Kentucky Poems

A FALLEN BEECH

Nevermore at doorways that are barkenShall the madcap wind knock and the moonlight;Nor the circle which thou once didst darken,Shine with footsteps of the neighbouring moonlight,Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken.Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces,Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter,Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places;Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor,Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces.And no more, between the savage wonderOf the sunset and the moon's up-coming,Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, underThy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the hummingOf the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder.Oft the Satyr-spirit, beauty-drunken,Of the Spring called; and the music measureOf thy sap made answer; and thy sunkenVeins grew vehement with youth, whose pressureSwelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken.And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted,Bubbled green from all thy million oilets,Where the spirits, rain-and-sunbeam-suited,Of the April made their whispering toilets,Or within thy stately shadow footed.Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkledAt the windows of thy twigs, and found theeBird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkledLissom feet of naked flowers around thee,Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled.And the Autumn with his gypsy-coatedTroop of days beneath thy branches rested,Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throatedSongs of roaming; or with red hand testedEvery nut-bur that above him floated.Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich inShaggy followers of frost and freezing,Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen,Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easingLimbs snow-furred and moccasined with lichen.Now, alas! no more do these invest theeWith the dignity of whilom gladness!They – unto whose hearts thou once confessed theeOf thy dreams – now know thee not! and sadnessSits beside thee where, forgot, dost rest thee.

A TWILIGHT MOTH

All day the primroses have thought of thee,Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat;All day the mystic moonflowers silkenlyVeiled snowy faces, – that no bee might greetOr butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed; —Keeping Sultana-charms for thee, at last,Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet.Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day'sToo fervid kisses; every bud that drinksThe tipsy dew and to the starlight playsNocturns of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow linksIn bonds of secret brotherhood and faith;O bearer of their order's shibboleth,Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.What dost thou whisper in the balsam's earThat sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's, —A syllabled silence that no man may hear, —As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox?O voyager of that universe which liesBetween the four walls of this garden fair, —Whose constellations are the firefliesThat wheel their instant courses everywhere, —'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one seesMimic Boötes and the Pleiades,Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air.Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer,Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotestMab or King Oberon; or, haply, herHis queen, Titania, on some midnight quest. —Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy,That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me!And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!

THE GRASSHOPPER

What joy you take in making hotness hotter,In emphasising dulness with your buzz,Making monotony more monotonous!When Summer comes, and drouth hath dried the waterIn all the creeks, we hear your ragged raspFilling the stillness. Or, – as urchins beatA stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp, —Your switch-like music whips the midday heat.O bur of sound caught in the Summer's hair,We hear you everywhere!We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles,Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds,Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds,And by the wood 'round which the rail-fence rambles,Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw.Or, – like to tomboy truants, at their playWith noisy mirth among the barn's deep straw, —You sing away the careless summer-day.O brier-like voice that clings in idlenessTo Summer's drowsy dress!You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding,Improvident, who of the summer makeOne long green mealtime, and for winter takeNo care, aye singing or just merely feeding!Happy-go-lucky vagabond, – 'though frostShall pierce, ere long, your green coat or your brown,And pinch your body, – let no song be lost,But as you lived into your grave go down —Like some small poet with his little rhyme,Forgotten of all time.

BEFORE THE RAIN

Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder's sullen drumRumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting, – like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago, – avowed again,'Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.

