Part 6 (1/2)
Noon like a naked sword lies on the gra.s.s, Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse; The little stream, too indolent to pa.s.s, Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs, That build amid the glare a shadowy house, And with a Paradisal freshness brims Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade; The antic water-fly above it skims, And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade, Or knee-deep in the gra.s.sy glimmer wade.
The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, Nor bird, nor bee; and even the b.u.t.terflies, Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.
Only at times a little breeze will stir, And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, And sway the rushes momently agleam-- Then all fall back again into a dream.
A RAINY DAY
The beauty of this rainy day, All silver-green and dripping gray, Has stolen quite my heart away From all the tasks I meant to do, Made me forget the resolute blue And energetic gold of things . . .
So soft a song the rain-bird sings.
Yet am I glad to miss awhile The sun's huge domineering smile, The busy s.p.a.ces mile on mile, Shut in behind this s.h.i.+mmering screen Of falling pearls and phantom green; As in a cloister walled with rain, Safe from intrusions, voices vain, And hurry of invading feet, Inviolate in my retreat: Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- So runs my rainy-day desire.
Or I old letters may con o'er, And dream on faces seen no more, The buried treasure of the years, Too visionary now for tears; Open old cupboards and explore Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, A delicate romantic ache, Sometimes a swifter pang of pain To read old tenderness again, As though the ink were scarce yet dry, And She still She and I still I.
What if I were to write as though Her letter came an hour ago!
An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . .
But out upon these rainy days!
Come tie the packet up again, The sun is back--enough of rain.
IN THE CITY
Away from the silent hills and the talking of upland waters, The high still stars and the lonely moon in her quarters, I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers; And I leave behind me the hush and the dews and the flowers, The mink that steals by the stream a-s.h.i.+mmer among the rocks, The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear and the fox, The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon, And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's endless tune.
And what shall I find in the city that shall take the place of these?
O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees, And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes, And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.
COUNTRY LARGESSE
I bring a message from the stream To fan the burning cheeks of town, From morning's tower Of pearl and rose I bring this cup of crystal down, With br.i.m.m.i.n.g dews agleam, And from my lady's garden close I bring this flower.
O walk with me, ye jaded brows, And I will sing the song I found Making a lonely rippling sound Under the boughs.
The tinkle of the brook is there, And cow-bells wandering through the fern, And silver calls From waterfalls, And echoes floating through the air From happiness I know not where, And hum and drone where'er I turn Of little lives that buzz and die; And sudden lucent melodies, Like hidden strings among the trees Roofing the summer sky.
The soft breath of the briar I bring, And wafted scents of mint and clover, Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling, Sweet-thoughted as a lover; Incense from lilied urns a-swaying, And the green smell of gra.s.s Where men are haying.
As through the streets I pa.s.s, With their shrill clatter, This largesse from the hills and streams, This quietude of flowers and dreams, Round me I scatter.