One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue
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PART I
LATE SPRING
1
Outside her garden. He waits musingHerein the dearness of her is;The thirty perfect days of JuneMade one, in maiden lovelinessWere not more sweet to clasp and kiss,With love not more in tune.Ah me! I think she is too true,Too spiritual for life's rough way;For in her eyes her soul looks new —Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue,Are not so pure as they.So good, so beautiful is she,So soft and white, so fond and fair,Sometimes my heart fears she may beNot long for me, and secretlyA sister of the air.2
Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill callsThe whippoorwills are calling whereThe golden west is graying;"'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there —Why are you still delaying?"He waits you where the old beech throwsIts gnarly shadow overWood-violet and the bramble rose,Frail maiden-fern and clover."Where elder and the sumach creepAbove your garden's paling,Whereon at noon the lizards sleepLike lichens on the railing."Come! ere the early rising moon'sGold floods the violet valleys;Where mists, like phantom picaroonsAnchor their stealthy galleys."Come! while the deepening amethystOf dusk above is falling —'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!"The whippoorwills are calling.They call you to these twilight waysWith dewy odor dripping —Ah, girlhood, through the rosy hazeCome like a moonbeam slipping.3
He enters her garden, speaking dreamily:There is a fading inward of the day,And all the pansy heaven clasps one star;The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray,While all the world to westward smoulders far.Now to your glass will you pass for the last time?Pass! humming some ballad, I know, —Here where I wait it is late and is past time —Late! and the moments are slow, are slow.There is a drawing downward of the night;The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon;Above, the heights hang silver in her light;Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June.There in the dew is it you hiding lawny?You, or a moth in the vines? —You! – by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny!You! – by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines!4
She approaches, laughing. She speaks, —You'd given up hope?HEBelieve me.SHEWhy, is your love so poor?HEI knew you'd not deceive me.SHEAs many a girl before, —Ah, dear, you will forgive me?HESay no more, sweet, say no more!SHELove trusts, and that's enough, my dear.Trust wins to trust; whereof, my dear,Love holds to love; and love, my dear,Is – well, that's all my lore.HECome, pay me or I'll scold you. —Give me the kiss you owe. —You fly when I'd enfold you?SHENo! no! I say! now, no!How often have I told you,You must not treat me so?HEMore sweet the dusk for this is,For lips that meet in kisses. —Come! come! why run from blissesAs from a mortal foe?5
She stands smiling at him. She speaks:How many words in the asking!How easily I can grieve you! —My "no" in a "yes" was a-masking,Nor thought, dear, to deceive you. —A kiss? – the humming-bird happiness hereIn my heart consents… But what are words,When the thought of two souls in speech accords?Affirmative, negative – what are they, dear?I wished to say "yes," but somehow said "no."The woman within me thought you would knowThought that your heart would hear.He speaks:So many hopes in a wooing! —Therein you could not deceive me;Some things are sweeter for the pursuing —I knew what you meant, believe me. —Bunched bells of the blush pomegranate, to fixAt your throat … six drops of fire they are…Will you look where the moon and its following starRise silvery over yon meadow ricks?While I hold – while I lean your head back, so —For I know it is "yes" though you whisper "no,"And my kisses, sweet, are six.6
Moths flutter around them. She speaks:Look! – where the fieryGlow-worm in brieryBanks of the moon-mellowed bowersSparkles – how hazilyPinioned and arilyDelicate, warily,Drowsily, lazily,Flutter the moths to the flowers.White as the dreamiestBud of the creamiestRose in the garden that dozes,See how they cling to them!Held in the heart of theirHearts like a part of theirPerfume they swing to themWings that are soft as the roses.Dim as the forming ofDew in the warming ofMoonlight, they light on the petals;All is revealed to them;All – from the sunniestTips to the honiestHeart, whence they yield to themSpice through the darkness that settles.So to our tremulousSouls come the emulousSpirits of love; through whose powerAll that is best in us,All that is beautiful,All that is dutiful,Is made confessed in us,Even as the scent of a flower.7
