Song-Surf

RETURN

Ah, it was here – SeptemberAnd silence filled the air —I came last year to remember,And muse, hid away from care.It was here I came – the thistleWas trusting her seed to the wind;The quail in the croft gave whistleAs now – and the fields lay thinned.I know how the hay was steeping,Brown mows under mellow haze;How a frail cloud-flock was creepingAs now over lone sky-ways.Just there where the catbird's callingHer mock-hurt note by the shed,The use-worn wain was stallingIn the weedy brook's dry bed.And the cricket, lone little chimerOf day-long dreams in the vines,Chirred on like a doting rhymerO'er-vain of his firstling lines.He's near me now by the aster,Beneath whose shadowy sprayA sultry bee seeps fasterAs the sun slips down the day.And there are the tall primrosesLike maidens waiting to dance.They stood in the same shy posesLast year, as if to entranceThe stately mulleins to wakenFrom death and lead them around:And still they will stand untaken,Till drops their gold to the ground.Yes, it was here – SeptemberAnd silence round me yearned.Again I've come to remember,Again for musing returnedTo the searing fields' assuaging,And the falling leaves' sad balm:Away from the world's keen waging —To harvest and hills and calm.

LISETTE

Oh … there was love in her heart – no doubt of it —Under the anger.But see what came out of it!Not a knave, he! – A smitten rhyme-smatterer,Cloaking in languorAnd heartache to flatter her.And just as a woman will – even the best of them —She yielded – brittle.God spare me the rest of them!For! though but kisses – she swore! – he had of her,Was it so little?She thought 'twas not bad of her,Said I would lavish a burning hour-fullOn any grisette.And silenced me, powerful!But she was mine, and blood is inflammable —For a Lisette!My rage was undammable…Could a stiletto's one prick be prettier?Look at the gaping.No? – then you're her pitier!Pah! she's the better, and I … I'm your prisoner.Loose me the strapping —I'll lay one more kiss on her.

FROM ONE BLIND

I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyesLike violets, April-rich and sprung of God.My barren gaze can never know what throesSuch boons of beauty waken, tho' I riseEach day a-tremble with the ruthless hopeThat light will pierce my useless lids – then gropeTill night, blind as the worm within his clod.Yet unto me thou art not less divine,I touch thy cheek – and know the mystery hidWithin the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hairAnd understand how slipping hours may twineThemselves into eternity: yea, ridOf all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seemTo see all beauty God Himself may dream.Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?

IN A CEMETERY

When Autumn's melancholy robes the landWith silence, and sad fadings mysticalOf other years move thro' the mellow fields,I turn unto this meadow of the dead,Strewn with the leaves stormed from October trees,And wonder if my resting shall be dugHere by this cedar's moan or under the swayOf yonder cypress – lair of winds that roveAs Valkyries sent from Valhalla's courtIn search of worthy slain.And sundry times with questioning I teaseThe entombed of their estate – seeking to knowWhether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feelThe oblivion of Nature's silent flow,Or here to wander wistful o'er her face.Whether the harvesting of pain and joyWhich men call Life ends so, or whether deathPours the warm chrism of ImmortalityInto each human heart whose glow is spent.And oft the Silence hears me. For a voiceOf sighing wind may answer, or a gaze,Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face.Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of gold,That ebb along the west, revealings wingAnd tremble, like ethereal swift tonguesUnskilled of human speech, about my heart —Till youth, age, death, even earth's all, it seems,Are but brave moments wakened in that Soul,To whom infinities are as a span,Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun,And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wildsInto the ceaseless surging of the sea…Then twilight hours lead back my wandered spiritFrom out the wilderness of mysteryWhence none may find a path to the Unknown,And chastened to content I turn me home.

WAKING

Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn,When sleep's oblivion is torn awayFrom love that died with dying yesterdayBut still unburied in the heart lies on!Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees,The sense of human waking o'er the earth!The quivering memories of love's fair birthNow strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness,Striving for sovranty within the soul!Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole,And immortality but make it less!

STORM-EBB

Dusking amber dimly creepsOver the vale,Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,Sad with his wail.Eastward swing the silent cloudsInto the night.Burdens of day they seem – in crowdsHurled from earth's sight.Tilting gulls whip whitely farOver the lake,Tirelessly on o'er buoy and sparTill they o'ertakeShadow and mingled mist – and thenVanish to wingStill the bewildering night-fen,Where the waves ring.Dusking amber dimly diesOut of the vale.Dead from the dunes the winds arise —Ghosts of the gale.

LINGERING

I lingered still when you were gone,When tryst and trust were o'er,While memory like a wounded swanIn sorrow sung love's lore.I lingered till the whippoorwillHad cried delicious painOver the wild-wood – in its thrillI heard your voice again.I lingered and the mellow breezeBlew to me sweetly dewed —Its touch awoke the sorceriesYour last caresses brewed.But when the night with silent startHad sown her starry seed,The harvest which sprang in my heartWas loneliness and need.

