The House of the Trees & Other Poems

The Twins

ITHE old man and his apple-treeAre verging close on eighty-three;’Twas planted there when he was two,And almost side by side they grew.How strong and straight they were at eight,One leafy, one with curly pate.How fine at twenty, how aliveAnd prosperous at twenty-five.What health and grace in every limb,Was said of it—was said of him.IITHEN when he blushed, a marriage groom,The tree outvied the bride in bloom;And in the after years there playedWithin its ample sweep of shadeA little child, with cheeks as redAs had the apples overhead.Her father called the tree his twin,And surely it was next of kin.IIITHE best of life came to the twain,The beauty of the stars, the rain,Soft stepping, and the liquid notesThat overflow from feathered throats.Unto the soul that selfish strivesWas borne the fragrance of their lives,And anxious folk with brow down bentBathed in their dewy cool content.They held their heads up in the storm,And gloried when the winds were warm;Their shadows lay but at their feet,And all of life above was sweet.IVAND now that they are eighty-threeThey’re almost as they used to be.The blossoms are as pink and white,The old man’s heart as pure and light.The apples—fragrant balls of flame—Are looking, tasting, just the same.And just the same his uttered thoughtOf mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought.Through all their years they kept their truth,Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.

Autumn Fire

THE fires of Autumn are burning high;Bright the trees in the woods are blazing—A wall of flame from the brilliant skyDown to the fields where the cattle are grazing.O the warm, warm end of the year!Even the shrubs their red hearts render;All the bushes are bright with cheerAnd the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.The fires of Autumn are burning low;Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!Blow the flames to a ruddier show,Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;White is the death stone, white and drear,Over a desolate world of ashes.

In the Grass

FACE downward on the grass in reverie,I found how cool and sweetAre the green glooms that often thoughtlesslyI tread beneath my feet.In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean—Elf trees untouched of bark—I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheenOf sunlight framing dark,And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,And know not how to speak,A daisy reaching up its little handTo lay it on my cheek.

The Fields of Dark

THE wreathing vine within the porchIs in the heart of me,The roses that the noondays scorchShall burn in memory;Alone at night I quench the light,And without star or sparkThe grass and trees press to my knees,And flowers throng the dark.The leaves that loose their hold at noonDrop on my face like rain,And in the watches of the moonI feel them fall again.By day I stray how far awayTo stream and wood and steep,But on my track they all come backTo haunt the vale of sleep.The fields of light are clover-brimmed,Or grassed or daisy-starred,The fields of dark are softly dimmed,And safely twilight-barred;But in the gloom that fills my roomI cannot fail to markThe grass and trees about my knees,The flowers in the dark.

Children in the City

THOUSANDS of childish ears, rough chidden,Never a sweet bird-note have heard,Deep in the leafy woodland hiddenDies, unlistened to, many a bird.For small soiled hands in the sordid cityBlossoms open and die unbreathed;For feet unwashed by the tears of pityStreams around meadows of green are wreathed.Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander,Summer breezes out in the fields;Scarcely noticed, the green months squanderAll the wealth that the summer yields.Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity!Opulent stretch the country skiesOver solitudes, while in the cityStarving for beauty are childish eyes.

Where Pleasures Grow

WHERE pleasures grow as thick as grass,And joys of silence, soft, profound,Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound,The long, long days of summer pass.I see them sitting in the sun,Or moving river-like betweenThe climbing and down-bending green,I watch them vanish one by one,And strive to clasp them as they flee,But only hold their shadows fast—The summer shadows that they castUpon the path of memory.

In the Heart of the Woods

I LOST my heart in the heart of the woods;It stayed there through the day,It stayed there through the solitudesOf a night with no moon ray.Through the day so dusty, worn and sereMy heart was cool and free,Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear,My heart slept peacefully.I found my heart in the heart of the woods,I looked on it and smiled;And over it still the woodland broods,As a mother over her child.

