek, On the gray stone, The morning-glory, free, Welcomed the yellow bee, Heard the near-rolling sea Murmur and moan.
Calm lay the tawny sand Stretching a long wet hand To the far wave. Swift to her warm waiting breast Longing to be possessed Leaps 'neath his billowy crest Her Lover brave.
There is a long thin line of fading gold In the far West, and the transfigured leaves On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold The pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze, Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.
There is a soft enchantment in the air, A mystery the Summer knows not, nor The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.
A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod, Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flash Of sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.
She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smile Of frank surrender. As a witching maid In gorgeous garments cunningly arrayed Might smile and draw them closer, hers the guile To let men hope, pray, labor in love's stress Ere they her hidden beauties may possess.
Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise, Down with the sweet linnaea and the moss, In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines toss In Winter's harrying storms her secret lies. Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting pain Ere we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.
'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turn Great Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes grow Dim in the dusk of years, and heads bend low Weary at last, the truth we strove to learn Is ours forever. But its joy of sight Is dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.
Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning hand Doles out our happiness; we snatch at wealth And pay with anxious care and fading health. We call for Love, and dream that we shall stand On ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way, The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.
Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchange Of gifts and griefs, and so I render thee Vows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringly What love demands, nor ever deem it strange. And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds sting I make no murmur, but await the Spring.
Joy came in youth as a humming-bird, (Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!) And it made a home in my summer bower With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. (Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)
Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, (Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!) And I gazed far up to the melting blue Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. (Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)
Joy hovers now in a far-off mist, (The night draws on and the air breathes snow!) And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling hand To the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land. (Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)
But one short night between my Love and me! I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free Each well-known chair. There is a growing grace Of tender magic in this little place.
Comes through half-opened windows, soft and cool As Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air, My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bear No burdens on my brain to-night, no rule Of anxious thought; the world has had my tears, My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;
This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleep With a glad weariness, to know that when The new day dawns I shall lay by my pen Needed no more. If I, perchance, should weep A few quick tears, so doing, who would guess 'Twas the last throb of my soul's loneliness?
Not even thou, Dear Heart, canst ever know How I have yearned these many months, these years For love, for thee. As the calm boatman steers His slender shallop where he fain would go, Tempests and rocks before, so through the dark To this dim, far-off day has set my bark.
To-morrow! I can hear the quick-closed door, The approaching steps, my pained heart's fluttering, Thy voice, then Thee! And all the storm and sting Of bygone griefs are passed forevermore, Swept from my life as the resistless wind Scatters the chaff, nor leaves a mote behind.
As long-imprisoned captives reach the light, And gaze with greedy eyes on field and tree, Drinking the beauties of the sky and sea Half fearful of their bliss; so from the night Of dreams and shades, half doubting, we awake And grasp the joy we almost fear to take.
Thou hidest in thy warm ones my cold hand, Reading my soul in these unwavering eyes. Nay, thou hast known my hopes, my agonies Through written words, and thou canst understand. I have kept nothing back of all the streams Of my heart-flowings—doubts, nor fears, nor dreams.
So long my life has followed no control But mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bend My will to thine, and so, unhindered, tend My soul's wild garden. I have laid the whole Bare to thy sowing; and life's precious wine Is of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.
Where is the waiting-time? Where are the fears? Gone with the winter's rime, The bygone years.
O'er life's plain, lone and vast, Slow treads the morn, Night shades have moved and passed, Joy's day is born.