FAUN-CALL

Oh, who is he will follow meWith a singing,Down sunny roads where windy odesOf the woods are ringing?Where leaves are tossed from branches lostIn a tangleOf vines that vie to clamber high —But to vault and dangle!Oh, who is he? – His eye must beAs a lover'sTo leap and woo the chicory's hueIn the hazel-hovers!His hope must dance like radianceThat hurriesTo scatter shades from the silent gladesWhere the quick hare scurries.And he must see that Autumn's gleeAnd her laughterFrom his lips and heart will quell all smart —Of before and after!

THE LIGHTHOUSEMAN

When at evening smothered lightningsBurn the clouds with fretted fires;When the stars forget to glisten,And the winds refuse to listenTo the song of my desires,Oh, my love, unto thee!When the livid breakers angeredChurn against my stormy tower;When the petrel flying fasterBrings an omen to the masterOf his vessel's fated hour —Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!Then I climb the climbing stairway,Turn the light across the storm;You are watching, fisher-maidenFor the token-flashes ladenWith a love death could not harm —Lo, they come, swift and free!One – that means, "I think of thee!"Two – "I swear me thine!"Three – Ah, hear me tho' you sleep! —Is, that I know thee mine!Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,All the night they sweep:Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,One – and Two – and Three.

SERENITY

And could I love it more – this simple sceneOf cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,That lie as if forgotten were all green,So bare, so dead!Or could my gaze more tenderly entwineEach pallid beech and silvery sycamoreOutreaching arms in patience to divineIf winter's o'er?Ah no, the wind has blown into my veinsThe blue infinity of sky, the senseOf meadows free to-day from icy pains —From wintry vents.And sunny peace more virgin than the glowFalling from eve's first star into the night,Brings hope believing what it ne'er can knowWith mortal sight.

WANTON JUNE

I knew she would come!Sarcastic NovemberLaughed cold and glumOn the last red emberOf forest leaves.He was laughing, the scorner,At me forlornerThan any that grieves —Because I asked him if June would come!But I knew she would comeWhen snow-hearted winterGripped river and loam,And the wind sped flinterOn icy heel,I was chafing my sorrowAnd yearning to borrowA hope that would stealAcross the hours – till June should come.And now she is here —The wanton! – I followHer steps, ever near,To the shade of the hollowWhere violets blow:And chide her for leaving,Tho' half believingShe taunted me so,To make her abided return more dear.

SPIRIT OF RAIN

(Miyanoshita, Japan, 1905)Spirit of rain —With all thy mountain mists that wander lonelyAs a gray trainOf souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!Spirit of rain!Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onwardTill not in vainThey tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.Spirit of rain!So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher,Till they regainBirth and the beauty of a new life's fire.

AUTUMN AT THE BRIDGE

Brown dropping of leaves,Soft rush of the wind,Slow searing of sheavesOn the hill;Green plunging of frogs,Cool lisp of the brook,Far barking of dogsAt the mill;Hot hanging of clouds,High poise of the hawk,Flush laughter of crowdsFrom the Ridge;Nut-falling, quail-calling,Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling —Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,Of an autumn day at the bridge!

TEARLESS

Do women weep when men have died?It cannot be!For I have sat here by his side,Breathing dear names against his face,That he must list to, were his placeOver God's throne —Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.Do women weep – not gaze stone-eyed?Grief seems in vain.Do women weep? – I was his bride —They brought him to me cold and pale —Upon his lids I saw the trailOf deathly pain.They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,Dropped on his lids,Might burn him back to life and yearsOf yearning love, would any riseTo flood the anguish from my eyes —And I'm his bride!Ah me, do women weep when men have died?

SUNSET-LOVERS

Upon how many a hill,Across how many a field,Beside how many a river's restful flowing,They stand, with eyes a-thrill,And hearts of day-rue healed,Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!They have forgotten life,Forgotten sunless death;Desire is gone – is it not gone for ever?No memory of strifeHave they, or pain-sick breath.No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.Silent the gold steals downThe west, and mysteryMoves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.'Tis faded – the day's crown;But strange and shadowyThey see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.Like priests whose altar firesAre spent, immovableThey stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,The starry deeps are full,Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.Ah, sunset-lovers, thoughTime were but pulsing pain,And death no more than its eternal ceasing,Would you not choose the throe,Hold the oblivion vain,To have beheld so many a day's releasing?

THE EMPTY CROSS

The eve of Golgotha had come,And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb:Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!The hill grew dim – the pleading crossReached empty arms toward the closing gate.Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!Reached bleeding arms – but how in vain!The murmurous multitude within the wallAlready had forgot His pain —To-morrow would forget the cross – and all!They knew not Rome, before its sign,Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,Would sweep all lands from Nile to RhineIn servitude unto the Nazarene.Nor knew that millions would forsakeAncestral shrines great with the glow of time,And lifting up its token shakeAeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.With empty arms aloft it stood:Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!The cross emblotted with His bloodMounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!

