Nature and Elements

A Route of Evanescence

A Route of Evanescence
With a revolving Wheel--
A Resonance of Emerald--
A Rush of Cochineal--
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head--
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning's Ride--

A Route of Evanescence

A Route of Evanescence
With a revolving Wheel--
A Resonance of Emerald--
A Rush of Cochineal--
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head--
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning's Ride--

A little road not made man

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.


If town it have, beyond itself,
'T is that I cannot say;
I only sigh,--no vehicle
Bears me along that way.

A Lady red-amid the Hill

74

A Lady red-amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!


The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms-
Sweep vale-and hill-and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?


The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird-
In such a little while!


And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!

A Lady red-amid the Hill

74

A Lady red-amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!


The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms-
Sweep vale-and hill-and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?


The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird-
In such a little while!


And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!

A Dying Tiger-moaned for Drink

566

A Dying Tiger-moaned for Drink-
I hunted all the Sand-
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand-

His Mighty Balls-in death were thick-
But searching-I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water-and of me


'Twas not my blame-who sped too slow'
Twas not his blame-who died
While I was reaching him-
But 'twas-the fact that He was dead-

"Heaven"-is what I cannot reach!

239

"Heaven"-is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree-
Provided it do hopeless-hangThat-"
Heaven" is-to Me!


The Color, on the Cruising Cloud-
The interdicted Land-
Behind the Hill-the House behindThere-
Paradise-is found!


Her teasing Purples-Afternoons-
The credulous-decoyEnamored-
of the Conjuror-
That spurned us-Yesterday!

"Arcturus" is his other name

70

"Arcturus" is his other nameI'd
rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!


I slew a worm the other day-
A "Savant" passing by
Murmured "Resurgam"-"Centipede"!
"Oh Lord-how frail are we"!


I pull a flower from the woods-
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath-
And has her in a "class"!


Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat-
He sits erect in "Cabinets"-
The Clover bells forgot.


What once was "Heaven"
Is "Zenith" now-
Where I proposed to go
When Time's brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.


What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I'm ready for "the worst"-
Whatever prank betides!


Perhaps the "Kingdom of Heaven's" changed-
I hope the "Children" there Won't be "new fashioned" when I come-
And laugh at me-and stare-


I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl-
Old fashioned-naught-everything-
Over the stile of "Pearl."

When


I dwell in the western inland,
Afar from the sounding sea,
But I seem to hear it sobbing


And calling aloud to me,
And my heart cries out for the ocean
As a child for its mother's breast,
And I long to lie on its waters
And be lulled in its arms to rest.

I can close my eyes and fancy
That I hear its mighty roar,
And I see its blue waves splashing
And plunging against the shore;
And the white foam caps the billow,
And the sea-gulls wheel and cry,
And the cool wild wind is blowing,
And the ships go sailing by.

Oh, wonderful, mighty ocean!
When shall I ever stand,
Where my heart has gone already,
There on thy gleaming strand!
When shall I ever wander
Away from the inland west,
And strand by thy side, dear ocean,
And rock on thy heaving breast?

What Uncle Rob Says

Uncle Rob says,
That once on a time the fire flies
Were stars with the others up in the skies.


They used to shimmer, and dance and play,
Night after night in the Milky Way.


But when their papa, the stern old Sun
Said 'off to bed with you every one,'


These bold little stars refused to obey,
'Let's hide in that cloud and then run away.'


'Let's run to the earth,' these bad stars said
'We are quite too old to be sent to bed.'


So then they were exiled out of the skies,
And that's how we came with the fire flies,
So Uncle Rob says.

Warning


High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning,
Albeit the sun shone bright;
Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning,
‘Remember Night! ’

Voice of the Voiceless

I am the Voice of the Voiceless
Through me the dumb shall speak
Till the world's deaf ear be made to hear
The wrongs of the wordless weak.
Oh shame on the mothers of mortals
Who do not stoop to teach
The sorrow that lies in dear dumb eyes
The sorrow that has no speech.
From street, from cage, from kennel
From stable and from zoo
The wall of my tortured kin proclaims the sin
Of the mighty against the frail.
But I am my brother's keeper
And I shall fight their fight
And speak the word for beast and bird
Till the world shall set things right.

The Swan Of Dijon

I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast
Was at its loudest; when there was no sound
From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
Or rattle of their wagons in the street.
When every engine whistle would repeat
Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,
'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring
Remnants of men back as war's offering.'


And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye
Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;
But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by
Where war was not; a little lake whereon
Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,
Majestic and imposing, yet serene.


I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight
Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,
Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid
While silver fountains for his pleasure played.
Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part
To rest a tired heart.