Taking her hand, he says:What makes you beautiful?Answer, now, answer! —Is it that dutifulSouls are all beautiful?Is't that romance orBeauty of spirit,Which souls of meritOf heaven inherit? —Have you no answer?She roguishly:What makes you lovable?Answer, dear, answer! —Is it not provableThat man is lovableJust because chance orNature makes womanLove him? – Her humanPart's to illumine. —Have you no answer?8
Then, regarding him seriously, she continues:Could I recall every joy that befell meThere in the past with its anguish and bliss,Here in my heart it has whispered to tell me,Those were no joys like this.Were it not well if our love could forget themVeiling the was with the dawn of the is?Dead with the past we should never regret them,Being no joys like this.When they were gone and the Present stood speechful,Ardent in word and in look and in kiss,What though we know that their eyes are beseechful,Those were no joys like this.Is it not well to have more of the spirit,Living for Futures where naught is amiss,Less of the flesh with the Past pining near it?Is there a joy like this?9
Leaving the garden for the lane. He, with lightness of heartWe will leave reason,Sweet, for a season;Reason were treasonNow that the netherSpaces are clad, oh,In silvery shadow —We will be glad, oh,Glad as this weather!She, responding to his mood:Heart unto heart, where the moonlight is slanted,Let us believe that our souls are enchanted: —I in the castle-keep; you are the airyPrince who comes seeking me; Love is the FairyBringing our hearts together.HEStarlight in massesOver us passes;And in the grass isMany a flower:Now will you tell meHow'd you enspell me?What once befell meThere in your bower?SHESoul unto soul – in the moon's wizard glory,Let us believe we are parts in a story: —I am a poem; a poet you hear itWhispered in star and in flower; a Spirit,Love, puts my soul in your power.10
He, suddenly and very earnestly:Perhaps we lived in the daysOf the Khalif Haroun er Reshid;And loved, as the story saysDid the Sultan's favorite oneAnd the Persian Emperor's son,Ali ben Bekkar, heOf the Kisra dynasty.Do you know the story? – Well,You were Haroun's Sultana.When night on the palace fell,A slave through a secret door, —Low-arched on the Tigris' shore, —By a hidden winding stairBrought me to your bower there.Then there was laughter and mirth,And feasting and singing together,In a chamber of wonderful worth;In a chamber vaulted highOn columns of ivory;Its dome, like the irised skies,Mooned over with peacock eyes;Its curtains and furniture,Damask and juniper.Ten slave girls – like unto blooms —Stand, holding tamarisk torches,Silk-clad from the Irak looms;Ten handmaidens serve the feast,Each girl like a star in the east;Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune,Wait, each like the Ramadan moon.For you in a stuff of MervBlue-clad, unveiled and jewelled,No metaphor known may serve:Scarved deep with your raven hair,The jewels like fireflies there,Blossom and moon and star,The Lady Shemsennehar.The zone that girdles your waistWould ransom a Prince and Emeer;In your coronet's gold enchased,And your bracelet's twisted bar,Burn rubies of Istakhar;And pearls of the Jamshid raceHang looped on your bosom's lace.You stand like the letter I;Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkleBlack stars in a rosy sky;Mouth like a cloven peach,Sweet with your smiling speech;Cheeks that the blood presumesTo make pomegranate blooms.With roses of Rocknabad,Hyacinths of Bokhara, —Creamily cool and cladIn gauze, – girls scatter the floorFrom pillar to cedarn door.Then a poppy-bloom at each ear,Come the dancing girls of Kashmeer.Kohl in their eyes, down the room, —That opaline casting-bottlesHave showered with rose perfume, —They glitter and drift and swoonTo the dulcimer's languishing tune;In the liquid light like stars,And moons and nenuphars.Carbuncles, tragacanth-red,Smoulder in armlet and anklet;Gleaming on breast and on headBangles of coins, that are angled,Tinkle; and veils, that are spangled,Flutter from coiffure and wristLike a star-bewildered mist.Each dancing-girl is a flowerOf the Tuba from vales of El Liwa. —How the bronzen censers glower!And scents of ambergris pourAnd myrrh brought of Lahore,And musk of Khoten! how goodIs the scent of the sandal-wood!A lutanist smites her lute;Sings loves of Mejnoon and Leila —Her voice is a houri flute; —While the fragrant flambeaux waveBarbaric o'er free and slave,O'er fabrics and bezels of gemsAnd roses in anadems.Sherbets in ewers of gold,Fruits in salvers carnelian;Flagons of grotesque mold,Made of a sapphire glass,Brimmed with wine of Shiraz;Shaddock and melon and grapeOn plate of an antique shape.Vases of frosted rose,Of limpid alabaster,Filled with the mountain snows;Goblets of mother-of-pearl,One filigree silver-swirl;Vessels of gold foamed upWith spray of spar on the cup.Then a slave bursts in with a cry:"The eunuchs! the Khalif's eunuchs! —With scimitars bared draw nigh!Wesif and Afif and he,Chief of the hideous three,Mesrour! – the Sultan's seen'Mid a hundred weapons' sheen!"Did we part when we heard this? No!It seems that my soul remembersHow I clasped you and kissed you, so.When they came they found us – deadOn the flowers our blood dyed red;Our lips together, andThe dagger in my hand.11
