Afterwhiles Part 7

And I peered through a vista of leaning tree, Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept To the face of a river, that answered these With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies, And wistfully laughed and wept

And there, like a dream in swoon, I swear I saw Pan lying--, his limbs in the dew And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare Of the glad suns.h.i.+ne; while everywhere, Over across, and around him blew Filmy dragon-flies. .h.i.ther and there, And little white b.u.t.terflies, two and two, In eddies of odorous air.

Sonnets

_Pan_

This Pan is but an idle G.o.d, I guess, Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams He loiters listlessly by woody streams, Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams Of sifted suns.h.i.+ne. And he ever seems Drugged with a joy unutterable-- unless His low pipes whistle hints of it far out Across the ripples to the dragon-fly That like a wind-born blossom blown about, Drops quiveringly down, as though to die-- Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt Whether to fan his wings or fly without.

_Dusk_

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky Trample the suns.h.i.+ne down, and chase the day Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high, The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry Sad as the wail of some poor castaway Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.

The children, riotous from school, grow bold And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

_June_

O queenly month of indolent repose!

I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The s.h.i.+fting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade--: All hail the Peerless G.o.ddess of the Year!

_Silence_

Thousands of thousands of hushed years ago, Out on the edge of Chaos, all alone I stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrown Above a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow, Nor any motion won of winds that blow, Nor any sound of watery wail or moan, Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertone Of any tide lost in the night below.

So still it was, I mind me, as I laid My thirsty ear against mine own faint sigh To drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid 'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled by The one starved star that tottered through the shade And came tiptoeing toward me down the sky.

_Sleep_

Thou drowsy G.o.d, whose blurred eyes, half awink Muse on me--, drifting out upon thy dreams, I lave my soul as in enchanted streams Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink, And tipsy with the melody they drink, Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams Of suns.h.i.+ne dance like motes. Thy languor seems An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly--, Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine, And siren-arms that coil their sorcery About my neck, with kisses so divine, The heavens reel above me, and the sea Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.

_Her Hair_

The beauty of her hair bewilders me-- Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide Swirling about the ears on either side And storming round the neck tumultuously: Or like the lights of old antiquity Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified In chastest marble, nude of drapery.

And so I love it--. Either unconfined; Or plaited in close braidings manifold; Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled At any lightest kiss; or by the wind Whipped out in flossy ravellings of gold.

_Dearth_

I hold your trembling hand to-night-- and yet I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, My heart is such a curious design Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet-- So must I think they jewel some regret--, And lo, the loving arms that round me twine Cling only as the tendrils of a vine Whose fruit has long been gathered: I forget, While crimson cl.u.s.ters of your kisses press Their wine out on my lips, my royal fair Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, With fuller flavoring of happiness Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare.

_A Voice From the Farm_

It is my dream to have you here with me, Out of the heated city's dust and din-- Here where the colts have room to gambol in, And kine to graze, in clover to the knee.

I want to see your wan face happily Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been In use since the old games you used to win When we pitched horseshoes: And I want to be At utter loaf with you in this dim land Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields His bulky flight, as we cease converse and In a dusk like velvet smoothly take Our way toward home across the dewy fields.

_The Serenade_

The midnight is not more bewildering To her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the sound Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound With purl of flute and subtle tw.a.n.g of string, Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing Of the mysterious delirious tune, She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes Upraised against her cas.e.m.e.nt, where aswoon, The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies Of alien azure rolls the full round moon Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon.

_Art and Love_

He faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken Pierces the crust of this existence through) And smiled beyond on that his genius knew Ere mated with his being. Conscious then Of his high theme alone, he smiled again Straight back upon himself in many a hue And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear.

So wrought he, witless that behind him leant A woman, with old features, dim and sear, And glamoured eyes that felt the br.i.m.m.i.n.g tear, And with a voice, like some sad instrument, That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!"

_Longfellow_

The winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody: The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- Her legends fair-- her darkest mystery.

His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cl.u.s.ter round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings--.

Nor shall he cease to sing-- in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings-- and will alway.

_Indiana_

Our Land-- our Home-- the common home indeed Of soil-born children and adopted ones-- The stately daughters and the stalwart sons Of Industry--: All greeting and G.o.dspeed!

O home to proudly live for, and if need Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns Blent with our latest prayer--. So died men once...

Lo Peace...! As we look on the land They freed-- Its harvests all in ocean-over flow Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold-- Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs--, We know the exaltation that they know Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold The Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours?"

_Time_

1 The ticking-- ticking-- ticking of the clock--!

That vexed me so last night--! "For though Time keeps Such drowsy watch," I moaned, "he never sleeps, But only nods above the world to mock Its restless occupant, then rudely rock It as the cradle of a babe that weeps!"

I seemed to see the seconds piled in heaps Like sand about me; and at every shock O' the bell, the piled sands were swirled away As by a desert-storm that swept the earth Stark as a granary floor, whereon the gray And mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearth Came crawling, like a sickly child, to lay Its pale face next mine own and weep for day.

2 Wait for the morning! Ah! We wait indeed For daylight, we who toss about through stress Of vacant-armed desires and emptiness Of all the warm, warm touches that we need, And the warm kisses upon which we feed Our famished lips in fancy! May G.o.d bless The starved lips of us with but one caress Warm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed...!

A wild prayer--! Bite thy pillow, praying so-- Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn; Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe, And Time be drained of sorrow! Long ago We heard the crowing c.o.c.k, with answer drawn As hoa.r.s.ely sad at throat as sobs... Pray on!

Grant At Rest-- August 8, 1885

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his s.h.i.+eld before the cross. --Age of Chivalary

_Grant_

What shall we say of the soldier. Grant, His sword put by and his great soul free?

How shall we cheer him now or chant His requiem befittingly?

The fields of his conquest now are seen Ranged no more with his armed men-- But the rank and file of the gold and green Of the waving grain is there again.