Weeds by the Wall: Verses
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UNANOINTED
IUpon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores,Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed,I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars,With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:"Oh, we are sick of rowing here!With toil our arms are numb;With smiting year on weary yearSalt-furrows of the foam:Our journey's end is never near,And will no nearer come —Beyond our reach the shores appearOf far Elysium."IIWithin a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand,Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red,I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in handAnd shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:"Oh, we are weary marching on!Our limbs are travel-worn;With cross and sword from dawn to dawnWe wend with raiment torn:The leagues to go, the leagues we've goneAre sand and rock and thorn —The way is long to AvalonBeyond the deeps of morn."IIIThey are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursueThe vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead;To whom God gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do,The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:I, too, am weary toiling whereThe winds and waters beat;When shall I ease the oar I bearAnd rest my tired feet?When will the white moons cease to glare,The red suns veil their heat?And from the heights blow sweet the airOf Love's divine retreat?THE END OF ALL
II do not love you now,O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still deniedFood when mine hungered, and of which love died —I do not love you now.III do not love you now,O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did giveNo drop to drink to help my love to live —I do not love you now.IIII do not love you now!But did I love you in the old, old way,And knew you loved me – 'though the words should slayMe and your love forever, I would say,"I do not love you now!I do not love you now!"SUNSET AND STORM
Deep with divine tautology,The sunset's mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like WestWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browNight lifts of cloud; and from her arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHer awful argument of storm.What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature, – speaking rapture toYour soul, – yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechExpressive of the thing you view.BEECH BLOOMS
The wild oxalisAmong the valleysLifts up its chaliceOf pink and pearl;And, balsam-breathing,From out their sheathing,The myriad wreathingGreen leaves uncurl.The whole world brightensWith spring, that lightensThe foot that frightensThe building thrush;Where water tossesOn ferns and mossesThe squirrel crossesThe beechen hush.And vision on vision, —Like ships elysianOn some white mission, —Sails cloud on cloud;With scents of cloverThe winds brim over,And in the coverThe stream is loud.'Twixt bloom that blanchesThe orchard branchesOld farms and ranchesGleam in the gloam;'Mid blossoms blowing,Through fields for sowing,The cows come lowing,The cows come home.Where ways are narrow,A vesper-sparrowFlits like an arrowOf living rhyme;The red sun poises,And farmyard noisesMix with glad voicesOf milking-time.When dusk disposesOf all its roses,And darkness closes,And work is done,A moon's white featherIn starry weatherAnd two togetherWhose hearts are one.WORSHIP
IThe mornings raiseVoices of gold in the Almighty's praise;The sunsets soarIn choral crimson from far shore to shore:Each is a blast,Reverberant, of color, – seen as vastConcussions, – that the vocal firmamentIn worship sounds o'er every continent.IINot for our earsThe cosmic music of the rolling spheres,That sweeps the skies!Music we hear, but only with our eyes.For all too weakOur mortal frames to bear the words these speak,Those detonations that we name the dawnAnd sunset – hues Earth's harmony puts on.UNHEARD
All things are wrought of melody,Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;Within the rock, within the tree,A soul of music dwells.A mute symphonic sense that thrillsThe silent frame of mortal things;Its heart beats in the ancient hills,In every flower sings.To harmony all growth is set —Each seed is but a music mote,From which each plant, each violet,Evolves its purple note.Compact of melody, the roseWoos the soft wind with strain on strainOf crimson; and the lily blowsIts white bars to the rain.The trees are pæans; and the grassOne long green fugue beneath the sun —Song is their life; and all shall pass,Shall cease, when song is done.REINCARNATION