She, musingly:How it was I cannot tell,For I know not where nor why;But perhaps we loved too wellIn some world that does not lieEast or west of where we dwell,And beneath no mortal sky.Was it in the golden agesOr the iron? – I had heard, —In the prophecy of sages, —Haply, how had come a bird,Underneath whose wing were pagesOf an unknown lover's word.I forget. You may rememberHow the earthquake shook our ships;How our city, one huge ember,Blazed within the thick eclipse.When you found me – deep DecemberSealed my icy eyes and lips.I forget. No one may sayThat such things can not be true: —Here a flower dies to-day,And to-morrow blooms anew…Death is silent. – Tell me, pray,Why men doubt what God can do?12
He, with convictionAs to that, nothing to tell,You being all my belief;Doubt may not enter or dwellHere where your image is chief;Here where your name is a spell,Potent in joy and in grief.Is it the glamor of springWorking in us so we seemAye to have loved? that we clingEven to some fancy or dream,Rainbowing everythingHere in our souls with its gleam?See! how the synod is metThere of the heavens to preach us —Freed from the earth's oubliette,See how the blossoms beseech us —Were it not well to forgetWinter and night as they teach us?Dew and a bud and a star,These, – like a beautiful thought,Over man's wisdom how far! —God for some purpose has wrought;And though they're that which they are,What are the thoughts they have brought?Stars and the moon; and they rollOver our way that is white.Here shall we end the long stroll?Here shall I kiss you good-night?Or, for a while, soul to soul,Linger and dream of delight?13
They enter the garden again… She, somewhat pensivelyMyths tell of walls and cities that aroseTo melody. But I would build with tone,Had I that harp, a world for us alone,A world of love, and joy, and deep repose.A land of lavender light, of blue-bell skies;Pale peaks that rise against the gold of eve;And on one height, the splendors never leave,Our castled home o'er which the wild swan flies.There, pitiless, the ruined hand of deathShould never reach. No bud, no thing should fade;All should be perfect, pure, and unafraid;And life serener than an angel's breath.The days should move to music; wildly tameThe nights should move to music and the stars;And morn and evening in their opal cars,Like heralds, banner God's eternal name.O world! O life! desired and to be!How shall we reach thee? – dark the way and dim.– Give me your hand, love, let us follow him,Love with the mystery and the melody.14
He, observing the various flowers around them:Violets and anemonesThe surrendered hoursPour, as handsels, round the kneesOf the Spring, who to the breezeFlings her myriad flowers.Like to coins the sumptuous dayStrews with blossoms goldenEvery furlong of his way, —Like a Sultan gone to prayAt a Kaaba olden.And the night, with spark on spark,Clad in dim attire,Dots with Stars the haloed dark, —As a priest around the ArkLights his lamps of fire.These are but the cosmic stringsTo the harp of Beauty,To that instrument which singsIn our souls of love that bringsPeace and faith and duty.15
She, seriously:Duty? – Comfort of the sinnerAnd the saint! – when grief and trialWeigh us, and within our innerSelves, – responsive to love's viol, —Hope's soft voice grows thin and thinner,It is kin to self-denial.Self-denial! – through whose feelingWe are gainer though we're loser;All the finer force revealingOf our natures. No accuserIs the conscience then, but healingOf the wound of which we're chooser.Some one said no flower knowethOf the fragrance it revealeth;Song, its soul that overfloweth,Never nightingale's heart feeleth —Such the love the spirit groweth,Love unconscious if it healeth.16