AFTER RAIN

Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again,With all the star-white Hours in her train,Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blendsA sprinkled amber with the showers that layTheir oblong emeralds on the leafy ends.Behold her bend with maiden-braided browsAbove the wildflower, sidewise with its strainOf dewy happiness, to kiss againEach drop to death; or, under rainy boughs,With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain,Gather the sparkles from the sycamore,To set within each coreOf crimson roses girdling her hips,Where each bud dreams and drips.Smoothing her blue-black hair, – where many a tuskOf iris flashes, – like the falchions' sheenOf Faery 'round blue banners of its Queen, —Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk,That haunts the spring, where all the moss is muskWith footsteps of the flowers on the banks?Or just a wild-bird voluble with thanks?Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepareA festival each weed's invited to.Each bee is drunken with the honied air:And all the air is eloquent with blue.The wet hay glitters, and the harvesterTinkles his scythe, – as twinkling as the dew, —That shall not spareBlossom or brier in its sweeping path;And, ere it cut one swath,Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade?A Dryad's lips, who slumbers in the shade?A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreathSlip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pullsThe chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls?A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breatheHer viewless presence near us, unafraid?Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wadeThe brook? whose wisdom knows no other songThan that the bird sings where it builds beneathThe wild-rose and sits singing all day long.Oh, let me sit with silence for a space,A little while forgetting that fierce partOf man that struggles in the toiling mart;Where God can look into my heart's own heartFrom unsoiled heights made amiable with grace;And where the sermons that the old oaks keepCan steal into me. – And what better thenThan, turning to the moss a quiet face,To fall asleep? a little while to sleepAnd dream of wiser worlds and wiser men.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

IThe shadows sit and stand about its doorLike uninvited guests and poor;And all the long, hot summer dayThe grating locust dins its roundelayIn one old sycamore.The squirrel leaves upon its rotting roof,In empty hulls, its tracks;And in its clapboard cracksThe spider weaves a windy woof;Its cells the mud-wasp packs.The she-fox whelps upon its floor;The owlet roosts above its door;And where the musty mosses run,The freckled snake basks in the sun.IIThe children of what fathers sleepBeneath these melancholy pines?The slow slugs crawl among their graves where creepThe doddered poison-vines.The orchard, near the meadow deep,Lifts up decrepit arms,Gray-lichened in a withering heap.No sap swells up to make it leapAs once in calms and storms;No blossom lulls its age asleep;Each breeze brings sad alarms.Big, bell-round pears and apples, russet-red,No maiden gathers now;The worm-bored trunks weep gum, like tears, instead,From each decaying bough.IIIThe woodlands around it are solitaryAnd fold it like gaunt hands;The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,And the hum of the country is weary, so weary!And the bees go by in bandsTo other lovelier lands.The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;The lonesomeness, – dank and rankAs a chamber where lies for a lonely hourAn old-man's corpse with many a flower, —Is hushed and blank.And even the birds have passed it by,To sing their songs to a happier sky,A happier sky and bank.IVIn its desolate halls are lying,Gold, blood-red and browned,Drifted leaves of summer dying;And the winds, above them sighing,Turn them round and round,Make a ghostly soundAs of footsteps falling, flying,Voices through the chambers crying,Of the haunted house.VGazing down in her white shroud,Shroud of windy cloud,Comes at night the phantom moon;Comes and all the shadows soon,Crowding in the rooms, arouse;Shadows, ghosts, her rays lead on,Till beneath the cloudLike a ghost she's gone,In her gusty shroud,O'er the haunted house.

OCTOBER

I oft have met her slowly wanderingBeside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild,Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring,As if on her the sumach copse had smiled.Or I have seen her sitting, tall and brown, —Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim, —Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leavesShe wound great drowsy wreaths and cast them down;The west-wind in her hair, that made it swimFar out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves.Or in the hill-lands I have often seenThe marvel of her passage; glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.Or I have met her 'twixt two beechen hills,Within a dingled valley near a fall,Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling through the wildwood's arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.Or I have met her by some ruined mill,Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled chill,And watched her swinging in the wild-grape vine.While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,More sad than death, or all that death can teach,Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,Where splashed the murmur of the forest's fountains;With all her loveliness did she beseech,And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms.Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,I glimpsed her cheeks red-berried by the breeze,In her dark eyes the night's sidereal stain.And once upon an orchard's tangled path,Where all the golden-rod had turned to brown,Where russets rolled and leaves were sweet of breath,I have beheld her 'mid her aftermathOf blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,Within her gaze the deeps of life and death.

