Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 6

DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL.

I.

Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'!

Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wis.h.i.+n'

I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fis.h.i.+n'!

II.

On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor!

Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner.

III.

Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'

In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me!

And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me!

NESSMUK.

I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry!

True forester thou art, and still to be, Even in happier fields than thou hast known.

Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown Of groves delectable--"preserves" for thee-- Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:--

First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should.

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY.

I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,-- And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!

W'y, they ain't no use to pray!

Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away!

But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say.

Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say.

THE SINGER.

While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,--

Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings.

A FULL HARVEST.

Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich c.r.a.ps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field--like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!

BLIND.

You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much That _we_, who see by sense of touch And taste and hearing, see things _you_ May never look upon; and true Is it that even in the scent Of blossoms _we_ find something meant No eyes have in their faces read, Or wept to see interpreted.

And you might think it strange if now I told you you were smiling. How Do I know that? I hold your hand-- _Its_ language I can understand-- Give both to me, and I will show You many other things I know.

Listen: We never met before Till now?--Well, you are something lower Than five-feet-eight in height; and you Are slender; and your eyes are blue--

Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- Your mother's likeness everywhere Save in your walk--and that is quite Your father's; nervous.--Am I right?

I thought so. And you used to sing, But have neglected everything Of vocalism--though you may Still thrum on the guitar, and play A little on the violin,-- I know that by the callous in The finger-tips of your left hand-- And, by-the-bye, though nature planned You as most men, you are, I see, "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery Is clear, though,--your right arm has been Broken, to "break" the left one in.

And so, you see, though blind of sight, I still have ways of seeing quite Too well for you to sympathize Excessively, with your good eyes.-- Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, Within the whole asylum here, From cupola to bas.e.m.e.nt hall, I was the blindest of them all!

Let us move further down the walk-- The man here waiting hears my talk, And is disturbed; besides, he may Not be quite friendly anyway.

In fact--(this will be far enough; Sit down)--the man just spoken of Was once a friend of mine. He came For treatment here from Burlingame-- A rich though brilliant student there, Who read his eyes out of repair, And groped his way up here, where we Became acquainted, and where he Met one of our girl-teachers, and, If you 'll believe me, asked her hand In marriage, though the girl was blind As I am--and the girl _declined_.

Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he?

And handsome, eloquently wide And high of brow, and dignified With every outward grace, his sight Restored to him, clear and bright As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still For the blind girl that never will Be wife of his. How do I know?

You will recall a while ago I told you he and I were friends.

In all that friends.h.i.+p comprehends, I was his friend, I swear! why now, Remembering his love, and how His confidence was all my own, I hear, in fancy, the low tone Of his deep voice, so full of pride And pa.s.sion, yet so pacified With his affliction, that it seems An utterance sent out of dreams Of saddest melody, withal So sorrowfully musical It was, and is, must ever be-- But I'm digressing, pardon me.

_I_ knew not anything of love In those days, but of that above All worldly pa.s.sion,--for my art-- Music,--and that, with all my heart And soul, blent in a love too great For words of mine to estimate.

And though among my pupils she Whose love my friend sought came to me I only knew her fingers' touch Because they loitered overmuch In simple scales, and needs must be Untangled almost constantly.

But she was bright in other ways, And quick of thought, with ready plays Of wit, and with a voice as sweet To listen to as one might meet In any oratorio-- And once I gravely told her so,-- And, at my words, her limpid tone Of laughter faltered to a moan, And fell from that into a sigh That quavered all so wearily, That I, without the tear that crept Between the keys, had known she wept; And yet the hand I reached for then She caught away, and laughed again.

And when that evening I strolled With my old friend, I, smiling, told Him I believed the girl and he Were matched and mated perfectly: He was so n.o.ble; she, so fair Of speech, and womanly of air; He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild And artless even as a child; And with a nature, I was sure, As wors.h.i.+pful as it was pure And sweet, and brimmed with tender things Beyond his rarest fancyings.

He stopped me solemnly. He knew, He said, how good, and just, and true Was all I said of her; but as For his own virtues, let them pa.s.s, Since they were nothing to the one That he had set his heart upon; For but that morning she had turned Forever from him. Then I learned That for a month he had delayed His going from us, with no aid Of hope to hold him,--meeting still Her ever firm denial, till Not even in his new-found sight He found one comfort or delight.

And as his voice broke there, I felt The brother-heart within me melt In warm compa.s.sion for his own That throbbed so utterly alone.

And then a sudden fancy hit Along my brain; and coupling it With a belief that I, indeed, Might help my friend in his great need, I warmly said that I would go Myself, if he decided so, And see her for him--that I knew My pleadings would be listened to Most seriously, and that she Should love him, listening to me.

Go; bless me! And that was the last-- The last time his warm hand shut fast Within my own--so empty since, That the remembered finger-prints I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet Them with the tears of all regret!

I know not how to rightly tell How fared my quest, and what befell Me, coming in the presence of That blind girl, and her blinder love.

I know but little else than that Above the chair in which she sat I leant--reached for, and found her hand, And held it for a moment, and Took up the other--held them both-- As might a friend, I will take oath: Spoke leisurely, as might a man Praying for no thing other than He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind, I said, and yet a n.o.ble mind Most truly loved her; one whose fond Clear-sighted vision looked beyond The bounds of her infirmity, And saw the woman, perfectly Modeled, and wrought out pure and true And lovable. She quailed, and drew Her hands away, but closer still I caught them. "Rack me as you will!"

She cried out sharply--"Call me 'blind'-- Love ever is--I am resigned!

Blind is your friend; as blind as he Am I--but blindest of the three-- Yea, blind as death--you will not see My love for you is killing me!"

There is a memory that may Not ever wholly fade away From out my heart, so bright and fair The light of it still glimmers there.

Why, it did seem as though my sight Flamed back upon me, dazzling white And G.o.dlike. Not one other word Of hers I listened for or heard, But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, As my mad lips did strike her own And we flashed one and one alone!

Ah! was it treachery for me To kneel there, drinking eagerly That torrent-flow of words that swept Out laughingly the tears she wept?-- Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, Than light of day to those that see,-- G.o.d knows, who did the rapture send To me, and hold it from my friend.