Frost

WHEN the sun is growing weaker,And his look is meek and meeker,Comes the frost—the pale betrayer—Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.In the night abroad he stealeth,For each trembling leaf he feeleth;Something softened by its pleading,Kills it not but leaves it bleeding.

The Chipmunk

TO-day the green hill was at strifeWith me; it robbed my feet of life.The wind that loudly speaks his mind,Said in my presence nothing kind.The sky’s clear face was from me turned,Behind a cloud his great fire burned.An exile in his native cot,Who finds his very name forgot,Was I this afternoon, untilAt the wood’s edge behind the hill,A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb,And took my heart away with him.

Give Me the Poorest Weed

GIVE me the poorest weedTo satisfy my spirit’s need.The brownest blade of grassWill know and greet me when I pass.Of their own feeling wrought,They live like simple, vital thought;The mind could not inventA better thing than Nature meant.

The Weeks that Walk in Green

THE weeks that walk in greenCame to my willow lane,And wrapt me in their leafy screenAgainst the sun and rain.Then far and far we wentBy stream and wood and steep,Until, all love-worn and joy-spent,I yielded me to sleep.And they—they died unseen;Their ghosts are haunting me—The gentle ghosts that walk in greenThrough vales of memory.

Noonday of the Year

THE streams that chattered in the coldAre sleeping in the sun;The winds of March were overboldUntil their race was run.O mad with haste the morning went,But now love-warm and deep,The fields, their first ambition spent,Lie in their noonday sleep.

The Wind World

ALONE within the wind I lie,And reck not how the seasons go;The winter struggling through its snow,The light-winged summer flitting by.I am not of the cloud nor mold,I move between the stars and flowers,I know the tingling touch of hoursWhen all the storms of night unfold.Within the wind world drifting freeI hear naught of earth’s murmurings,Naught but the sound of songs and wingsAmong the tree-tops comes to me.At night earth stars flash out below,And heaven stars shine out above;I look down on the lights of love,And feel the higher love-lights glow.

At the Window

HOW thick about the window of my lifeBuzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets:Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife,Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets.If ’mid this swarm of smallnesses remainA single undimmed spot, with wondering eyeI note before my freckled window-paneThe outstretched splendor of the earth and sky.

Come Back Again

CHILD-thoughts, child-thoughts, come back again!Faint, fitful, as you used to be;The dusty chambers of my brainHave need of your fair company,As when my child-head reached the heightOf the wild rose-bush at the door,And all of heaven and its delightBloomed in the flow’rs the old bush bore.Come back, sweet long-departed year,When, sitting in a hollow oak,I heard the sheep bells far and clear,I heard a voice that silent spoke,And felt in both a vague appeal,And both were mingled in my dreamsWith leaves that viewless breezes feel,And skies clear mirrored in the streams.Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again!Bring back the tall grass at my cheek,The grief more swift than summer rain,The joy that knew no words to speak.The buttercup’s uplifted goldThat strives to reach my hands in vain,The love that never could grow cold—Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again!

A Rainy Morning

THE low sky, and the warm, wet wind,And the tender light on the eyes;A day like a soul that has never sinned,New dropped from Paradise.And ’tis oh, for a long walk in the rain,By the side of the warm, wet breeze,With the thoughts washed clean of dust and stainAs the leaves on the shining trees.

June Apples

GREEN apple branches full of green applesAll around me unfurled,Here where the shade and the sunlight dapplesA grass-green, apple-green world.Little green children stirred with the heavingOf the warm breast of the air,When your old nurse, the wind, is grievingComfortlessly you fare.But now an old-time song she is crooning,Nestle your heads again,While I dream on through the golden nooning,Or look for the first red stainOn some round cheek that the sunshine dapples,Near me where I lie curledUnder green trees athrong with green apples,In a grass-green, apple-green world.

