Undertones Part 2

THE WOOD WITCH

There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags, that rank The slow brook's heron-haunted bank: The dragon-flies, in bra.s.s and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells by under forest leaves,-- These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies gleamy green.

While o'er the wet sand,--left between The running water and the still,-- In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she meditates Take on most sumptuous shapes, with traits Like b.u.t.terflies. 'Tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr; Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And slumber is begot and born, A faery child, beneath the thorn.

There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her dim demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme.

And by her spell you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fire-flies; and, in the gloom, Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom.

But, in the night, at languid rest,-- When like a spirit's naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,-- With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist, If you should see her rise and wave You welcome,--ah! what thing shall save You then? forevermore her slave!

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas, To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.

Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; Her ap.r.o.n filled with stars she stands, And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away.

Above the wood's black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away.

Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low, Beyond the twilight and the night, Into Love's kingdom of long light, Over the hills and away.

MAY

The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance-- No gleam of gold that the twilights hold Is strong as their necromance: For, under the oaks where the wood-paths lead, The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed Are the May's own utterance.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- No blink of blue that a cloud lets through Is sweet as their countenance: For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, The azure stars of the bluet bloom Are the light of the May's own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes, In a sunbeam of a gown; She needs but think and the blossoms wink, But look, and they shower down.

By orchard ways, where the wild-bee hums, With her wondering words and her looks she comes, Like a little maid to town.

THE WIND OF SPRING

The wind that breathes of columbines And bleeding-hearts that crowd the rocks; That shakes the balsam of the pines With music from his flas.h.i.+ng locks, Stops at my city door and knocks.

He calls me far a-forest; where The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom; And, circled by the amber air, Life sits with beauty and perfume Weaving the new web of her loom.

He calls me where the waters run Through fronding ferns where haunts the hern; And, sparkling in the equal sun, Song leans beside her br.i.m.m.i.n.g urn, And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.

The wind has summoned, and I go,-- To con G.o.d's meaning in each line The flowers write, and, walking slow, G.o.d's purpose, of which song is sign,-- The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.

INTERPRETED

What magic shall solve us the secret Of beauty that's born for an hour?

That gleams like the flight of an egret, Or burns like the scent of a flower, With death for a dower?

What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?

What pipes on the wind but a faun?

Or laughs in the waters that scatter, But limbs of a nymph who is gone, When we walk in the dawn?

What sings on the hills but a fairy?

Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?

What breathes through the leaves but the airy Soft spirits of shadow and light, When we walk in the night?

Behold how the world-heart is eager To draw us and hold us and claim!

Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer Her soul she makes ours the same, And death but a name.

THE WILLOW BOTTOM

Lush green the gra.s.s that grows between The willows of the bottom-land; Verged by the careless water, tall and green, The brown-topped cat-tails stand.

The cows come gently here to browse, Slow through the great-leafed sycamores; You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house With cedars round its doors.

Then all is quiet as the wings Of the high buzzard floating there; Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings An old camp-meeting air.

A flapping c.o.c.k that crows; and then-- Heard drowsy through the rustling corn-- A flutter, and the cackling of a hen Within a hay-sweet barn.

How still again! no water stirs; No wind is heard; although the weeds Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs Drift by a few soft seeds.

So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you Expect to see her gliding by,-- Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,-- The Spirit of July.

THE OLD BARN

Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.

Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides.

Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or pa.s.ses shadowy.