Blooms of the Berry

THE OHIO FALLS

Here on this jutting headland, where the treesSpread a dusk carpet for the sun to castAnd count his golden guineas on, we'll stay;For hence is the best prospect of the Falls,Whose roar no more astounds the startled ear,As when we bent and marked it from the bridgeSeething beneath and bounding like a steed —A tameless steed with mane of flying spray —Between the pillars rising sheer above.But mark how soft its clamor now is grown,Incessant rush like that of vernal grovesWhen, like some sweet surprise, a wand'ring wind,Precursor of the coming rain, rides downFrom a gray cloud and sets their leafy tonguesA-gabbing of the fresh, impending shower.There runs the dam, and where its dark line cutsThe river's sheen, already you may seeThe ripples glancing to the fervid sun,As if the waves had couched a hundred spearsAnd tossed a hundred plumes of fleecy foamIn answer to the challenge of the Falls,Blown on his bugle from the battlementsOf his subaqueous city's rocky walls.And now you see their maddened coursers charge,Hear wavy hoof-strokes on the jagged stones,That pave the pathway of the current, beat,While billowing they ride to ringing lists,With shout and yell, and toss their hundred plumes,And shock their riply spears in tournamentUpon the opposing billows' shining shields.Now sinks a pennon, but 'tis raised again;There falls or breaks a spear or sparkling sword;A shattered helmet flies in flakes of foamAnd on the frightened wind hisses away:And o'er it all you hear the sound, the roarOf waves that fall in onset or that strive.On, on they come, a beautiful, mad troop!On, on, along the sandy banks that flingRed pebble-freckled arms far out to stayThe riotous waves that ride and hurl alongIn casque and shield and wind their wat'ry horns.And there where thousand oily eddies whirl,And turn and turn like busy wheels of steel,Is the Big Eddy, whose deep bottom noneAs yet have felt with sounding plummet-line.Like a huge giant, wily in its strength,The Eddy lies; and bending from the shoreThe spotted sycamores have looked and looked,Watching his motions as a school boy mightA sleeping serpent coiled upon his path.So long they've watched that their old backs have grownHump'd, gnarl'd, and crooked, nor seem they this to heed,But gaze and gaze, and from the glossy wavesTheir images stare back their wonderment.Mayhap they've seen the guardian Genius lieAt its dark bottom in an oozy caveOf shattered rock, recumbent on his maceOf mineral; his locks of dripping greenCircling a crown of ore; his fishy eyesDull with the monotony of his aqueous realms.But when the storm's abroad and smites the wavesWith stinging lashes of the myriad rain,Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak,Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath,And on the dark foundations of the streamStands monarch of the flood in iron crown,And murmurs till the tempest fiends aboveStand stark with awe, and all the eddy breaksTo waves like those whose round and murky bulks.Ribbed white with foam, wallow like battened swineAlong yon ridge of ragged rock o'erstrewnWith petrifactions of Time's earliest dawn;Mollusks and trilobites and honey-combsOf coral white; and here and there a massOf what seems writhing reptiles there convolved,And in one moment when the change did come,Which made and unmade continents and seas,That teemed and groaned with dire monstrosities,Had froze their glossy spines to sable stones.There where uprises a dun knoll o'erstrewnWith black and rotten stumps in the mid river,Erst rose an island green and beautifulWith willows, beeches, dappled sycamores;Corn Island, on whose rich and fertile soilThe early pioneers a colonyAttempted once to found, ere ever thisFair "City of the Falls" – now echoing toThe tingling bustle of its busy trade —Was dreamed of. Here the woodman builtHis rude log cabin; here he sowed his maize;Here saw it tassel 'neath the Summer's smile,And glance like ranks of feathered Indians thro'The misty vistas of the broken woods;Here reaped and sheaved its wealth of ivory earsWhen Autumn came like a brown Indian maidTripping from the pink sunset o'er the hills,That blushed for love and cast beneath her feetUntold of gold in leaves and yellow fruit.Here lived the pioneer and here he died,And mingled his rough dust with the raw earthOf that long isle which now disparted stands,And nothing save a bed of limestone rock, —Where in the quarry you may see the blastSpout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone,And flap and pound its echoes 'round the hillsLike giant strokes of some huge airy hammer, —And that lone mound of stumpy earth to showThat there once stood an isle as rich and fairAs any isle that rises up to kissThe sun and dream in tropic seas of balm.There lies the other half of what was onceCorn Island; a broad channel flows between.And this low half, mantled with a dwarf growthOf what was once high brakes and forest land,Goose Island now is named. In the dim morn,Ere yet the East assumes her faintest blush.Here may you hear the melancholy snipePiping, or see her paddling in the poolsThat splash the low bed of the rocky isle.Once here the Indian stole in natural craftFrom brush to brush, his head plumes like a birdFlutt'ring and nodding 'mid the undergrowth;In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow,And at his back his gaudy quiver filledWith tufted arrows headed with blue flint.And while the deep flamingo colored WestFlamed on his ruddy cheek its airy fire,Strung his quick bow and thro' the gray wild goose,That rose with clamor from the rushy pool,Launched a fleet barb, crested with quills – perchancePlucked yestere'en from its dead mate's gray wingTo decorate the painted shaft that shouldDabble to-day their white in its mate's blood; —It falling, gasping at its moccasined feet,Its wild life breathed away, while the glad braveWhooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hillsAnswered his exultation with a whoop.

