Over the swamps with their pensive noises, Where the burnished cup of the marigold gleams; Skirting the reeds, where the quick winds shiver On the swelling breast of the dimpled river, And the blue of the king-fisher hangs and poises, Watching a spot by the edge of the streams;
By the miles of the fences warped and dyed With the white-hot noons and their withering fires, Where the rough bees trample the creamy bosoms Of the hanging tufts of the elder blossoms, And the spiders weave, and the grey snakes hide, In the crannied gloom of the stones and the briers;
Over the meadow lands sprouting with thistle, Where the humming wings of the blackbirds pass, Where the hollows are banked with the violets flowering, And the long-limbed pendulous elms are towering, Where the robins are loud with their voluble whistle, And the ground sparrow scurries away through the grass,
Where the restless bobolink loiters and woos Down in the hollows and over the swells, Dropping in and out of the shadows, Sprinkling his music about the meadows, Whistles and little checks and coos, And the tinkle of glassy bells;
Into the dim woods full of the tombs Of the dead trees soft in their sepulchres, Where the pensive throats of the shy birds hidden, Pipe to us strangely entering unbidden, And tenderly still in the tremulous glooms The trilliums scatter their white-winged stars;
Up to the hills where our tired hearts rest, Loosen, and halt, and regather their dreams; Up to the hills, where the winds restore us, Clearing our eyes to the beauty before us, Earth with the glory of life on her breast, Earth with the gleam of her cities and streams.
Here we shall commune with her and no other; Care and the battle of life shall cease; Men her degenerate children behind us, Only the might of her beauty shall bind us, Full of rest, as we gaze on the face of our mother, Earth in the health and the strength of her peace.
MORNING ON THE LIeVRES.
Far above us where a jay Screams his matins to the day, Capped with gold and amethyst, Like a vapour from the forge Of a giant somewhere hid, Out of hearing of the clang Of his hammer, skirts of mist Slowly up the woody gorge Lift and hang.
Softly as a cloud we go, Sky above and sky below, Down the river, and the dip Of the paddles scarcely breaks, With the little silvery drip Of the water as it shakes From the blades, the crystal deep Of the silence of the morn, Of the forest yet asleep, And the river reaches borne In a mirror, purple grey, Sheer away To the misty line of light, Where the forest and the stream In the shadow meet and plight, Like a dream.
From amid a stretch of reeds, Where the lazy river sucks All the water as it bleeds From a little curling creek, And the muskrats peer and sneak In around the sunken wrecks Of a tree that swept the skies Long ago, On a sudden seven ducks With a splashy rustle rise, Stretching out their seven necks, One before, and two behind, And the others all arow, And as steady as the wind With a swivelling whistle go, Through the purple shadow led, Till we only hear their whir In behind a rocky spur, Just ahead.
IN OCTOBER.
Along the waste, a great way off, the pines, Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar The low long strip of dolorous red that lines The under west, where wet winds moan afar.
The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries, And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows, And bear no bloom for bees.
As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips, The sad trees rustle in chill misery, A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips, That move and murmur incoherently; As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing, With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door, So many low soft masses for the dying Sweet leaves that live no more.
Here I will sit upon this naked stone, Draw my coat closer with my numbed hands, And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan, And send my heart out to the ashen lands; And I will ask myself what golden madness, What balmed breaths of dreamland spicery, What visions of soft laughter and light sadness Were sweet last month to me.
The dry dead leaves flit by with thin wierd tunes, Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed, Graven in mystic markings with strange runes, That none but stars and biting winds may read; Here I will wait a little; I am weary, Not torn with pain of any lurid hue, But only still and very gray and dreary, Sweet sombre lands, like you.
LAMENT OF THE WINDS.
We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sitting, By the forest, near the mould, Heard the summer calling, calling, Through the dead leaves falling, falling, That her life grew faint and old.
And we took her up, and bore her, With the leaves that moaned before her, To the holy forest bowers, Where the trees were dense and serried, And her corpse we buried, buried, In the graveyard of the flowers.
Now the leaves, as death grows vaster, Yellowing deeper, dropping faster, All the grave wherein she lies With their bodies cover, cover, With their hearts that love her, love her, For they live not when she dies:
And we left her so, but stay not Of our tears, and yet we may not, Though they coldly thickly fall, Give the dead leaves any, any, For they lie so many, many, That we cannot weep for all.
BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP.
Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away-- The last sad hours that were touched with her grace-- In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play; The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space Let not a sight or a sound erase Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands: Gather ye, dreams, to her sunny face, Shadow her head with your golden hands.
The woods that are golden and red for a day Girdle the hills in a jewelled case, Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay The beautiful life that he hath in chase.
Darker and darker the shadows pace Out of the north to the southern sands, Ushers bearing the winter's mace: Keep them away with your woven hands.
The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray, More bitter and cold than the winds that race, From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away, This way and that way, the woodland lace.
In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace; Behind her the ghost of the winter stands; Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place: Mantle her head with your glowing hands.
_Envoi._
Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands, Let her heart not gather a dream that is base: Shadow her head with your golden hands.
WINTER.
The long days came and went; the riotous bees Tore the warm grapes in many a dusty-vine, And men grew faint and thin with too much ease, And Winter gave no sign: But all the while beyond the northmost woods He sat and smiled and watched his spirits play In elfish dance and eery roundelay, Tripping in many moods With snowy curve and fairy crystal shine.
But now the time is come: with southward speed The elfin spirits pass: a secret sting Hath fallen and smitten flower and fruit and weed, And every leafy thing.
The wet woods moan: the dead leaves break and fall; In still night-watches wakeful men have heard The muffled pipe of many a passing bird, High over hut and hall, Straining to southward with unresting wing.
And then they come with colder feet, and fret The winds with snow, and tuck the streams to sleep With icy sheet and gleaming coverlet, And fill the valleys deep With curved drifts, and a strange music raves Among the pines, sometimes in wails, and then In whistled laughter, till affrighted men Draw close, and into caves And earthy holes the blind beasts curl and creep.
And so all day above the toiling heads Of men's poor chimneys, full of impish freaks, Tearing and twisting in tight-curled shreds The vain unnumbered reeks, The Winter speeds his fairies forth and mocks Poor bitten men with laughter icy cold, Turning the brown of youth to white and old With hoary-woven locks, And grey men young with roses in their cheeks.
And after thaws, when liberal water swells The bursting eaves, he biddeth drip and grow The curly horns of ribbed icicles In many a beard-like row.
In secret moods of mercy and soft dole, Old warped wrecks and things of mouldering death That summer scorns and man abandoneth His careful hands console With lawny robes and draperies of snow.
And when night comes, his spirits with chill feet, Winged with white mirth and noiseless mockery, Across men's pallid windows peer and fleet, And smiling silverly Draw with mute fingers on the frosted glass Quaint fairy shapes of iced witcheries, Pale flowers and glinting ferns and frigid trees And meads of mystic grass, Graven in many an austere phantasy.
But far away the Winter dreams alone, Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan In dusky-skirted lines Strange answers of an ancient runic call; Or somewhere watches with his antique eyes, Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries, The silvery moonshine fall In misty wedges through his girth of pines.
Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon Into your icy beds: the embers die; And on your frosted panes the pallid moon Is glimmering brokenly.
Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhile, Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights The shining majesty of him that smites And slays you with a smile Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery.