Part 7 (1/2)
He loved her; having felt his love begin With that first look,--as lover oft avers.
He made pale flowers his pleading ministers, Impressed sweet music, drew the springtime in To serve his suit; but when he could not win, Forgot her face and those gray eyes of hers; And at her name his pulse no longer stirs, And life goes on as though she had not been.
She never loved him; but she loved Love so, So reverenced Love, that all her being shook At his demand whose entrance she denied.
Her thoughts of him such tender color took As western skies that keep the afterglow.
The words he spoke were with her till she died.
A MYSTERY
That sunless day no living shadow swept Across the hills, fleet shadow chasing light, Twin of the sailing cloud: but, mists wool white, Slow-stealing mists, on those heaved shoulders crept, And wrought about the strong hills while they slept In witches' wise, and rapt their forms from sight.
Dreams were they; less than dream, the n.o.blest height And farthest; and the chilly woodland wept.
A sunless day and sad: yet all the while Within the grave green twilight of the wood, inscrutable, immutable, apart, Hearkening the brook, whose song she understood, The secret birch-tree kept her silver smile, Strange as the peace that gleams at sorrow's heart.
TRIUMPH
This windy sunlit morning after rain, The wet bright laurel laughs with beckoning gleam In the blown wood, whence breaks the wild white stream Rus.h.i.+ng and flas.h.i.+ng, glorying in its gain; Nor swerves nor parts, but with a swift disdain O'erleaps the boulders lying in long dream, Lapped in cold moss; and in its joy doth seem A wood-born creature bursting from a chain.
And ”Triumph, triumph, triumph!” is its hoa.r.s.e Fierce-whispered word. O fond, and dost not know Thy triumph on another wise must be,-- To render all the tribute of thy force, And lose thy little being in the flow Of the unvaunting river toward the sea!
IN WINTER, WITH THE BOOK WE READ IN SPRING
The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way, Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white; The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May.
Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day, Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright; Where clung the birds that long have taken flight, Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray.
O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same, Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom, Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring!
I hold thee--frozen skies to rosy flame Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom, And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing.
SERE WISDOM
I had remembrance of a summer morn, When all the glistening field was softly stirred And like a child's in happy sleep I heard The low and healthful breathing of the corn.