He, after a pause, lightly:An elf there is who stables the hotRed wasp that stings on the apricot;An elf who rowels his spiteful bayLike a mote on a ray, away, away;An elf who saddles the hornet leanTo din i' the ear o' the swinging bean;Who straddles, with cap cocked all awry,The bottle-blue back o' the dragon-fly.And this is the elf who sips and sipsFrom clover-horns whence the perfume drips;And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloamAwaits the wild-bee's coming home;In ambush lies, where none may see,And robs the caravan bumble-bee —Gold bags of honey the bees must payTo the bandit elf of the fairy way.Another ouphen the butterflies know,Who paints their wings with the hues that glowOn blossoms. – Squeezing from tubes of dewPansy colors of every hueOn his bloom's pied pallet, he paints the wingsOf the butterflies, moths, and other things.This is the elf that the hollyhocks hear,Who dangles a brilliant in each one's ear;Teases at noon the pane's green fly,And lights at night the glow-worm's eye.But the dearest elf, so the poets say,Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray;Who curls in a dimple and slips alongThe strings of a lute to a lover's song;Who smiles in her smile, and frowns in her frown,And dreams in the scent of her glove or gown;Hides and beckons as all may noteIn the bloom or the bow of a maiden's throat.17
She, standing among the flowers:Soft through the trees the night wind sighs,And swoons and dies.Above, the stars hang wanly white;Here, through the dark,A drizzled gold, the firefliesRain mimic stars in spark on spark. —'Tis time to part, to say good-night.Good-night.From fern to flower the night-moths crossAt drowsy loss.The moon drifts veiled through clouds of white;And pearly pale,A silver blur, through beds of moss,Their tiny moons the glow-worms trail. —'Tis time to part, to say good-night.Good-night.18
He, at parting, as they proceed down the garden:You say you cannot wed me, nowThat roses and the June are here?To your decision I must bow. —Ah, well! 'tis just as well, my dear:We'll swear again each old love vow,And wait another year.Another year of love with you!Of dreams and doubts, of sun and rain!When field and forest bloom anew,And locust clusters pelt the lane,When all the song-birds wed and woo,I'll not take "no" again.Oft shall I lie awake and markThe hours by no clanging clock,But in the dim and distant darkThe crowing of some punctual cock;Then up as early as the larkTo meet you by our rock.The rock where first we met at tryst;Where first I wooed and won your love —Remember how the moon and mistMade mystery of the heaven aboveAs now to-night? – How first I kissedYour lips, you trembling like a dove?So, then, you cannot wed me nowThat roses and the June are here,That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough?And yet your reason is not clear.Ah, well! We'll swear anew each vow,And wait another year.PART II
EARLY SUMMER
1
She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoonGray skies and the foggy rainDripping from sullen eaves;Over and over againDull drop of the trickling leaves;And the woodward-winding lane,And the hill with its shocks of sheavesOne scarce perceives.Shall I go in such wet weatherBy the lane or over the hill? —Where the blossoming milkweed's featherThe drops like diamonds fill;Where, draggled and drenched together,The ox-eyes rank the rill,To the old corn-mill.The creek by now is swollen,And its foaming cascades sound;And the lilies, smeared with pollen,In the dam look dull and drowned.'Tis a path I oft have stolenTo the bridge that rambles roundWith willows bound.Through a valley wild with berry,Packed thick with the iron-weeds,And elder, – washed and veryFragrant, – the fenced path leads;Past oak and wilding cherryTo a place of flags and reeds,That the water bredes.The sun through the sad sky bleaches —Is that a thrush that calls?That bird who so beseeches?And see! on the balsam's balls,And leaves of the water-beeches —One blister of wart-like galls —No raindrop falls.My shawl instead of a bonnet!..Though the woods be soaking yet,Through the wet to the rock I'll run it, —How sweet to meet i' the wet!Our rock with the vine upon it, —Each flower a fiery jet —Where oft we've met!2
They meet. He speaksHow fresh the purple cloverSmells in its veil of rain!And where the leaves brim overHow fragrant is the lane!See, how the sodden acres,Forlorn of all their rakers,Their hay and harvest makers,Look green as spring again.Drops from the trumpet flowersRain on us as we pass;And every zephyr showers,From tilted leaf or grass,Clear beads of moisture, seemingPale, pointed emeralds gleaming;Where, through the green boughs streaming,The daylight strikes like glass.She speaksHow dewy, clean and fragrantLook now the green and gold! —And breezes trailing vagrantSpill all the spice they hold.The west begins to glimmer;And shadows, stretching slimmer,Crouch on the ways; and dimmerGrow field and forest old.Beyond those rainy reachesOf woodland, far and lone,A whippoorwill beseeches;And now an owl's vague moanStrikes faint upon the hearing. —These say the dusk is nearing.And, see, the heavens clearingTake on a tender tone.How feebly chirps the cricket!How thin the tree-toads cry!Blurred in the wild-rose thicketGleams wet the firefly. —This way toward home is nearest;Of weeds and briars clearest…We'll meet to-morrow, dearest;Till then, dear heart, good-bye.3
