Undertones

ON THE FARM

IHe sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:"When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring, – concealedIn the odorous green, – is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!"IIHe trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:"When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs that loom and leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"IIIHe hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:"When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"IVHe whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:"When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"

PATHS

IWhat words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well? —The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quinces where the blue-birds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.IIWhat words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well? —Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, 'neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.IIIWhat words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well? —A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap themselves in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,'Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.IVWhat words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well? —A path that brings me o'er the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl's welcome-giving face.

A SONG IN SEASON

IWhen in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound;When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A glinting gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.IIWhen late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes;When to the door the goodman's bootsStamp through the snow the light stains red,The fire-light's red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedWith a dream of the summer, dearie.IIIWhen, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows;And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.

APART

IWhile sunset burns and stars are few,And roses scent the fading light,And like a slim urn, dripping dew,A spirit carries through the night,The pearl-pale moon hangs new, —I think of you, of you.IIWhile waters flow, and soft winds wooThe golden-hearted bud with sighs;And, like a flower an angel threw,Out of the momentary skiesA star falls burning blue, —I dream of you, of you.IIIWhile love believes, and hearts are true,So let me think, so let me dream;The thought and dream so wedded toYour face, that, far apart, I seemTo see each thing you do,And be with you, with you.

FAËRY MORRIS

IThe winds are whist; and, hid in mist,The moon hangs o'er the wooded height;The bushy bee, with unkempt head,Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed,And sleeps half-hid from sight.The owlet makes us melody —Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.IIThe dew is damp; the glow-worm's lampBlurs in the moss its tawny light;The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep,Where, in an elfin-laundered heap,The lily-gowns hang white.The crickets make us minstrelsy —Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.IIIWith scents of heat, dew-chilled and sweet,The new-cut hay smells by the bight;The ghost of some dead pansy bloom,The butterfly dreams in the gloom,Its pied wings folded tight.The world is lost in fantasy, —Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.

THE WORLD'S DESIRE

The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.She stands with Lilith finger tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe wild wine of all life; and sipsWith Lilith-laughter-lightened lipsThe soul as from a crystal cup.What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her curled lips' kiss, that stained the clay,Her fingers' touch – shall not these stay,That made its nothingness divine?Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept flame once 'neath the snowOf her mooned breasts, – and this is much!

THE UNATTAINABLE

Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day's dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellions hair? —Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup's bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Binding her brow with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams' wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith given from God's hands.The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals – as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note; —And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Fed with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood's tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent's hiss.He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.He, whom she wins, hath nothing 'neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret, —Life's bitter bread his heart's fierce tears make wet.What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull.

REMEMBERED

Here in the dusk I see her face againAs then I knew it, ere she fell asleep;Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul's inmost deep.I shall not see its like again! the browOf passive marble, purely aureoled, —As some pale lily in the afterglow, —With supernatural gold.As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardBy some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters 'round.So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections – as the stars suggestThe silence, purity and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal —The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.

THE SEA SPIRIT

Ah me! I shall not waken soonFrom dreams of such divinity!A spirit singing in the moonTo me.White sea-spray driven of the stormWere not so wildly white as she!She beckoned with a foam-white armTo me.With eyes dark green, and golden-greenLoose locks that sparkled drippingly,Out of the green wave she did leanTo me.And sang; till Earth and Heaven wereA far, forgotten memory;For more than Heaven seemed hid in herTo me: —Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home;Love, more than immortality;And music of the dreamy foamFor me.Pass over her with all thy shipsWith all thy stormy tides, O sea!The memory of immortal lipsFor me!

A DREAM SHAPE

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam,I gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odor of the wildwood bud.From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman's eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman's blossom breasts of snow.Out of a rose-bud's veins I drewThe fragrant crimson beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy's drowsiness.Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o'er her eyes' blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.A shadow's shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass:And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I —The unreal things that pass and die.

THE VAMPIRE

A lily in a twilight place?A moonflow'r in the lonely night? —Strange beauty of a woman's faceOf wildflow'r-white!The rain that hangs a star's green raySlim on a leaf-point's restlessness,Is not so glimmering green and grayAs was her dress.I drew her dark hair from her eyes,And in their deeps beheld a whileSuch shadowy moonlight as the skiesOf Hell may smile.She held her mouth up redly wan,And burning cold, – I bent and kissedSuch rosy snow as some wild dawnMakes of a mist.God shall not take from me that hour,When round my neck her white arms clung!When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,Her white throat swung!Or words she murmured while she leaned!Witch-words, she holds me softly by, —The spell that binds me to a fiendUntil I die.