THE RUINED MILL

There is the ruined water-millWith its rotten wheel, that stands as stillAs its image that sleeps in the glassy poolWhere the water snake coils dim and coolIn the flaky light of the setting sunShowering his gold in bullion.And the languid daisies nod and shineBy the trickling fall in a starry line;The drowsy daisies with eyes of gold —Large as the eyes of a queen of oldDreaming of revels by day and night —Coyly o'erdropped with lashes white.The hawk sails high in the sleepy air,The buzzard on wings as strong and fairCircles and stoops 'neath the lazy cloud,And crows in the wood are cawing aloud.Will ye enter with me this ruined millWhen the shades of night its chambers fill,Stand and lurk in the heavy darkLike scowling fiends, each eye a spark,A spark of moonlight shot thro' gloom?While a moist, rank, stifling, dead perfumeOf rotting timbers and rotting grain,And roofs all warped with the sun and rainMakes of the stagnant air a cell,In the haunted chambers broods like a spell?A spell that makes the awed mind runTo the thoughts of a hidden skeleton,A skeleton ghastly and livid and lank'Neath the mossy floors in a cellar dank,Grinning and glow'ring, moisture wet,In its hollow eyes a mad regret.Or with me enter when the evening starIn the saffron heaven is sparkling afar,In all its glory of light divine,Like a diamond bathed in kingly wine.Or when the heavens hang wild and gray,And the chilly clouds are hurrying awayLike the driven leaves of an Autumn day;When the night-rain sounds on the sodden roof,And the spider lulls in his dusty woof;When the wet wind whines like a hound that's lashed,'Round the crazy angles strongly dashed,Or wails in a cranny – 'tis she who playsOn her airy harp sad, olden lays,And sings and moans in a room aboveOf a vague despair and a blighted love.You will see her sit on the shattered sill,Her sable tresses dropped loose at will;And down in the West 'neath the storm's black bankA belt of wild green, cold, livid, and lank,And a crescent moon, like a demon's barque,Into the green dips a horn from the dark,While a lurid light of ghoulish goldOn the eldrich creature falls strangely cold.Her insane eyes bulge mad with desire,And her face's beauty is darkly dire;For she sees in the pool, that solidly lies'Neath the mill's great wheel and the stormy skies,Her murdered lover lie faint and white,A haunting horror, a loadstone's mightDrawing and dragging her soul from its seatTo the glimmering ice of his ghastly feet.

FROST

White artist he, who, breezeless nights,From tingling stars jocosely whirls,A harlequin in spangled tights,His wand a pot of pounded pearls.The field a hasty pallet; for,In thin or thick, with daub and streak,It stretches from the barn-gate's barTo the bleached ribbon of the creek.A great geometer is he;For, on the creek's diaphanous silk,Sphere, cone, and star exquisitelyHe's drawn in crystal lines of milk.Most delicate, his talent keenOn casement panes he lavishes,In many a Lilliputian sceneOf vague white hives and milky bees,That sparkling in still swarms delight,Or bow the jeweled bells of flowers; —Of dim, deep landscapes of the night,Hanging down limpid domes quaint showersOf feathery stars and meteorsAbove an upland's glimmering ways,Where gambol 'neath the feverish starsThe erl-king and the fleecy fays.Or last, one arabesque of ferns,Chrysanthemums and mistletoe,And death-pale roses bunched in urnsThat with an innate glory glow.In leafless woodlands saturnine,Where reckless winds, like goblins mad,Screech swinging in each barren vine,His wagship shapes a lesson sad:When slyly touched by his white handOf Midas-magic, forests oldDariuses of pomp then standBarbaric-crowned with living gold…Patrician state, plebeian bloodSoon foster sybarites, and they,Squand'ring their riches, wood by wood,Die palsied wrecks debauched and gray.

