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 beneath

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