The Optimist

The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wing
Or note enlivened the depressing wood,
A soiled and sullen, stubborn snowdrift stood
Beside the roadway. Winds came muttering
Of storms to be, and brought the chilly sting
Of icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooed
Forth plaintive pleadings for the earth's green food.
No gleam, no hint of hope in anything.


The sky was blank and ashen, like the face
Of some poor wretch who drains life's cup too fast.
Yet, swaying to and fro, as if to fling
About chilled Nature its lithe arms of grace,
Smiling with promise in the wintry blast,
The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.

The Needle and Thread

The Needle and Thread one day were wed,
The Thimble acted as priest,
A paper of Pins, and the Scissors twins
Were among the guests at the feast.


That dandy trim the Bodkin slim
Danced with Miss Tape-measure,
But he stepped on her trail, and she called him 'a whale,'
And that put an end to their pleasure.


Wrinkled and fat the Beeswax sat
And talked with the Needle-case.
'I am glad,' she said, 'that my niece, the Thread,
Has married into this race.


'Her mother, the Spool, was a dull old fool,
And the Needle and Thread were shy;
The result you see came all through me,
I taught her to catch his eye.'


The Emery-ball just there had a fall-
She had danced too long at one time,
And that put a stop to the merry hop,
And that brings an end to my rhyme.


The groom and the bride took their wedding ride
Down a long white-seam to the shore,
And the guests all said there never was wed
So fair a couple before.

The Hammock's Complaint

Who thinks how desolate and strange
To me must seem the autumn's change,
When housed in attic or in chest,
A lonely and unwilling guest,
I lie through nights of bleak December,
And think in silence, and remember.


I think of hempen fields, where I
Once played with insects floating by,
And joyed alike in sun and rain,
Unconscious of approaching pain.
I dwell upon my later lot,
Where, swung in some secluded spot
Between two tried and trusted trees,
All summer long I wooed the breeze.
With song of bee and call of bird
And lover's secrets overheard,
And sight and scent of blooming flowers,
To fill the happy sunlight's hours.
When verdant fields grow bare and brown,
When forest leaves come raining down,
When frost has mated with the weather
And all the birds go south together,
When drying boats turn up their keels,
Who wonders how the hammock feels?

The Hammock's Complaint

Who thinks how desolate and strange
To me must seem the autumn's change,
When housed in attic or in chest,
A lonely and unwilling guest,
I lie through nights of bleak December,
And think in silence, and remember.


I think of hempen fields, where I
Once played with insects floating by,
And joyed alike in sun and rain,
Unconscious of approaching pain.
I dwell upon my later lot,
Where, swung in some secluded spot
Between two tried and trusted trees,
All summer long I wooed the breeze.
With song of bee and call of bird
And lover's secrets overheard,
And sight and scent of blooming flowers,
To fill the happy sunlight's hours.
When verdant fields grow bare and brown,
When forest leaves come raining down,
When frost has mated with the weather
And all the birds go south together,
When drying boats turn up their keels,
Who wonders how the hammock feels?

Summer Song

The meadow lark’s trill and the brown thrush’s whistle
From morning to evening fill all the sweet air,

And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle –
The world is so bright and the earth is so fair.

There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow;
The air drops with songs that the merry birds sing.

The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow,
And she’s dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.

The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover
And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow,

And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over
The calm little pond, where the pale lillies grow.

In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices
Are singing in chorus some jubilant air.

The bird and the bee and all nature rejoices,
The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.

I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather;
I have tossed all my burdens and trials away;

My heart is as light – yes, as light as a feather; I
am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day.

Can it be there approaches a dark, dreary to-morrow?
Can shadows e’er fall on this beautiful earth?

Ah! To-day is my own! No forebodings of sorrow
Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.

Summer Song

The meadow lark’s trill and the brown thrush’s whistle
From morning to evening fill all the sweet air,

And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle –
The world is so bright and the earth is so fair.

There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow;
The air drops with songs that the merry birds sing.

The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow,
And she’s dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.

The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover
And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow,

And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over
The calm little pond, where the pale lillies grow.

In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices
Are singing in chorus some jubilant air.

The bird and the bee and all nature rejoices,
The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.

I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather;
I have tossed all my burdens and trials away;

My heart is as light – yes, as light as a feather; I
am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day.

Can it be there approaches a dark, dreary to-morrow?
Can shadows e’er fall on this beautiful earth?

Ah! To-day is my own! No forebodings of sorrow
Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.

Songs Of A Country Home

I

Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the tulips first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy, still left for him to know.


It is like early loves' imagining;
That fragile pleasure, which the Tulips bring,
When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.


Not all the gardens later royal train,
Not great triumphant Roses, when they reign,
Can bring that delicate delight again.