INDIAN SUMMER

The dawn is a warp of fever,The eve is a woof of fire;And the month is a singing weaverWeaving a red desire.With stars Dawn dices with EvenFor the rosy gold they heapOn the blue of the day's deep heaven,On the black of the night's far deep.It's – 'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!' —The season's a prince who burnsWith the teasing lusts that harryHis heart for a wench who spurns.It's – 'Crown us a beaker with sherry,To drink to the doxy's heels;A tankard of wine o' the berry,To lips like a cloven peel's.''S death! if a king be saddened,Right so let a fool laugh lies:But wine! when a king is gladdened,And a woman's waist and her eyes.'He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,And left but a leaf that flits,He hath seized heaven's gold, and a feverOf mist and of frost is its.He hath tippled the buxom beauty,And gotten her hug and her kiss —The wide world's royal bootyTo pile at her feet for this.

ALONG THE OHIO

Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold;A path of gold the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The dark-blue hilltops rise.And westward dips the crescent of the moonThrough great cloud-feathers, flushed with rosy ray,That close around the crystal of her luneThe redbird wings of Day.A little skiff slips o'er the burnished stream;A fiery wake, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples; and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.Was it the boat, the solitude and hush,That with dead Indians peopled all the glooms?That made each bank, meseemed, and every bushStart into eagle-plumes?That made me seem to hear the breaking brush,And as the deer's great antlers swelled in view,To hear the arrow twang from cane and rush,That dipped to the canoe?To see the glimmering wigwams by the waves?And, wildly clad, around the camp-fires' glow,The Shawnee chieftains with their painted braves,Each grasping his war-bow?But now the vision like the sunset fades,The ribs of golden clouds have oozed their light;And from the west, like sombre sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.The broad Ohio glitters to the stars;And many murmurs whisper in its woods —Is it the sorrow of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes?The moon goes down; and like another moonThe crescent of the river twinkles there,Unchanged as when the eyes of Daniel BooneBeheld it flowing fair.

A COIGN OF THE FOREST

The hills hang woods around, where green, belowDark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;The water hums one bar there; and a glowOf gold lies steady where the trailers tossRed, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis growWhere beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude acrossThe grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,Among the rocks, great yellow violets,Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaricIn dampness crowds; a fungus, thick, intenseWith gold and crimson and wax-white, that setsThe May-apples along the terraced creekAt bold defiance. Where the old rail-fenceDivides the hollow, there the bee-bird whetsHis bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;And there at noon the pewee sits and floatsA woodland welcome; and his very bestAt eve the red-bird sings, as if to signThe record of its loveliness with notes.At night the moon stoops over it to rest,And unreluctant stars. Where waters shineThere runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.

CREOLE SERENADE

Under mossy oak and pineWhispering falls the fountained stream;In its pool the lilies shineSilvery, each a moonlight gleam.Roses bloom and roses dieIn the warm rose-scented dark,Where the firefly, like an eye,Winks and glows, a golden spark.Amber-belted through the nightSwings the alabaster moon,Like a big magnolia whiteOn the fragrant heart of June.With a broken syrinx there,With bignonia overgrown,Is it Pan in hoof and hair,Or his image carved from stone?See! her casement's jessamines part,And, with starry blossoms blent,Like the moon she leans – O heart,'Tis another firmament.SINGSThe dim verbena drugs the duskWith lemon-heavy odours whereThe heliotropes breathe drowsy muskInto the jasmine-dreamy air;The moss-rose bursts its dewy huskAnd spills its attar there.The orange at thy casement swingsStar-censers oozing rich perfumes;The clematis, long-petalled, clingsIn clusters of dark purple blooms;With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings,Magnolias light the glooms.Awake, awake from sleep!Thy balmy hair,Down-fallen, deep on deep,Like blossoms there, —That dew and fragrance weep, —Will fill the night with prayer.Awake, awake from sleep!And dreaming here it seems to meA dryad's bosom grows confessed,Bright in the moss of yonder tree,That rustles with the murmurous West —Or is it but a bloom I see,Round as thy virgin breast?Through fathomless deeps above are rolledA million feverish worlds, that burst,Like gems, from Heaven's caskets oldOf darkness – fires that throb and thirst;An aloe, showering buds of gold,The night seems, star-immersed.Unseal, unseal thine eyes!O'er which her rodSleep sways; – and like the skies,That dream and nod,Their starry majestiesWill fill the night with God.Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