High in the place of outraged liberty,He ruled the world, an emperor and godHis iron armies swept the land and sea,And conquered nations trembled at his nod.By him the love that fills man's soul with light,And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified;Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite,And old in infamies, a king he died.Justice begins now. – Many centuriesIn some vile body must his soul atoneAs slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.ON CHENOWETH'S RUN
I thought of the road through the glen,With its hawk's nest high in the pine;With its rock, where the fox had his den,'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,Where she swore to be mine.I thought of the creek and its banks,Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;The rustic bridge builded of planks,The bridge over Chenoweth's Run,Where I wooed her and won.I thought of the house in the lane,With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;Its fence and the gate with the chain,Its porch where the roses hung wet,Where I kissed her and met.Then I thought of the family graves,Walled rudely with stone, in the West,Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,And the wind is a spirit distressed,Where they laid her to rest.And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,Cried out on the city and mart! —How I longed, how I longed to be there,Away from the struggle and smart,By her and my heart!By her and my heart in the West, —Laid sadly together as one; —On her grave for a moment to rest,Far away from the noise and the sun,On Chenoweth's Run.HOME AGAIN
Far down the laneA window paneGleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.The weeds are denseThrough which a fenceOf pickets rambles, none sees whence,Before a porch, all indistinct of line,O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.No thing is heard,No beast or bird,Only the rain by which are stirredThe draining leaves,And trickling eavesOf crib and barn one scarce perceives;And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wetThe phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.The hour is late —At any rateShe has not heard him at the gate:Upon the roofThe rain was proofAgainst his horse's galloping hoof:And when the old gate with its weight and chainCreaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.Along he stealsWith cautious heels,And by the lamplit window kneels:And there she sits,And rocks and knitsWithin the shadowy light that flitsOn face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.Upon his cheeks —Is it the streaksOf rain, as now the old porch creaksBeneath his stride?Then, warm and wide,The door flings and she's at his side —"Mother!" – and he, back from the war, her boy,Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.A STREET OF GHOSTS
The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes,Dreams in this quaint forgotten street,That, like some old-world wreckage, lies, —Left by the sea's receding beat, —Far from the city's restless feet.Abandoned pavements, that the trees'Huge roots have wrecked, whose flagstones feelNo more the sweep of draperies;And sunken curbs, whereon no wheelGrinds, nor the gallant's spur-bound heel.Old houses, walled with rotting brick,Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned, —Like withered faces, sad and sick, —Stare from each side, all broken paned,With battered doors the rain has stained.And though the day be white with heat,Their ancient yards are dim and cold;Where now the toad makes its retreat,'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold,And naught but noisome weeds unfold.The slow gray slug and snail have trailedTheir slimy silver up and downThe beds where once the moss-rose veiledRich beauty; and the mushroom brownSwells where the lily tossed its crown.The shadowy scents, that haunt and flitAlong the walks, beneath the boughs,Seem ghosts of sweethearts here who sit,Or wander 'round each empty house,Wrapped in the silence of dead vows.And, haply, when the evening droopsHer amber eyelids in the west,Here one might hear the swish of hoops,Or catch the glint of hat or vest,As two dim lovers past him pressed.And, instant as some star's slant flame,That scores the swarthy cheek of night,Perhaps behold Colonial dameAnd gentleman in stately whiteGo glimmering down the pale moonlight.In powder, patch, and furbelow,Cocked-hat and sword; and every one, —Tory and whig of long ago, —As real as in the days long done,The courtly days of Washington.IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES
In the shadow of the beeches,Where the fragile wildflowers bloom;Where the pensive silence pleachesGreen a roof of cool perfume,Have you felt an awe imperiousAs when, in a church, mysteriousWindows paint with God the gloom?In the shadow of the beeches,Where the rock-ledged waters flow;Where the sun's sloped splendor bleachesEvery wave to foaming snow,Have you felt a music solemnAs when minster arch and columnEcho organ-worship low?In the shadow of the beeches,Where the light and shade are blent;Where the forest-bird beseeches,And the breeze is brimmed with scent, —Is it joy or melancholyThat o'erwhelms us partly, wholly,To our spirit's betterment?In the shadow of the beechesLay me where no eye perceives;Where, – like some great arm that reachesGently as a love that grieves, —One gnarled root may clasp me kindlyWhile the long years, working blindly,Slowly change my dust to leaves.REQUIESCAT
