Death

Except the heaven had come so near,
So seemed to choose my door,
The distance would not haunt me so;
I had not hoped before.

But just to hear the grace depart
I never thought to see,
Afflicts me with a double loss;
'T is lost, and lost to me.

The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But what's the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
You'll only skip the page, you'll look
For newer pictures in this book;
You've read of sunsets rich as mine.

A fresh wind fills the evening air
With horrid crying of night birds....
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air?
You'll only frown; you'll turn the page,
But find no glimpse of your "New Age
Of Poetry" in my worn-out words.

Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,
Die stillborn, because old men squeal
For something new: "Write something new:
We've read this poem, that on...

Why dost thou, darksome Nightingale,
Sing so distractingly--and here?
Dawn's preludings prick my ear,
Faint light is creeping up the vale,
While on these dead thy rarer
Song falls, dark night-farer.

Were it not better thou shouldst sing
Where the drenched lilac droops her plume,
Spreading frail banners of perfume?
Or where the easeless pines enring
The river-lullèd village
Whose lads the lilac pillage?

Oh, if aught songful these hid bones
Might reach, like the slow subtle rain,
Surely the dead had risen again
And listened, white by the white stones;
Back to rich life song-charmed,
By ghostly joys alarmed.

This may not be. And yet, oh still
Pour like night dew thy richer speech
Some late-lost youth perchance to reach,
...

    Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
        That death has murder'd Johnny!
    An' here his body lies fu' low
        For saul he ne'er had ony.

The blue bell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air;
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath
But fragrance will not cheer.

The trees are bare, the sun is cold;
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold
The earth its robe of green;

And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed


The blue bell cannot charm me now
The heath has lost its bloom,
The violets in the glen below
They yield no sweet perfume.

But though I mourn the heather-bell
'Tis better far, away;
I know how fast my tears...

I


When all the world was Mayday,
And all the skies were blue,
Young innocence made playday
Among the flowers and dew;
Then all of life was Mayday,
And clouds were none or few.


II


When all the world was Summer,
And morn shone overhead,
Love was the sweet newcomer
Who led youth forth to wed;
Then all of life was Summer,
And clouds were golden red.


III


When earth was all October,
And days were gray with mist,
On woodways, sad and sober,
Grave memory kept her tryst;
Then life was all October,
And clouds were twilight-kissed.


IV


Now all the world's December,
And night is all alarm,
Above the last dim ember
Grief bends to keep him warm;

Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up,
And say how many dew;
Tell me how far the morning leaps,
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadths of blue!

Write me how many notes there be
In the new robin's ecstasy
Among astonished boughs;
How many trips the tortoise makes,
How many cups the bee partakes, --
The debauchee of dews!

Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite,
Who counts the wampum of the night,
To see that none is due?

Who built this little Alban house
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who 'll let me out some gala day,
With implements to fly away,
Pas...

I have been reading Pomfret’s “Choice” this spring,
A pretty kind of—sort of—kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
And yet I know not. There’s an art in pies,
In raising crusts as well as galleries;
And he’s the poet, more or less, who knows
The charm that hallows the least truth from prose,
And dresses it in its mild singing clothes.
Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers;
Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours.
Nature from some sweet energy throws up
Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup;
And truth she makes so precious, that to paint
Either, shall shrine an artist like a saint,
And bring him in his turn the crowds that press
Round Guido’s saints or Titian’s goddesses.

Our trivi...

Who said, 'Peacock Pie?'
    The old King to the sparrow:
Who said, 'Crops are ripe?'
    Rust to the harrow:
Who said, 'Where sleeps she now?'
    Where rests she now her head,
Bathed in eve's loveliness'? - -
    That's what I said.

Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word'?
    Sexton to willow:
Who said, 'Green duck for dreams,
    Moss for a pillow'?

Who said, 'All Time's delight
    Hath she for narrow bed;
Life's troubled bubble broken'? - -
    That's what I said.

My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
"... But this is a prison, Father,
Don't you know, how to draw a bird?"
And I tell him: "Son, forgive me.
I've forgotten the shapes of birds."

My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding,
"Don't you know, Father, the difference between a
wheatstalk and a gun?"
I tell him, "Son,
once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks
the shape of the loaf
the shape of the rose
But in this hardened time
the trees of the forest have joined
the militia m...

Now, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,
    And ransack heaven before our moment fails.
Now, in a breath, before we, too, grow old,
    We'll mount and sing and spread immortal sails.

It is not time that makes eternity.
    Love and an hour may quite out-run the years,
And give us more to hear and more to see
    Than life can wash away with all its tears.

Dear, when we part, at last, that sunset sky
    Shall not be touched with deeper hues than this;
But we shall ride the lightning ere we die
    And seize our brief infinitude of bliss,

With time to spare for all that heaven can tell,
While eyes meet eyes, and look their last farewell.

Who hath beheld the goddess face to face,
Blind with her beauty, all his days shall go
Climbing lone mountains towards her temple place,
Weighed with song's sweet, inexorable woe.

A Reverie
October, 1861

One noonday, at my window in the town,
I saw a sight--saddest that eyes can see--
Young soldiers marching lustily
    Unto the wars,
With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;
While all the porches, walks, and doors
Were rich with ladies cheering royally.

They moved like Juny morning on the wave,
Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
(It was the breezy summer time),
    Life throbbed so strong,
How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime
Would come to thin their shining throng?
Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.

Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
On those 'brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
    Some marching feet
Found...

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;
    Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death,
    We one by one, with our expiring breath,
Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;
The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,
    Despite her careful hiding; and the air
    Yields its mysterious marvels in despair
To swell the mighty store-house of things known.
In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
    It cannot cover from the keen world's sight
    The curious wonders of its coral caves.
And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,
The prying fingers of detective years
    Shall drag thy secret out into the light.

    (To F. S.)

    In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon
    And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection.
    Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored
    After the heat of the day, and await the dark.

    And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river
    At the gap where barges load and horses drink,
    There are no horses.    And the river is full
    And the water stands by the shore and does not lap.

    And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island,
    The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe
    And his wife by the cabin stirs.    Behind me voices pass.

    Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected.
    And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers...

The world was in my debt,
I was the Friend of Man,
When, years ago, I met
The Old Bohemian.

His hat was shocking bad,
He wore a faded tie,
And yet, withal, he had
A moist and shining eye.

And though his purse was lean,
And though his coat was dyed,
He had a lordly mien
And air of ancient pride.

We sat in a hotel,
And drank the amber ale;
And as I touched the bell
I listened to his tale.

He told me that some day
In his place I would be;
But all the world was gay,
No use in warning me.

He spoke of high Desire
And aspirations true;
And flamed again the fire
In eyes of faded blue.

"By God!" the old man said,
"The days of old were grand;
I painted cities red,
I owned the bles...

Consider sorrows, how they are aright:
Grief, if't be great, 'tis short; if long, 'tis light.

I

THE GLADIOLAS.

As tall as the lily, as tall as the rose,
And almost as tall as the hollyhocks,
Ranked breast to breast in sentinel rows
Stand the gladiola stocks.

And some are red as the humming-bird's blood
And some are pied as the butterfly race,
And each is shaped like a velvet hood
Gold-lined with delicate lace.

For you know the goblins that come like musk
To tumble and romp in the flowers' laps,
When you see big fire-fly eyes in the dusk,
Hang there their goblin caps.


II

THE MORNING-GLORIES.

They bloom up the fresh, green trellis
In airy, vigorous ease,
And their fragrant, sensuous honey
Is best beloved of the bees.

Oh! the rose knows the dainty secret
How the morning-glory b...