II


One of the sweetest hours is this;
(Of all I think we like it best
A little restful oasis,
Between the breakfast, and the post.
Just south of coffee, and of toast,
Just north of daily task and duty;
Just west of dreams, this Island gleams,
A fertile spot of peace and beauty.


We wander out across the lawn;
We idle by a bush in bloom;
The Household pets come following on;
Or if the day is one of gloom,
We loiter in a pleasant room
Or from a casement, lean and chatter.
Then comes the mail, like sudden hail,
And off we scatter.


III


When roses die, in languid August days,
We leave the Garden, to its fallen ways;
And seek the shelter of wide porticos,
Where Honeysuckle, in defiance blows
Undaunted by the Sun's too ardent rays.


The matron Summer, turns a wistful gaze
Across green valleys, back to tender Mays;
And something of her large contentment goes,
When roses die.


Yet all her subtle fascination stays
To lure us into idle sweet delays.
The lowered awning, by the hammock shows
Inviting nooks for dreaming and repose;
Oh, restful are the pleasures of those days



When roses die.

IV

The summer folk, fled back to town;
The green woods changed to red and brown;
A sound upon the frosty air
Of windows closing everywhere.


And then the log, lapped by a blaze.
Oh, what is better than these days;
With books and friends and love a-near;
Go on, gay world, but leave me here.

Robin's Mistake

What do you think Red Robin
Found by a mow of hay?
Why, a flask brimful of liquor,
That the mowers brought that day
To slake their thirst in the hayfield.
And Robin he shook his head:
'Now, I wonder what they call it,
And how it tastes?' he said.


'I have seen the mowers drink it-
Why isn't it good for me?
So I'll just draw out the stopper
And get at the stuff, and see!'
But alas! for the curious Robin,
One draught, and he burned his throat
From his bill to his poor crop's lining,
And he could not utter a note.


And his head grew light and dizzy,
And he staggered left and right,
Tipped over the flask of brandy,
And spilled it, every mite.
But after awhile he sobered,
And quietly flew away,
And he never has tasted liquor,
Or touched it, since that day.


But I heard him say to his kindred.
In the course of a friendly chat,
'These men think they are above us,
Yet they drink such stuff as that!
Oh, the poor degraded creatures!
I am glad I am only a bird!'
Then he flew up over the meadow,
And that was all I heard.

Searching


These quiet Autumn days,
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out and searches for the hidden things

Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries,
Above the waters of the voiceless sea
That laps the shore of broad Eternity,

Day after day, it flies,

Searching, but all in vain,
For some stray leaf that it may light upon,
And read the future, as the days agone -

Its pleasures, and its pain.

Listening patiently
For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,
Revealing all the things that it doth keep

In secret there for me.

Come back and wait, my soul!
Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceles and silent o'er the future's plain

Its mystic waters roll.

God, seeing, knoweth best,
And in His time the waters shall subside,
And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide,

Then wait, my soul, and rest.

Response


I said this morning, as I leaned and threw
My shutters open to the Spring's surprise,
'Tell me, O Earth, how is it that in you
Year after year the same fresh feelings rise?
How do you keep your young exultant glee?
No more those sweet emotions come to me.
'I note through all your fissures how the tide
Of healthful life goes leaping as of old;
Your royal dawns retain their pomp and pride;
Your sunsets lose no atom of their gold.
How can this wonder be?' My soul's fine ear
Leaned, listening, till a small voice answered near:
'My days lapse never over into night;
My nights encroach not on the rights of dawn.
I rush not breathless after some delight;
I waste no grief for any pleasure gone.
My July noons burn not the entire year.
Heart, hearken well!' 'Yes, yes; go on; I hear.'
'I do not strive to make my sunsets' gold
Pave all the dim and distant realms of space.
I do not bid my crimson dawns unfold
To lend the midnight a fictitious grace.
I break no law, for all God's laws are good.
Heart, hast thou heard?' 'Yes, yes; and understood.'

Over The May Hill

All through the night time, and all through the day time,
Dreading the morning and dreading the night,
Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time
Season of beauty and season of blight,
Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,
Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,
Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,
Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.


Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,
Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,
Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary-
Too well I know what that weariness means.
But how could I know in the crisp winter weather
(Though sometimes I notices a catch in your breath),
Riding and singing and dancing together,
How could I know you were racing with death?


How could I know when we danced until morning,
And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd-
With only that shortness of breath for a warning,
How could I know that you danced for a shroud?
Whirling and whirling through moonlight and star-light,
Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave,
Down in your eyes shone a deep light-a far light,
How could I know 'twas the light to your grave?


Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing,
Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom,
Cometh the shape and the shadow I'm fearing,
'Over the May hill' is waiting your tomb.
The season of mirth and of music is over-
I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song,
Under the violets, under the clover,
My heart and my love will be lying ere long.