The roses mourn for her who sleepsWithin the tomb;For her each lily-flower weepsDew and perfume.In each neglected flower-bedEach blossom droops its lovely head, —They miss her touch, they miss her tread,Her face of bloom,Of happy bloom.The very breezes grieve for her,A lonely grief;For her each tree is sorrower,Each blade and leaf.The foliage rocks itself and sighs,And to its woe the wind replies, —They miss her girlish laugh and cries,Whose life was brief,Was very brief.The sunlight, too, seems pale with care,Or sick with woe;The memory haunts it of her hair,Its golden glow.No more within the bramble-brakeThe sleepy bloom is kissed awake —The sun is sad for her dear sake,Whose head lies low,Lies dim and low.The bird, that sang so sweet, is stillAt dusk and dawn;No more it makes the silence thrillOf wood and lawn.In vain the buds, when it is near,Open each pink and perfumed ear, —The song it sings she will not hearWho now is gone,Is dead and gone.Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well,The birds and bowers;The fair, the young, the lovable,Who once was ours.Alas! that loveliness must pass!Must come to lie beneath the grass!That youth and joy must fade, alas!And die like flowers,Earth's sweetest flowers!THE QUEST
IFirst I asked the honey-bee,Busy in the balmy bowers;Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me:Have you seen her, honey-bee?She is cousin to the flowers —Wild-rose face and wild-rose mouth,And the sweetness of the south." —But it passed me silently.IIThen I asked the forest-bird,Warbling to the woodland waters;Saying, "Dearest, have you heard,Have you heard her, forest-bird?She is one of Music's daughters —Music is her happy laugh;Never song so sweet by half." —But it answered not a word.IIINext I asked the evening sky,Hanging out its lamps of fire;Saying, "Loved one, passed she by?Tell me, tell me, evening sky!She, the star of my desire —Planet-eyed and hair moon-glossed,Sister whom the Pleiads lost." —But it never made reply.IVWhere is she? ah, where is she?She to whom both love and dutyBind me, yea, immortally. —Where is she? ah, where is she?Symbol of the Earth-soul's beauty.I have lost her. Help my heartFind her, nevermore to part. —Woe is me! ah, woe is me!MEETING AND PARTING
IWhen from the tower, like some sweet flower,The bell drops petals of the hour,That says the world is homing,My heart puts off its garb of careAnd clothes itself in gold and vair,And hurries forth to meet her thereWithin the purple gloaming.It's – Oh! how slow the hours go,How dull the moments move!Till soft and clear the bells I hear,That say, like music, in my ear,"Go meet the one you love."IIWhen curved and white, a bugle bright,The moon blows glamour through the night,That sets the world a-dreaming,My heart, where gladness late was guest,Puts off its joy, as to my breastAt parting her dear form is pressed,Within the moon's faint gleaming.It's – Oh! how fast the hours passed! —They were not slow enough!Too soon, too soon, the sinking moonSays to my soul, like some sad tune,"Come! part from her you love."LOVE IN A GARDEN
IBetween the rose's and the canna's crimson,Beneath her window in the night I stand;The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, onThe white moonflowers – each a spirit handThat points the path to mystic shadowland.Awaken, sweet and fair!And add to night thy grace!Suffer its loveliness to shareThe white moon of thy face,The darkness of thy hair.Awaken, sweet and fair!IIA moth, like down, swings on th' althæa's pistil, —Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome; —And in the August-lily's cone of crystalA firefly blurs, the lantern of a gnome,Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.Approach! the moment flies!Thou sweetheart of the South!Come! mingle with night's mysteriesThe red rose of thy mouth,The starlight of thine eyes. —Approach! the moment flies!IIIDim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,Bubbles the Slumber-song of some wild bird;And with it borne, faint on a breeze-sweet essence,The rainy murmur of a fountain's heard —As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.How long, my love, my bliss!How long must I awaitWith night, – that all impatience is, —Thy greeting at the gate,And at the gate thy kiss?How long, my love, my bliss!FLORIDIAN