They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks:Here at last! And do you knowThat again you've kept me waiting?Wondering, anticipating,If your "yes" meant "no."Now you're here we'll have our day…Let us take this daisied hollow,And beneath these beeches followThis wild strip of wayTowards the stream; wherein are seenStealing gar and darting minnow;Over which snake-feeders winnowWings of black and green.Like a cactus flames the sun;And the mighty weaver, Even,Tenuous colored, there in heaven,His rich weft's begun…How I love you! from the time —You remember, do you not? —When, within your orchard-plot,I was reading rhyme,As I told you. And 'twas thus —"By the blue Trinacrian sea,Far in pastoral SicilyWith Theocritus" —That I answered you who asked.But the curious part was this: —That the whole thing was amiss;That the Greek but maskedTales of old Boccaccio —Tall Decameronian maidsStrolled among Italian glades,Smiling, sweet and slow.And when you approached, – my bookDropped in wonder, – seeminglyTo myself I said, "'Tis she!"And arose to lookIn Lauretta's eyes and – true!Found them yours. – You shook your head,Laughing at me, as you said,"Did I frighten you?"You had come for cherries; theseDreamily I climbed for whileYou still questioned with a smile,And still tried to tease.Ah, love, just two years have goneSince then. I remember, youWore a dress of billowy blueMuslin, or of lawn.And that apron still I see, —White, with cherry-juice red-stained, —Which you held; wherein I rainedRipeness from the tree.And I asked you – for, you know,To my eyes your serious eyesSpoke such sweet philosophies, —If you'd read Rousseau.You remember how a chance,Somewhat like to mine, one JuneHappened him at castle Toune,Over there in France?And a cherry dropping fairOn your cheek I, envying it,Said – remembering Rousseau's wit —"Would my lips were there!"How you laughed and blushed, I know. —Here's the stream. The west has narrowedTo a streak of gold, deep arrowed. —There's a skiff. Let's row.4
Entering the skiff, she speaks:Waters, flowing dark and brightIn the sunlight or the moon,Seize my soul with such delightAs a visible music might;As some slow, majestic tuneMade material to the sight.Blossoms colored like the skies,Sunset-hued and tame or wild,Fill my soul with such surmiseAs the mind might realizeIf our thoughts, all undefiled,Should take form before our eyes.So to me do these appeal;So they sway me every hour:Letting all their beauty stealOn my soul to make it feel,Through a rivulet or flower,More than any words reveal.5
He speaks, rowingSee, sweetheart, how the lilies layTheir lambent leaves about our way;Or, pollen-dusty, nod and floatTheir moon-like flowers around our boat. —The middle of the stream we've reachedThree strokes from where our boat was beached.Look up. You scarce can see the sky,Through trees that lean, dark, deep, and high;And coiled with grape and trailing vineBuild a vast roof of shade and shine;A house of leaves, where shadows walk,And whispering winds and waters talk.There is no path. The saplings chokeThe trunks they spring from. There an oakLies rotting; and that sycamore,Which lays its bulk from shore to shore, —Uprooted by the floods, – perchance,May be the bridge to some romance.Now opening through a willow fringeThe waters creep, one tawny tingeOf sunset; and on either margeThe cottonwoods make walls of shade;And, near, the gradual hills loom largeWithin its mirror. Herons wade,Or fly, like Faery birds, from grassThat mats the shore by which we pass.She speaksOn we pass; we rippling pass,On sunset waters still as glass.A vesper-sparrow flies aboveSoft twittering to its woodland love.A whippoorwill now calls afar;And 'gainst the west, like some swift star,A glittering jay flies screaming. SlimThe sand-snipes and king-fishers skimBefore us; and some evening thrush —Who may discover where such sing? —The silence rinses with a gushOf mellow music bubbling.He speaksOn we pass. – Now let us oarTo yonder strip of ragged shore,Where, from a rock with lichens hoar,A ferny spring wells. Gliding byThe sulphur-colored fireflyLights its pale lamp where mallows gloom,And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom. —Some hunter there within the woodsLast fall encamped those ashes sayAnd campfire boughs. – The solitudesGrow dreamy with the death of day.