Beginning and End

ONCE it was in my life’s beginning,Roses were tall in their summer beds,Dandelions within my fingersThrust their confident golden heads;Wading waist-deep ’mid the daisies,Feeling the grasses about me climb—Thus it was in my life’s beginning;What have you done to me, Father Time?So shall it be when life has ended:Roses shall bloom above my head,Dandelions will know I am lyingHidden in grass from foot to head.Hidden in grass and hidden in daisies,Over my breast I shall feel them climb,Thus it will be when life has ended;This will you do to me, Father Time.

Not at Home

THE Weariness of Idleness,She waited all the dayIn the parlor of her neighbor,The Weariness of Labor—A visit she had long meant to pay.But not until the eveningDid her hostess come in sight;Then the Weariness of LaborExplained unto her neighborThat she lived but a brief hour at night.

The Wind of Memory

RED curtains shut the storm from sight,The inner rooms are live with light;The fireside faces all aglowSee not the pale ghost in the snow,The pale ghost at the window pressed,With the wind moaning in her breast.She sees the face she hurt with scorn,The other face where joy, new born,Died out at her cheap mockery;The eyes she filled, how bitterly!The head that drooped beneath her jest—The wind is moaning in her breast.Invisible, unfelt, unknown,She lingers trembling. She aloneNotes tenderly her vacant place,And sees in it her vanished face;She only—of this happy nest!The wind is moaning in her breast.Star-like the happy windows glow,Framed in with mile on mile of snow;And from their light a thing of death,Of grief and memory vanisheth,Her sin not deep but unredressed,And the wind moaning in her breast.

Philippa

A GENEROUS gentleness that flowed,Stream-like, beside a dusty road;Gave laborers shade, and prisoners sun,And easeful joy to every one;With liquid melodies for suchAs worked or wearied overmuch,And ministrations cool and sweetFor fevered hands and aching feet.So delicately fair she moved—That stream-like girl, of all beloved.Along her path no grief nor careBut lulled and lightened unaware.She bore the sky within her breast,And child-like winds her soul caressed,Until her spring of life was dried,And with a smile Philippa died.

The Student

THE student sits within his room,So small and worn and white;His lamp flames out remote and strangeThrough all the hours of night.And all day long within his face,So small and worn and white,His eyes flame out—those lamp-like eyes,So weirdly, strangely bright.

Unspoken

MY lover comes down the long leafy streetThrough tenderly falling rain;His footsteps near our portal veer,Go past—then turn again.O can it be he is knocking below,Or here at my door above?So gentle and small it sounds in the hall,So loud in the ear of love.But never a word of love has he said,And never a word crave I,For why should one long for the daylight strongWhen the dawn is in the sky?O a dewy rose-garden is the house,A garden shut from the sun;The breath of it sweet floats up, as my feetFloat down to my waiting one.But if ever a word of love thinks he,It falls from his heart still-born;Who bends to the rose does not haste to closeHis hand around bud and thorn.The beautiful soul that is in him turnsHis beautiful face agleam;My own soul flies to feast in his eyes,Where the silent love-words teem.Our talk is of books, and of thoughts and moods,Of the wild flowers in the rain;And he leans his cheek, when we do not speak,On his chair where my hand had lain.Yet never a word of love does he say,And never a word crave I;For the faint green May would wither awayAt the quick touch of July.And at last—at last we look our last,And the dim day grows more dim;But his eyes still shine in these eyes of mine,And my soul goes forth with him.For though not a word of love does he say,Still never a word crave I;For the words of earth are of little worthWhen a song drops out of the sky.

Under the King

LOVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,Love with the lily throat and hands,Is done to death, and free as airAm I of all my King’s commands.How shall I celebrate my joy?Or dance with feet that once were fleetIn his adorable employ?Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet?How can I at his lifeless faceAim any sharp or bitter jest,Since roguish destiny did placeThat tender target in my breast?Nay, let me be sincere and strong;I cannot rid me of my chains,I cannot to myself belong,My King is dead—his soul still reigns.

The Secret

SOME chance moment life confessesThat her insect nothingnessesCarry honey with their stings,But ’tis only to their kings—Those who know how best to use them,Those who know how to refuse them—That the secret is made free,And souls are loosed from tyranny.

