The Triumph Of Music Part 4

Ah, G.o.d! were I away, away, By woodland-belted hills!

There might be more in Thy bright day Than my poor spirit thrills.

The elder coppice, banks of blooms, The spice-wood brush, the field Of tumbled clover, and perfumes Hot, weedy pastures yield.

The old rail-fence whose angles hold Bright briar and sa.s.safras, Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and gold Starred through the moss and gra.s.s.

The ragged path that winds unto Lone cow-behaunted nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks.

To see the minnows turn and gleam White sparkling bellies, all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall.

The buoyant pleasure and delight Of floating feathered seeds.

Capricious wanderers soft and white Born of silk-bearing weeds.

Ah, G.o.d! were I away, away, Among wild woods and birds!

There were more soul within Thy day Than one might bless with words.

HE WHO LOVES.

For him G.o.d's birds each merry morn Make of wild throats melodious flutes To trill such love from brush and thorn As might brim eyes of brutes: Who would believe of such a thing, That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?

For him the faultless skies of noon Grow farther in eternal blue, As heavens that buoy the balanced moon, And sow the stars and dew: Who would believe that such deep skies Are miracles only through her eyes?

For him mad sylphs adown domed nights Stud golden globules radiant, Or gla.s.s-green transient trails of lights Spin from their orbs and slant: Who would believe a soul were hers To make for him a universe?

THE MONASTERY CROFT.

1

Big-stomached, like friars Who ogle a nun, Quaff deep to their bellies' desires From the old abbey's tun, Grapes fatten with fires Warm-filtered from moon and from sun.

2

As a novice who muses,-- Lips a rosary tell, While her thoughts are--a love she refuses?

--Nay! mourns as not well: The ripe apple looses Its holding to rot where it fell.

THE DRYAD.

I have seen her limpid eyes Large with gradual laughter rise Through wild-roses' nettles, Like twin blossoms grow and stare, Then a hating, envious air Whisked them into petals.

I have seen her hardy cheek Like a molten coral leak Through the leaf.a.ge shaded Of thick Chickasaws, and then, When I made more sure, again To a red plum faded.

I have found her racy lips, And her graceful finger-tips, But a haw and berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer And to make me merry.

Often on the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of loose locks At me she hath shaken, And I've followed--'twas in vain-- They had trickled into rain Sun-lit on the braken.

Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked where some royal tree Powdered all the s.p.a.ces With wan sunlight and quaint shade, Such a haunt romance hath made For haunched satyr-races.

There, I wot, hid amorous Pan, For a sudden pleading ran Through the maze of myrtle, Whiles a rapid violence tossed All its flowerage,--'twas the lost Cooings of a turtle.

"THE SWEET O' THE YEAR."

I

How can I help from laughing while The daffodilies at me smile; The tickled dew winks tipsily In cl.u.s.ters of the lilac-tree; The crocuses and hyacinths Storm through the gra.s.sy labyrinths A mirth of gold and violet; And roses, bud by bud, Flash from each dainty-lacing net Red lips of maidenhood?

II

How can I help from singing when The swallow and the hawk again Are noisy in the hyaline Of happy heavens clear as wine; The robin l.u.s.tily and shrill Pipes on the timber-bosomed hill; And o'er the fallow skim the bold, Mad orioles that glow Like s.h.i.+ning shafts of ingot gold Shot from the morning's bow?

III

How can I help from loving, dear, Since love is of the sweetened year?

The very vermin feel her power, And chip and chirrup hour by hour: It is the gra.s.shopper at noon, The cricket's at it in the moon, Whiles lizzards glitter in the dew, And bats be on the wing; Such days of joy are short and few.

Grant me thy love this spring.

WITH THE SEASONS.

I

You will not love me, sweet.

When this fair year is past; Or love now at my feet At others' feet be cast.

You will not love me, sweet, When this fair year is past.

II