INVOCATION

IO Life! O Death! O God!Have I not striven?Have I not known thee, God,As thy stars know Heaven?Have I not held thee true,True as thy deepest,Sweet and immaculate blue,Of nights that feel thy dew?Have I not known thee true,O God that keepest?IIO God, my father, God!Didst give me fireTo rise above the clod,And soar, aspire!What tho' I strive and strive,And all my life says live,The sneerful scorn of menBut beats it down again;And, O! sun-centered high,O God! grand poet!Beneath thy tender skyEach day new Keatses die,And thou dost know it!IIIThey know thee beautiful!They know thee bitter!And all their eyes are full,O God! most beautiful!Of tears that glitter.Thou art above their tears;Thou art beyond their years;Thou sittest, God of Hosts,Among thy glorious ghosts,So high and holy;And canst thou know the tears,The strivings and the fears,O God of godly peers!Of such so lowly?IVThey who were fondly fainTo tell what mother painOf Nature makes the rain;They who were glad to knowThe sorrow of her snow,Of her wild winds the woe;The magic of her light,The passion of her night,And of her death the might;They who had tears and sighsFor every bud that diesWhile the dew on it lies;They who had utterance forEach warm, rose-hearted starThat stammers from afar;The demon of vast seas,The lips of lyric trees,Lays of sonorous bees;The fragrance-fays that dowerEach wildwood bosk and bowerWith its faint musk of flower;Of Time the feverish flight;Earth, man, and, last, man's rightTo thee, O Infinite!

FAIRIES

On the tremulous coppice,From her plenteous hair,Large golden-rayed poppiesOf moon-litten airThe Night hath flung there.In the fern-favored hollowThe fire-flies fleetUncertainly followPale phantoms of heat,Druid shadows that meet.Hidden flowers are fragrant;The night hazes furlO'er the solitudes vagrantIn purple and pearl,Sway-swinging and curl.From moss-cushioned valleyWhere the red sunlight fails,Rocks where musicallyThe hollow spring wails,And the limber fern trails,With a ripple and twinkleOf luminous arms,Of voices that tinkle,And feet that are stormsOf chaste, naked charms,Like echoes that revelOn hills, where the brierVaults roofs of dishevelAnd green, greedy fire,They come as a choir.At the root of the mountainWhere the dim forest lies,By the spar-spouting fountainWhere the low lily dies,With their star-stinging eyes.They gather sweet singingIn voices that seemFaint ringing and clingingIn dreams that we dream,In visions that gleam.Sweet lisping of kisses,Dry rustle of hair;A footfall that hissesLike a leaf in the airWhen the brown boughs are bare.The music that scattersFrom love-litten eyes;The music that flattersIn words and low sighs,In laughter that dies:"Come hither, come hither,In the million-eyed night,Ere the moon-flowers witherAnd the harvester white,Morning reaps them with light."Come hither, where singingIs pleasant as tears,Or dead kisses, clingingTo the murdering years,In memory's ears."Come hither where kissesAre waiting for you,For lips and long tresses,As for wild flowers blueThe moon-heated dew."Come hither from coppiceAnd violet dale,The mountain whose top isIn vapors that sailWith pearly hail pale."Why tarry? come hitherWhile the molten moon beams,Ere the golden spark witherOf the glow-worm that gleamsLike a star in still streams!"

THE TRYST

Had fallen a fragrant shower;The leaves were dripping yet;Each fern and rain-weighed flowerAround were gleaming wet;On ev'ry bosky bowerA million gems were set.The dust's moist odors siftedCool with the summer rain,Mixed with the musk that driftedFrom orchard and from plain; —Her garden's fence white liftedIts length along the lane.The moon the clouds had shatteredIn curdled peaks of pearl;The honeysuckle scatteredWarm odors from each curl,Where the white moonlight, flattered,Hung molten 'round a girl.Then grew the night completerWith light and cloud and air;Aromas sweet blew sweeter,Sweet flowers fair, more fair;Fleet feet and fast grew fleeterThro' that fair sorceress there.