Limitation

BEYOND the far horizon’s farthest boundA farther boundary lies;No spirit wing can reach the utmost round,No spirit eyes.The soul has limitations such as space,Such as eternity;The farthest star to which thou setst thy faceBelongs to thee.

Three Years Old

WHAT is it like, I wonder, to roamDown through the tall grass hidden quite?To feel very far away from homeWhen the dear house is out of sight?To want to play with the broken moonIn the star garden of the skies?To sleep through twilight eves of JuneBeneath the sound of lullabies?To hold up hurts for all to see,Sob at imaginary harms,To clasp in welcome a father’s knee,And fit so well to a mother’s arms?To have life bounded by one dull road,A wood and a pond, and to feel no lack,To gaze with pleasure upon a toad,And caress a mud-turtle’s horny back?To follow the robin’s cheerful hopWith all the salt small hands can hold,And plead in vain for it to stop—What is it like to be three years old?Ah, once I knew, but ’twas long ago;I try to recall it in vain—in vain!And now I know I shall never knowWhat it is to be a child again.

Sometime, I Fear

SOMETIME, I fear, but God alone knows when,Mine eyes shall gaze on your unseeing eyes,On your unheeding ears shall fall my cries,Your clasp shall cease, your soul go from my ken,Your great heart be a fire burned out.—Ah, then,What shall remain for me beneath the skiesOf glad, or good, or beautiful, or wise,That can relume and thrill my life again?This shall remain, a love that cannot fail,A life that joys in your great joy, yet grievesIn memory of sweet days fled too soon.Sadness divine! as when November paleSits broken-hearted ’mong her withered leaves,And feels the wind about her warm as June.

Joy

WHEN airy joy doth hail meI follow on behind,And lest my feet should fail meI follow on the wind;I hear her lightsome laughterGo floating past the door,And swift I follow afterAs she flies on before.When I am faint and falling,And lose her skyey wings,I hear her liquid calling,And feel the charm she flingsOn all the earth and o’er me,Then eagerly I rise,And see her skirts before meGo glittering up the skies.The best of life would daunt meUngirdled by her grace,And foreign demons haunt meWhene’er she hides her face.Up roughest steeps with laughterMy airy joy doth soar,As wind-like I come after,And she flies on before.

In the Dark

ALL in the dark he crossed the border!All in the dark, for the lamp of faithHad never been used, and was not in order—So all in the dark he encountered Death.

Words

I LIKE those words that carry in their veinsThe blood of lions. “Liberty” is one,And “Justice,” and the heart leaps to the sunWhen the thrilled note of “Courage! Courage!” rainsUpon the sorely stricken will. No painsSurvive when “Life” and “Light,” twin glories, runFrom the quick page to some poor soul undone,And beggar by their glow all other gains.How splendidly does “Morning” flood our night!How the word “Ocean” drowns our insect cares,And drives a strong wind through our housed-up grief.While “Honor” lifts us to the mountain height;And “Loyalty” the heaviest burden bearsAs lightly as a tree a crimson leaf.

The Wind of Death

THE wind of death that softly blowsThe last warm petal from the rose,The last dry leaf from off the tree,To-night has come to breathe on me.There was a time I learned to hateAs weaker mortals learn to love;The passion held me fixed as fate,Burned in my veins early and late—But now a wind falls from above—The wind of death, that silentlyEnshroudeth friend and enemy.There was a time my soul was thrilledBy keen ambition’s whip and spur;My master forced me where he willed,And with his power my life was filled,But now the old-time pulses stirHow faintly in the wind of death!That bloweth lightly as a breath.And once, but once, at Love’s dear feetI yielded strength and life and heart;His look turned bitter into sweet,His smile made all the world complete—The wind blows loves like leaves apart—The wind of death, that tenderlyIs blowing ’twixt my love and me.O wind of death, that darkly blowsEach separate ship of human woesFar out on a mysterious sea,I turn, I turn my face to thee.