WILL O' THE WISPS

Beyond the barley meads and hay,What was the light that beckoned there?That made her sweet lips smile and say —'Oh, busk me in a gown of May,And knot red poppies in my hair.'Over the meadow and the woodWhat was the voice that filled her ears?That sent into pale cheeks the blood,Until each seemed a wild-brier budMown down by mowing harvesters?..Beyond the orchard, down the hill,The water flows, the water whirls;And there they found her past all ill,A plaintive face but smiling still,The cresses caught among her curls.At twilight in the willow glenWhat sound is that the silence hears,When all the dusk is hushed againAnd homeward from the fields strong menAnd women go, the harvesters?One seeks the place where she is laid,Where violets bloom from year to year —'O sunny head! O bird-like maid!The orchard blossoms fall and fadeAnd I am lonely, lonely here.'Two stars burn bright above the vale;They seem to him the eyes of Ruth:The low moon rises very paleAs if she, too, had heard the tale,All heartbreak, of a maid and youth.

THE TOLLMAN'S DAUGHTER

She stood waist-deep among the briers:Above in twisted lengths were rolledThe sunset's tangled whorls of gold,Blown from the west's cloud-pillared fires.And in the hush no sound did mar,You almost heard o'er hill and dell,Deep, bubbling over, star on star,The night's blue cisterns slowly well.A crane, like some dark crescent, crossedThe sunset, winging towards the west;While up the east her silver breastOf light the moon brought, white as frost.So have I painted her, you see,The tollman's daughter. – What an armAnd throat was hers! and what a form! —Art dreams of such divinity.What braids of night to hold and kiss!There is no pigment anywhereA man might use to picture this —The splendour of her raven hair.A face as beautiful and bright,As rosy fair as twilight skies,Lit with the stars of hazel eyesAnd eyebrowed black with pencilled night.For her, I know, where'er she trodEach dewdrop raised a looking-glassTo flash her beauty from the grass;That wild-flowers bloomed along the sod,And whispered perfume when she smiled;The wood-bird hushed to hear her song,Or, all enamoured, tame, not wild,Before her feet flew fluttering long.The brook went mad with melody,Eddied in laughter when she kissedWith naked feet its amethyst —And I – I fell in love; ah me!

THE BOY COLUMBUS

And he had mused on lands each bird, —That winged from realms of Falerina,O'er seas of the Enchanted Sword, —In romance sang him, till he heardVague foam on Islands of Alcina.For rich Levant and old CastileLet other seamen freight their galleys;With Polo he and MandevilleThrough stranger seas a dreamy keelSailed into wonder-peopled valleys.Far continents of flow'r and fruit,Of everlasting spring; where fountains'Mid flow'rs, with human faces, shoot;Where races dwell, both man and brute,In cities under golden mountains.Where cataracts their thunders hurlFrom heights the tempest has at mercy;Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirlTheir torrents down of gold and pearl;And forests strange as those of Circe.Let rapiered Love lute, in the shadeOf royal gardens, to the PalaceAnd Court, that haunt the balustradeOf terraces and still paradeTheir vanity and guile and malice.Him something calls diviner yetThan Love, more mighty than a lover;Heroic Truth that will not letDeed lag; a purpose, westward set,In eyes far-seeing to discover.