IThe cactus and the aloe bloomBeneath the window of your room;Your window where, at evenfall,Beneath the twilight's first pale star,You linger, tall and spiritual,And hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen every flowerIs wooed by moth or bee —Would, would you were the flower, dear,And I the moth to draw you near,To draw you near to me,My dear,To draw you near to me.IIThe jasmine and bignonia spillTheir balm around your windowsill;The sill where, when magnolia-white,In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,You lean with bright deep eyes of nightAnd hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen from each flowerThe wind woos fragrances —Would, would you were the flower, love,And I the wind to breathe above,To breathe above and kiss,My love,To breathe above and kiss.THE GOLDEN HOUR
IShe comes, – the dreamy daughterOf day and night, – a girl,Who o'er the western waterLifts up her moon of pearl:Like some Rebecca at the well,Who fills her jar of crystal shell,Down ways of dew, o'er dale and dell,Dusk comes with dreams of you,Of you,Dusk comes with dreams of you.IIShe comes, the serious sisterOf all the stars that strewThe deeps of God, and glisterBright on the darkling blue:Like some loved Ruth, who heaps her armWith golden gleanings of the farm,Down fields of stars, where shadows swarm,Dusk comes with thoughts of you,Of you,Dusk comes with thoughts of you.IIIShe comes, and soft winds greet her,And whispering odors woo;She is the words and meterThey set their music to:Like Israfel, a spirit fair,Whose heart's a silvery dulcimer,Down listening slopes of earth and airDusk comes with love of you,Of you,Dusk comes with love of you.REED CALL FOR APRIL
IWhen April comes, and pelts with budsAnd apple-blooms each orchard space,And takes the dog-wood-whitened woodsWith rain and sunshine of her moods,Like your fair face, like your fair face:It's honey for the bloom and dew,And honey for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart.IIWhen April comes, and tints the hillsWith gold and beryl that rejoice,And from her airy apron spillsThe laughter of the winds and rills,Like your young voice, like your young voice:It's gladness for God's bending blue,And gladness for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart.IIIWhen April comes, and binds and girdsThe world with warmth that breathes above,And to the breeze flings all her birds,Whose songs are welcome as the wordsOf you I love, of you I love:It's music for all things that woo,And music for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart."THE YEARS WHEREIN I NEVER KNEW."
The years, wherein I never knewSuch beauty as is yours, – so fraughtWith truth and kindness looking throughYour loveliness, – I count them naught,O girl, so like a lily wrought!The years wherein I knew not you.Ah, let me see you always so! —A dream that haunts my memory's sight —Your hair of moonlight, face of snow,And eyes, blue stars of laughing light,O girl, so like a lily white!Through all the years that come and go.True to you only, in my heartI wear your spirit miniature,Sincere in simpleness of art,That makes my love to still endure,O girl, so like a lily pure!Through years that keep us still apart.MIGNON
Oh, Mignon's mouth is like a rose,A red, red rose, that half uncurlsSweet petals o'er a crimson bee:Or like a shell, that, opening, showsWithin its rosy curve white pearls,White rows of pearls,Is Mignon's mouth that smiles at me.Oh, Mignon's eyes are like blue gems,Two azure gems, that gleam and glow,Soft sapphires set in ivory:Or like twin violets, whose stemsBloom blue beneath the covering snow,The lidded snow,Are Mignon's eyes that laugh at me.O mouth of Mignon, Mignon's eyes!O eyes of violet, mouth of fire! —Within which lies all ecstasyOf tears and kisses and of sighs: —O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,O love's desire,Have mercy on the soul of me!QUI DOCET, DISCIT
IWhen all the world was white with flowers,And Summer, in her sun-built towers,Stood smiling 'mid her handmaid Hours,Who robed her limbs for bridal;Somewhere between the golden sandsAnd purple hills of Folly's lands,Love, with a laugh, let go our hands,And left our sides to idle.IINow all the world is red with doom,And Autumn, in her frost-carved room,Bends darkly o'er the gipsy loomOf memories she weaves there;Who knocks at night upon the door,All travel-worn and pale and poor? —Open! and let him in once more,The Love that stands and grieves there.TRANSUBSTANTIATION
IA sunbeam and a drop of dewLay on a red rose in the South:God took the three and made her mouth,Her sweet, sweet mouth,So red of hue, —The burning baptism of His kissStill fills my heart with heavenly bliss.IIA dream of truth and love come trueSlept on a star in daybreak skies:God mingled these and made her eyes,Her dear, dear eyes,So gray of hue, —The high communion of His gazeStill fills my soul with deep amaze.HELEN
