The Triumph Of Music Part 2

MIRABILE DICTU.

There lives a G.o.ddess in the West, An island in death-lonesome seas; No towered towns are hers confessed, No castled forts and palaces.

Hers, simple wors.h.i.+pers at best, The buds, the birds, the bees.

And she hath wonder-worlds of song So heavenly beautiful, and shed So sweetly from her honeyed tongue, The savage creatures, it is said, Hark marble-still their wilds among, And nightingales fall dead.

I know her not, nor have I known; I only feel that she is there; For when my heart is most alone There broods communion on the air, Concedes an influence not its own, Miraculously fair.

Then fain is it to sing and sing, And then again to fly and fly Beyond the flight of cloud or wing, Far under azure arcs of sky.

Its love at her chaste feet to fling, Behold her face and die.

QUESTIONINGS.

Now when wan winter sunsets be Canary-colored down the sky; When nights are starless utterly, And sleeted winds cut moaning by, One's memory keeps one company, And conscience puts his "when" and "why."

Such inquisition, when alone, Wakes superst.i.tion in the head, A Gorgon face of hueless stone With staring eyes to terror wed, Stamped on her brow G.o.d's words, "Unknown!

Behind the dead, behind the dead."

And, oh! that weariness of soul That leans upon our dead, the clod And air have taken as a whole Through some mysterious period:-- Life! with thy questions of control: Death! with thy unguessed laws of G.o.d.

WAITING.

Were we in May now, while Our souls are yearning, Sad hearts would bound and smile With red blood burning; Around the tedious dial No slow hands turning.

Were we in May now, say, What joy to know Her heart's streams pulse away In winds that blow, See graceful limbs of May Revealed to glow.

Were we in May now, think What wealth she has; The dog-tooth violets pink, Wind-flowers like gla.s.s, About the wood brook's brink Dark sa.s.safras.

Nights, which the large stars strew Heav'n on heav'n rolled, Nights, whose feet flash with dew, Whose long locks hold Aromas cool and new, A moon's curved gold.

This makes me sad in March; I long and long To see the red-bud's torch Flame far and strong, Hear on my vine-climbed porch The blue-bird's song.

What else then but to sleep And cease from such; Dream of her and to leap At her white touch?

Ah me! then wake and weep, Weep overmuch.

This is why day by day Time lamely crawls, Feet clogged with winter clay That never falls, While the dim month of May Me far off calls.

IN LATE FALL.

Such days as break the wild bird's heart; Such days as kill it and its songs; A death which knows a sweeter part Of days to which such death belongs.

And now old eyes are filled with tears, As with the rain the frozen flowers; Time moves so slowly one but fears The burthen on his wasted powers.

And so he stopped;--and thou art dead!

And that is found which once was feared:-- A farewell to thy gray, gray head, A goodnight to thy goodly beard!

MIDWINTER.

The dew-drop from the rose that slips Hath not the sparkle of her lips, My lady's lips.

Than her long braids of yellow hold The dandelion hath not more gold, Her braids like gold.

The blue-bell hints not more of skies Than do the flowers in her eyes, My lady's eyes.

The sweet-pea blossom doth not wear More dainty pinkness than her ear, My lady's ear.

So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray, My heart's a garden that is gay This sorry day.

LONGING.

When rathe wind-flowers many peer All rain filled at blue April skies, As on one smiles one's lady dear With the big tear-drops in her eyes;

When budded May-apples, I wis, Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks, Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss, Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;

Then do I pine for happier skies, Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn; As one for one's sweet lady's eyes, And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.

IN MIDDLE SPRING.

When the fields are rolled into naked gold, And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent With the emerald surges of wood and wold Like a flower-foam bursting violent; When the dingles and deeps of the woodlands old Are glad with a sibilant life new sent, Too rare to be told are the manifold Sweet fancies that quicken redolent In the heart that no longer is cold.

How it knows of the wings of the hawk that swings From the drippled dew scintillant seen; Why the red-bird hides where it sings and sings In melodious quiverings of green; How the wind to the red-bud and dogwood brings Big pearls of worth and corals of sheen, Whiles he lisps to the strings of a lute that rings Of love in the South who is queen, Where the fountain of poesy springs.

Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips; And look in the brook that runs laughing gay For the nymph with the laughing lips; In the brake for the dryad whose eyes are gray, From whose bosom the perfume drips; The faun hid away where the gra.s.ses sway Thick ivy low down on his hips, Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.