WILL-O'-THE-WISP

IThere in the calamus he standsWith frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;And elfishly, and elfishly,Above the gleam of owlet eyes,A death's-moth cap of downy dyesNods out at me, nods out at me.IINow in the reeds his face looks whiteAs witch-down on a witches' night;Now through the dark old haunted mill,So eerily, so eerily,He flits; and with a whippoorwillMouth calls, and seems to syllable,"Come follow me! come follow me!"IIINow o'er the sluggish stream he wends,A slim light at his finger-ends;The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,Slips oozily, slips oozily;His easy footsteps seem to come —Like bubble-gaspings of the scum —Now near to me, now near to me.IVThere by the stagnant pool he stands,A fox-fire lamp in flickering hands;The weeds are slimy to the tread,And mockingly, and mockingly,With slanted eyes and eldritch headHe leans above a face long dead, —The face of me! the face of me!

THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN

On the black road through the woodAs I rode,There the Headless Horseman stood;By the wild pool in the wood,As I rode.From the shadow of an oak,As I rode,Demon steed and rider broke;By the thunder-shattered oak,As I rode.On the waste road through the plain,As I rode,At my back he whirled like rain;On the tempest-blackened plain,As I rode.Four fierce hoofs shod red with fire,As I rode,Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire;Eyes and nostrils streamed with fire,As I rode.On the deep road through the rocks,As I rode,I could reach his horse's locks;Through the echo-hurling rocks,As I rode.And again I looked behind,As I rode, —Dark as night and swift as wind,Towering, he rode behind,As I rode.On the steep road down the dell,As I rode,In the night I heard a bell,In the village in the dell,As I rode.And my soul called out in prayer,As I rode, —Lo! the demon went in air,Leaving me alone in prayer,As I rode.

THE WERE-WOLF

SheNay; still amort, my love? Why dost thou lag?HeThe strix-owl cried.SheNay! yon wild stream that leapsHoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps,A moon-tipped water, down a glittering crag. —Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?HeThe demon-huntsman passed with hooting horn!SheNay! 't was the blind wind sweeping through the thornAround the ruins of the Dumburg's top.HeMy limbs are cold.SheCome! warm thee in mine arms.HeMine eyes are weary.SheRest them, love, on mine.HeI am athirst.SheQuench on my lips thy thirst. —O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warmsMy blood again!HeOff!.. How thy eyeballs shine!Thy face!.. thy form!.. So do I die accursed!

THE TROGLODYTE

In ages dead, a troglodyte,At the hollow roots of a monster height, —That grew from the heart of the world to light, —I dwelt in caverns: over meWere mountains older than the moon;And forests vaster than the sea,And gulfs, that the earthquake's hand had hewn,Hung under me. And late and soonI heard the dæmon of change that sighedA cosmic language of mystery;While life sat silent, primeval-eyed,With the infant spirit of prophecy.Gaunt stars glared down on the Titan peaks;And the gaunter glare of the cratered streaksOf the sunset's ruin heard condor shrieks.The roar of cataracts hurled in air,And the hurricane laying his thunders bare,And rush of battling beasts, – whose lairWas the antechamber of nadir-gloom, —Were my outworld joys. But who shall tellThe awe of the depths that heard the boomOf the iron rivers that fashioned Hell!

THE CITY OF DARKNESS

Wide-walled it stands in heathen landsBeside a mystic sea,With streets strange-trod of many a god,And templed blasphemy.Far in the night, a rose of lightIt shines beside the sea;But overhead an unknown dreadImpends eternally.There is a sound above, aroundOf music by the sea;And weird and wide the torches glideOf pagan revelry.There is a noise as of a voiceThat calls beneath the sea;And all the deep grows pale with sleepAnd vague expectancy.Then slowly up – as from a cupSeethes poison – lifts the sea;Wild mass on mass, as in black glass,The town glows fiery.Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towersSet in the iron sea;And monster swarms with awful formsRoll though it cloudily.Still overhead the unknown dread,Whose shadow dyes the sea,At wrath-winged wait behind its gateTill God shall set it free.A taloned flash, an earthquake crash,And, lo! upon the sea,Black wall on wall, a giant pall,Night settles hideously.And where it burned, a rose inurned,Red in the vasty sea,The phantasm of the dread aboveSits in immensity.

TRANSMUTATION

To me all beauty that I seeIs melody made visible:An earth-translated state, may be,Of music heard in Heaven or Hell.Out of some love-impassioned strainOf saints, the rose evolved its bloom;And, dreaming of it here again,Perhaps re-lives it as perfume.Out of some chant that demons singOf hate and pain, the sunset grew;And, haply, still remembering,Re-lives it here as some wild hue.THE END