SONG OF THE ELF

IWhen the poppies, with their shields,SentinelForest and the harvest fields,In the bellOf a blossom, fair to see,There I stall the bumble-bee,My good stud;There I stable him and hold,Harness him with hairy gold;There I ease his burly backOf the honey and its sackGathered from each bud.IIWhere the glow-worm lights its lamp,There I lie;Where, above the grasses damp,Moths go by;Now within the fussy brook,Where the waters wind and crookRound the rocks,I go sailing down the gloomStraddling on a wisp of broom;Or, beneath the owlet moon,Trip it to the cricket's tuneTossing back my locks.IIIEre the crowfoot on the lawnLifts its head,Or the glow-worm's light be gone,Dim and dead,In a cobweb hammock deep,'Twixt two ferns I swing and sleep,Hid away;Where the drowsy musk-rose blowsAnd a dreamy runnel flows,In the land of Faëry,Where no mortal thing can see,All the elfin day.

THE OLD INN

Red-winding from the sleepy town,One takes the lone, forgotten laneStraight through the hills. A brush-bird brownBubbles in thorn-flowers, sweet with rain,Where breezes bend the gleaming grain,And cautious drip of higher leavesThe lower dips that drip again. —Above the tangled trees it heavesIts gables and its haunted eaves.One creeper, gnarled and blossomless,O'erforests all its eastern wall;The sighing cedars rake and pressDark boughs along the panes they sprawl;While, where the sun beats, drone and drawlThe mud-wasps; and one bushy bee,Gold-dusty, hurls along the hallTo buzz into a crack. – To meThe shadows seem too scared to flee.Of ragged chimneys martins makeHuge pipes of music; twittering, hereThey build and roost. – My footfalls wakeStrange stealing echoes, till I fearI'll see my pale self drawing near,My phantom face as in a glass;Or one, men murdered, buried – where? —Dim in gray stealthy glimmer, passWith lips that seem to moan 'Alas.'

THE MILL-WATER

The water-flag and wild cane grow'Round banks whereon the sunbeams sowFantastic gold when, on its shores,The wind sighs through the sycamores.In one green angle, just in reach,Between a willow-tree and beech,Moss-grown and leaky lies a boatThe thick-grown lilies keep afloat.And through its waters, half awake,Slow swims the spotted water-snake;And near its edge, like some gray streak,Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.Between the lily-pads and bloomsThe water-spirits set their looms,That weave the lace-like light that dimsThe glimmering leaves of under limbs.Each lily is the hiding-placeOf some dim wood-imp's elvish face,That watches you with gold-green eyesWhere bubbles of its breathing rise.I fancy, when the waxing moonLeans through the trees and dreams of June,And when the black bat slants its wing,And lonelier the green-frogs sing;I fancy, when the whippoorwillIn some old tree sings wild and shrill,With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark, —Each holding high a firefly sparkTo torch its way, – the wood-imps come:And some float rocking here; and someUnmoor the lily leaves and oarAround the old boat by the shore.They climb through oozy weeds and moss;They swarm its rotting sides and tossTheir firefly torches o'er its edgeOr hang them in the tangled sedge.The boat is loosed. The moon is pale.Around the dam they slowly sail.Upon the bow, to pilot it,A jack-o'-lantern gleam doth sit.Yes, I have seen it in my dreams! —Naught is forgotten! naught, it seems! —The strangled face, the tangled hairOf the drown'd woman trailing there.

THE DREAM

This was my dream:It seemed the afternoonOf some deep tropic day; and yet the moonStood round and bright with golden alchemyHigh in a heaven bluer than the sea.Long lawny lengths of perishable cloudHung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed;Clouds raining colours, gold and violet,That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to letHints down of Parian beauty and lost charmsOf dim immortals, young, with floating forms.And all about me fruited orchards grew,Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue;Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire,Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desireAnd big with juice. And on far, fading hills,Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rillsFlashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vinesOf purple vintage swollen with cool wines;Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June,Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon.And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there drippedAn odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped,That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs;Investing at each throb the air with eyes,And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,Clad on with raiment as of starry night;Fair, faint embodiments of melody,From out whose hearts of crystal one could seeThe music stream like light through delicate handsHollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sandsThe ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,My soul became a vibrant harp of love,Re-echoing all the harmony above.