UNBURTHENED

Not grief nor the sunny wineOf gladness steeps my spirit as I gazeOver these meads that lie engarmentedIn stubble robes of winter-weary brown.For, as those solitary trees afarHave reached unbudding boughs to the dim dayAnd melted on the infinite calm of space,So have I reached, and am no more distraughtWith the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift cloudsAway to the sullen shades of the low west,Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude —And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.

SONG

Her voice is vibrant beauty diptIn dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis sliptAnd lo, words spring that breathe immortal.

TO HER WHO SHALL COME

1Out of the night of lovelessness I callThee, as, in a chill chamber where no raysOf unbelievable light and freedom fall,Might cry one manacled! And tho' the waysThou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's soreWith emptiness when morning's silent graysWake me to long aloneness; yet I knowThou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt goBeside me, when I have found thee, evermore!2So in the garden of my heart each dayI plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,And now the lily, faith – or now a sprayOf the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er ceaseAround the still unblossoming rose of loveTo bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.Then – for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runsWith brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.3But where now art thou? Watching with love's eyeThe eve-star wander? Listening through dim treesSome thrilled muezzin of the forest cryFrom his leafy minaret? Or by the sea'sBlue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangsLike the faery isle of Avalon, do theseMy yearnings speak to thee of days thy feetHave never trod? – Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.4And will be soon! For last night near to-day,Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphereOf heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and layThine ear unto my Heart – there thou shalt hearThe secrets of this world where evils war."Such things I heard as must rend mortal clayTo tell, and trembled – till God, pitying,Said, "Listen" … Oh, my love, I heard thee singOut of thy window to the morning star!

STORM-TWILIGHT

Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,Beaten abaft by the rain,The swallows high in the sodden skyCircle oft and again.They rise and sink and drift and swing,Twitterless in the chill;A-haste, for stark is the coming darkOver the wet of the hill.Wildly, swiftly, at last they streamInto their chimney home.A livid gash in the west, a crash —Then silence, sadness, gloam.

SLAVES

A host of bloody centuries lie proneUpon the fields of Time – but still the wakeOf Progress loud is haunted with the groanOf myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slakeHis scarlet thirst, has War, fierce PolyphemeOf fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.We bid the courier lightning leap alongIts instant path with spirit speed – commandStars lost in night-eternity to throngBefore the magnet eye of Science – standOn Glory's peak and triumphingly cryOut mastery of earth and sea and air.But unto War's necessity we bareOur piteous breasts – and impotently die.

AVOWAL TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delightUpon these airs, bird of the poet's love,Yet must I sing thy singing! For the NightHas poured her jewels o'er the lap of heavenAs they who hear thee say thou dost aboveThe wood such ecstasies as were not givenBy nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.2Oft have I watched the moon with her fair goldStill clung to by the tattered mists of dayArise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.And almost I could see how the near laurelsWould tremble with thy trembling: but the swayOf bards who wreathed thee with unfading choralsHas held my longing lips from this poor lay.3But take it now. And if the lark – who isToo high for earth – may vie for praise with theeIn aery rhapsody, yet it is hisTo sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrowAnd night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt beMore dear than he – till hearts shall cease to borrowFrom grief the healing for life's mystery.

WILDNESS

To drift with the drifting clouds,And blow with the blow of breezes,To ripple with waves and murmur with cavesTo soar, as the sea-mew pleases!To dip with the dipping sails,And burn with the burning heaven —My life! my soul! for the infinite rollOf a day to wildness given!

BEFORE AUTUMN

Summer's last moon has waned —WanedAs amber firesOf an Aztec shrine.The invisible breath of coming death has stainedThe withering leaves with its nepenthean wine —Autumn's near.Winds in the woodland moan —MoanAs memoriesOf a chilling yore.Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strownFrom crimson pods along the earth's sere floor —Autumn's near.Solitude slowly steals,StealsHer silent wayBy the songless brook.At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,The musing joy of sadness in her look —Autumn's near.Yes, with her golden days —DaysWhen hope and toilAre at peace and rest —Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praiseLies down with leaf and blossom on his breast —Autumn's near.

FULFILMENT

A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by oneAlong the creek.The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still —Life's flow is weak.Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk – or pause —Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose cawsSeem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awesOf forest deeps.Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God,Who never sleeps.And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,The while she reaps.

LAST SIGHT OF LAND

The clouds in woe hang far and dim:I look again, and lo,Only a faint and shadow lineOf shore – I watch it go.The gulls have left the ship and wheelBack to the cliff's gray wraith.Will it be so of all our thoughtsWhen we set sail on Death?And what will the last sight be of lifeAs lone we fare and fast?Grief and the face we love in mist —Then night and awe too vast?Or the dear light of Hope – like that,Oh, see, from the lost shoreKindling and calling "Onward, youShall reach the Evermore!"

SILENCE

Silence is song unheard,Is beauty never born,Is light forgotten – left unstirredUpon Creation's morn.THE END