AN ANTIQUE

Mildewed and gray the marble stairsRise from their balustraded urnsTo where a chiseled satyr glaresFrom a luxuriant bed of ferns;A pebbled walk that labyrinths'Twixt parallels of verdant boxTo where, broad-based on grotesque plinths,'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,Rises a ruined pleasure-house,Of shattered column, broken dome,Where, reveling in thick carouse,The buoyant ivy makes its home.And here from bank, and there from bed,Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph,The lavish violet's odors shedIn breathings of a fountain nymph.And where, in lichened hoariness,The broken marble dial-plateBasks in the Summer's sultriness,Rich houri roses palpitate.Voluptuous, languid with perfumes,As were the beauties that of old,In damask satins, jeweled plumes,With powdered gallants here that strolled.When slender rapiers, proud with gems,Sneered at the sun their haughty hues,And Touchstone wit and apothegmsLaughed down the long, cool avenues.Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave,'Neath all their heaviness of musk,Two fountains of pellucid wave,With sunlight-tessellated dusk.Beholding these, I seem to feelAn exodus of earthly sight,An influx of ecstatic wealPoured thro' my eyes in jets of light.And so I see the fountains twainOf hate and love in Arden there;The time of regal Charlemagne,Of Roland and of Oliver.Rinaldo of Montalban's towersSleeps by the spring of hate; aboveBows, spilling all his face with flowers,Angelica, who quaffed of love.

A GUINEVERE

Sullen gold down all the sky,In the roses sultry musk;Nightingales hid in the duskYonder sob and sigh.You are here; and I could weep,Weep for joy and suffering."Where is he?" He'd have me sing; —There he sits asleep.Think not of him! he is deadFor the moment to us twain;He were dead but for this painDrumming in my head."Am I happy?" Ask the fireWhen it bursts its bounds and thrillsSome mad hours as it willsIf those hours tire.He had gold. As for the rest —Well you know how they were set,Saying that I must forget,And 'twas for the best.I forget! but let it go! —Kiss me as you did of old.There! your kisses are not cold!Can you love me so,Knowing what I am to himSitting in his gouty chairOn the breezy terrace whereAmber fire-flies swim?"Yes?" – Your cheek a tear-drop wets,But your kisses on my lipFall as warm as bees that sipSweets from violets.See! the moon has risen whiteAs this bursten lily hereRocking on the dusky mereLike a silent light.Let us walk. We soon must part —All too soon! but he may miss!Give me but another kiss;It will heat my heartAnd the bitter winter there.So; we part, my Launcelot,My true knight! and am I notYour true Guinevere?Oft they parted thus they tellIn that mystical romance.Were they placed, think you, perchance,For such love in hell?No! it can not, can not be!Love is God and God is love,And they live and love above,Guinevere and he!I must go now. See! there fell,Molten into purple light,One wild star. Kiss me good-night;And, once more, farewell!

CLOUDS

All through the tepid Summer nightThe starless sky had poured a coolMonotony of pleasant rainIn music beautiful.And for an hour I'd sat to watchClouds moving on majestic feet,Had heard down avenues of nightTheir hearts of thunder beat;Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with goldPulse fiery life o'er wood and plain,While scattered, fell from monstrous palmsThe largess of the rain;Beholding at each lightning's flashThe generous silver on the sod,In meek devotion bowed, I thankedThese almoners of God.

NO MORE

IThe slanted storm tossed at their feetThe frost-nipped Autumn leaves;The park's high pines were caked with sleetAnd ice-spears armed the eaves.They strolled adown the pillared pinesTo part where wet and twisted vinesAbout the gate-posts flapped and beat.She watched him dimming in the rainAlong the river's misty shore,And laughed with lips that sneered disdain"To meet no more!"II'Mong heavy roses weighed with dewThe chirping crickets hid;Down the honeysuckle avenueCreaked the green katydid.The scattered stars smiled thro' the pines;Thro' stately windows draped with vinesThe rising moonlight's silver blew.He stared at lips proud, white, and dead,A chiseled calm that wore;Despair moaned on the lips that said"To meet no more."

DESERTED

A broken rainbow on the skies of MayTouching the sodden roses and low clouds,And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:Upon the heaven of a soul the ghostOf a great love, perfect in its pure ray,Touching the roses moist of memoryTo die within the Present's grief of clouds —A broken rainbow on the skies of May.A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers,Or red or white; its darting length of tongueSucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet,And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet:A love that put into expanding bowersOf one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powersTo cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone —A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleeceMoves amber girt into a bulk of dark,And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth:A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth,Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace —More bland than Melancholy's white – to ceaseIn blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark —A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.A blaze of living thunder – not a leap —Momental spouting balds the piléd storm,The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean,The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion:A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep,Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep,And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm —Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.

