The Garden of Dreams Part 2

IMPERFECTION

Not as the eye hath seen, shall we behold Romance and beauty, when we've pa.s.sed away; That robed the dull facts of the intimate day In life's wild raiment of unusual gold: Not as the ear hath heard, shall we be told, Hereafter, myth and legend once that lay Warm at the heart of Nature, clothing clay In attribute of no material mold.

These were imperfect of necessity, That wrought thro' imperfection for far ends Of perfectness--As calm philosophy, Teaching a child, from his high heav'n descends To Earth's familiar things; informingly Vesting his thoughts with that it comprehends.

ARCANNA

Earth hath her images of utterance, Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude; A symbol language of similitude, Into whose secrets science may not glance; In which the Mind-in-Nature doth romance In miracles that baffle if pursued-- No guess shall search them and no thought intrude Beyond the limits of her sufferance.

So doth the great Intelligence above Hide His own thought's creations; and attire Forms in the dream's ideal, which He dowers With immaterial loveliness and love-- As essences of fragrance and of fire-- Preaching th' evangels of the stars and flowers.

SPRING

First came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips; A pursuivant who heralded a prince: And dawn put on a livery of tints, And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips: And, all in silver mail, then sunlight came, A knight, who bade the winter let him pa.s.s, And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.

And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness, Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless: Before her face the birds were as a lyre; And at her feet, like some strong wors.h.i.+per, The shouting water paean'd praise of her, Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire.

RESPONSE

There is a music of immaculate love, That breathes within the virginal veins of Spring:-- And trillium blossoms, like the stars that cling To fairies' wands; and, strung on sprays above, White-hearts and mandrake blooms, that look enough Like the elves' was.h.i.+ng, white with laundering Of May-moon dews; and all pale-opening Wild-flowers of the woods, are born thereof.

There is no sod Spring's white foot brushes but Must feel the music that vibrates within, And thrill to the communicated touch Responsive harmonies, that must unshut The heart of beauty for song's concrete kin, Emotions--that be flowers--born of such.

FULFILLMENT

Yes, there are some who may look on these Essential peoples of the earth and air-- That have the stars and flowers in their care-- And all their soul-suggestive secrecies: Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees, Who from them learn, what no known schools declare, G.o.d's knowledge; and from winds, that discourse there, G.o.d's gospel of diviner mysteries: To whom the waters shall divulge a word Of fuller faith; the sunset and the dawn Preach sermons more inspired even than The tongues of Penticost; as, distant heard In forms of change, through Nature upward drawn, G.o.d doth address th' immortal soul of Man.

TRANSFORMATION

It is the time when, by the forest falls, The touchmenots hang fairy folly-caps; When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps Of rocks with color, rich as orient shawls: And in my heart I hear a voice that calls Me woodward, where the Hamadryad wraps Her limbs in bark, or, bubbling in the saps, Laughs the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals.

There is a gleam that lures me up the stream-- A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light?

Perfume, that leads me on from dream to dream-- An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight?

And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again, Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.

OMENS

Sad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died.

Slow as a fungus breaking through the crusts Of forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts, Through gray-brown clouds, one milky silver side; In her vague light the dogwoods, vale-descried, Seem nervous torches flourished by the gusts; The apple-orchards seem the restless dusts Of wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.

It is a night of omens whom late May Meets, like a wraith, among her train of hours; An apparition, with appealing eye And hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way, And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers, Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.

ABANDONED

The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms, And on its mossy porch the lizard lies; Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies, And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.

Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumes Haunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr tries Each gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighs With ghostly lips among the attic glooms.

And now a heron, now a kingfisher, Flits in the willows where the riffle seems At each faint fall to hesitate to leap, Fluttering the silence with a little stir.

Here Summer seems a placid face asleep, And the near world a figment of her dreams.

THE CREEK-ROAD

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach Of water sings by sycamore and beech, In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.

It is a page whereon the sun and dew Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech; A laboratory where the wood-winds teach, Dissect each scent and a.n.a.lyze each hue.

Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it Record the happ'nings of each summer day; Where we may read, as in a catalogue, When pa.s.sed a thresher; when a load of hay; Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit; And now a bare-foot truant and his dog.

THE COVERED BRIDGE

There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,-- Where in the valley foams a water-fall,--- Is glimpsed a ruined mill's remaining wall; Here, by the road, the oxeye daisy mines Hot bra.s.s and bronze; the trumpet-trailer s.h.i.+nes Red as the plumage of the cardinal.

Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow's call Where dusty Summer dreams among the pines.

This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower verses In primrose pink, while, drowsing o'er his reins, The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along: And where the Autumn opens weedy purses Of sleepy silver, while the corn-heaped wains Rumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.

THE HILLSIDE GRAVE