Heaped in raven loops and massesOver temples smooth and fair,Have you marked it, as she passes,Gleam and shadow mingled there, —Braided strands of midnight air, —Helen's hair?Deep with dreams and starry mazesOf the thought that in them lies,Have you seen them, as she raisesThem in gladness or surprise, —Two gray gleams of daybreak skies, —Helen's eyes?Moist with dew and honied waftersOf a music sweet that slips,Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter'sSong and sunshine to their tips,Rose-buds whence the fragrance drips, —Helen's lips?He who sees her needs must love her:But, beware! avoid love's dart!He who loves her must discoverNature overlooked one part,In this masterpiece of art —Helen's heart.A CAMEO
Why speak of Giamschid rubiesWhence rosy starlight drips?I know a richer crimson, —The ruby of her lips.Why speak of pearls of OmanThat shells of ocean sheathe?I know a purer nacre, —The white pearls of her teeth.Why tell me of the sapphiresThat Kings and Khalifs prize?I know a lovelier azure, —The sapphires of her eyes.Go search the far Earth over,Go search the farthest sea,You will not find a cameoLike her God carved for me.LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT
IUnto her fragrant face and hair, —As some wild bee unto a rose,That blooms in splendid beauty thereWithin the South, – my longing goes:My longing, that is over fainTo call her mine, but all in vain;Since jealous Death, as each one knows,Is guardian of La belle Heléne;Of her whose face is very fair —To my despair,Sweet belle Heléne.IIThe sweetness of her face suggestsThe sensuous scented Jacqueminots;Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;Her hands long lilies in repose:Fair flowers all without a stain,That grow for Death to pluck again,Within that garden's radiant close,The body of La belle Heléne;The garden glad that she suggests, —That Death invests.Sweet belle Heléne.IIIGod had been kinder to me, – whenHe dipped His hands in fires and snowsAnd made you like a flow'r to ken,A flow'r that in Earth's garden grows, —Had He, for pleasure or for pain,Instead of Death in that demesne,Made Love the gardener to that rose,Your loveliness, O belle Heléne;God had been kinder to me then —And to all men,Sweet belle Heléne.LOVE AND LOSS
Loss molds our lives in many ways,And fills our souls with guesses;Upon our hearts sad hands it laysLike some grave priest that blesses.Far better than the love we win,That earthly passions leaven,Is love we lose, that knows no sin,That points the path to Heaven.Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth,Through whom our dreams are nearest;And loss, through whom we see the worthOf all that we held dearest.Not joy it is, but miseryThat chastens us, and sorrow; —Perhaps to make us all that weExpect beyond To-morrow.Within that life where time and fateAre not; that knows no seeming:That world to which death keeps the gateWhere love and loss sit dreaming.SUNSET CLOUDS
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves,Torn from the forest of the storm,Sweep westward like enormous leavesO'er field and farm.And in the west, on burning skies,Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,And deep their drifted thunder liesWith splendor flushed.The black turns gray, the gray turns gold;And, seaed in deeps of radiant rose,Summits of fire, manifoldThey now repose.What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal!That have their source in loveliness,Through which the doubts I often feelGrow less and less.Through which I see that other night,That cloud called Death, transformed of LoveTo flame, and pointing with its lightTo life above.MASKED
Lying alone I dreamed a dream last night:Methought that Joy had come to comfort meFor all the past, its suffering and slight,Yet in my heart I felt this could not be.All that he said unreal seemed and strange,Too beautiful to last beyond to-morrow;Then suddenly his features seemed to change, —The mask of joy dropped from the face of Sorrow.OUT OF THE DEPTHS
ILet me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul's dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps. —In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!IILet me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men's eyesBondsmen of beauty eager still to serve. —In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!IIILet me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire! —Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love's unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!RICHES
What mines the morning heavens unfold!What far Alaskas of the skies!That, veined with elemental gold,Sierra on Sierra rise.Heap up the gold of all the world,The ore that makes men fools and slaves;What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,That rivers through the sunset's caves!Search Earth for riches all who will,The gold that soils, that turns to dust —Be mine the wealth no thief can steal,The gold of God that can not rust.