THE DREAM OF CHRIST

I saw her twins of eyelids listless swoonMesmeric eyes,Like the mild lapsing of a lulling tuneOn wide surprise,While slow the graceful presence of a moonMellowed the purple skies.And had she dreamed or had in fancy goneAs one who soughtTo hail the influx of a godly dawnOf heavenly thought,Trod trembling o'er old sainted hill and lawnWith intense angels fraught?Sailed thro' majestic domes of the deep nightBy isles of stars,Wand'ring like some pure blessing warm with lightFrom worldly jarsTo the high halls of morning, pearly white,And heaped with golden bars.Past temples vast, deluged with sandy seas,Whose ruins standLike bleaching bones of dead monstrositiesCrashed to the land,Stupendous homes of cursed idolatriesFallen to dust and sand.Ugly and bestial gods caked thick with gold —Their hideousnessBlaspheming Christ – 'mid shattered altars rolledTo rottenness,Their slaves abolished and their priests of oldTrodden to nothingness.Thro' Syrian plains curtained with curling mistThe grass she trailed,Where the shy floweret; by the dew-drop kissed,Sweet blushing quailed;And drowned in purple vales of amethystThe moon-mad bulbuls wailed.On glimmering wolds had seemed to hear the bleatOf folded flocks;Seen broad-browed sages pass with sandaled feetAnd hoary locks,While swimming in a bath of molten heatA great star glorious rocks.In fancy o'er a beaming baby bent —Cradled amissIn a rude manger – on its brow to printOne holy kiss,While down the slant winds faint aromas wentAnd anthems deep of bliss…And then she woke. The winter moon aboveBurst on her sight;And with strange sweetness all her dream was woveIn its far flight,For jubilant bells rocked booming "peace and love"Down all the aisles of night.

TO AUTUMN

I oft have net thee, Autumn, wanderingBeside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild;Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring,As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled.Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath,Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leavesThou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breathOf Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swimFar out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen,Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills betweenWith Indian faces from thy airy paint.Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hillsWithin a dingled valley nigh a fall,Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower,And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill,Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine;Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill,And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine.While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains —More sad than erst – did raise a dreamy speechAnd call thee to his youthful, amorous arms,Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains;And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach,Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.Once saw thee in a hollow girt with trees,A-dream amid the harvest's tawny grain;Thy plushy cheek faint flushing in the breeze,In thy deep eyes a drowsy sky's blue stain.And where within the woodland's twilight pathThe cloud-winged skies did peep all speechless down,And stirred the gaudy leaves with fragrant breath,I've seen thee walk, nor fear the Winter's wrath;There drop asleep clad in thy gipsy gown,While Echo bending o'er dropp'd tears upon thy wreath.

AN ADDRESS TO NIGHT

Like some sad spirit from an unknown shoreThou comest with two children in thine arms:Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore,Her flowing raiment sculptured to her charms.Soft on thy bosom in pure baby restClasped as a fair white rose in musky nest;But on thy other, like a thought of woe,Her brother, lean, cold Death doth thin recline,To thee as dear as she, thy maid divine,Whose frowsy hair his hectic breathings blowIn poppied ringlets billowing all her marble brow.Oft have I taken Sleep from thy vague armsAnd fondled her faint head, with poppies wreath'd,Within my bosom's depths, until its stormsWith her were hushed and I but mildly breath'd.And then this child, O Night! with frolic artArose from rest, and on my panting heartBlew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost,Until my airy soul smiled light on meFrom some far land too dim for day to see,And wandered in a shape of limpid frostWithin a dusky dale where soundless streams did flee.Welcome to Earth, O Night the saintly garbed!Slip meek as love into the Day's flushed heart!Drop in a dream from where the meteors orbedWander past systems scorning map or chart;Or sit aloft, thy hands brimmed full of stars,Or come in garb of storms 'mid thunder jars,When lightning-frilled gleams wide thy cloud-frounced dress,Then art thou grand! but, oh, when thy pure feetAlong the star-strewn floors of Heaven beat,And thy cool breath the heated world doth bless,Thou art God's angel of true love and gentleness!

THE HERON

EVENINGAs slaughter red the long creek crawlsFrom solitary forest walls,Out where the eve's wild glory falls.One wiry leg drowned in his breast,Neck-shrunk, flame-gilded with the West,Stark-stately he the evening wears.NIGHTThe whimp'ring creek breaks on the stone;The new moon came, but now is gone;White, tingling stars wink out alone.Lank specter of wet, windy lands,The melancholy heron stands;Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.