The Triumph Of Music Part 9

My good cloak a bat's wing gave, And a beetle's wings my bonnet, And a moth's head grew the brave, Gallant feather on it.

Faith! I have rich jewels rare, Rings and carcanets all studded Thick with spiders' eyes, that glare Like great rubies blooded.

And I swear, sirs, by my blade, "Sirrah, a good stabbing hanger!"-- From a hornet's stinger made,-- When I am in anger.

Fill the lichen pottles up!

Honey pressed from hearts of roses; Cheek by jowl, up with each cup Till we hide our noses.

Good, sirs!--marry!--'tis the c.o.c.k!

Hey, away! the moon's lost fire!

Ho! the c.o.c.k our dial and clock-- Hide we 'neath this brier.

THE FARMSTEAD.

Yes, a lovely homestead; there In the Spring your lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere; There your gladiolas grew, Parallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool, Satin-soft and redolent; Honey-suckles beautiful, Balming all the air with scent; Roses red or white as wool.

Roses glorious and lush, Rich in tender-tinted dyes, Like a gay, tempestuous rush Of unnumbered b.u.t.terflies Lighting on each bending bush.

Here the fire-bush and the box, And the wayward violets; Clumps of star-enameled phlox, And the myriad flowery jets Of the twilight four-o'clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place When the June made one great rose Full of musk and mellow grace, In the garden's humming close, Of her comely mother face!

Bubble-like the hollyhocks Budded, burst and flaunted wide Gypsy beauty from their stocks.

Morning-glories, bubble-dyed, Swung in honey-hearted flocks.

Tawny tiger-lilies flung Doublets slashed with crimson on; Graceful slave-girls fair and young, Like Circa.s.sians, in the sun Alabaster lilies swung.

Ah, the droning of the bee In his dusty pantaloons Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis; In the drowsy afternoons Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea.

Ah, the moaning wild-wood dove With its throat of amethyst Ruffled like a s.h.i.+ning cove, Which a wind to pearl hath kissed, Moaning, moaning of its love.

And the insects' gossip thin, From the summer hotness hid, In the leafy shadows green, Then at eve the katydid With its hard, unvaried din.

Often from the whispering hills Lorn within the golden dusk,-- Gold with gold of daffodils,-- Thrilled into the garden's musk The wild wail of whippoorwills.

From the purple tangled trees, Like the white, full heart of night, Solemn with majestic peace, Swam the big moon veined with light, Like some gorgeous golden fleece.

You were there with me, and you, In the magic of the hour, Almost swore that you could view Beading on each blade and flower Moony blisters of the dew.

And each Fairy of our home-- Fire-fly--its torch then lit In the honey-scented gloam, Das.h.i.+ng down the dusk with it, Like an instant flaming foam.

And we heard the calling, calling, Of the wild owl in the brake Where the trumpet-vine hung crawling; Down the ledge into the lake Heard the sighing streamlet falling.

Then we wandered to the creek, Where the water-lilies growing, Like fair maidens white and weak,-- Naked in the brooklet's flowing,-- Stooped to bathe a bashful cheek.

And the moonbeams rippling golden Fell in saint-sweet aureoles On chaste bosoms half beholden, Till, meseemed, the dainty souls Of pale moon-fays, there enfolden

In such beauty, dimly fainted Baby-cribbed within each bud, Till a night wind piney-tainted, Swooning over field and flood, Rocked them to a slumber sainted.

Then a low, melodious bell Of some sleeping heifer tinkled In some berry-briered dell, As her satin dewlap wrinkled With the cud that made it swell.

And returning home we heard In a beech tree at the gate Some brown, dream-behaunted bird Singing of its absent mate, Of the mate that never heard.

And you see, now I am gray, Why within the old, old place, With such memories I stay, Fancy out your absent face Long since pa.s.sed away.

You were mine--yes, still are mine: And this frosty memory Reels about you as with wine Warmed into wild eyes which see All of you that is divine.

Yes, I love it, and have grown Melancholy in that love And that memory alone Of perfection such, whereof You could sanctify a stone.

And where'er your poppies swing-- There we walk,--as if a bee Fanned them with his puny wing,-- Down your garden shadowy In the hush the evenings bring.

FIVE FANCIES.

I

THE GLADIOLAS.

As tall as the lily, as tall as the rose, And almost as tall as the hollyhocks, Ranked breast to breast in sentinel rows Stand the gladiola stocks.

And some are red as the humming-bird's blood And some are pied as the b.u.t.terfly race, And each is shaped like a velvet hood Gold-lined with delicate lace.

For you know the goblins that come like musk To tumble and romp in the flowers' laps, When you see big fire-fly eyes in the dusk, Hang there their goblin caps.

II

THE MORNING-GLORIES.

They bloom up the fresh, green trellis In airy, vigorous ease, And their fragrant, sensuous honey Is best beloved of the bees.

Oh! the rose knows the dainty secret How the morning-glory blows, For the rose told me the secret, And the jessamine told the rose.

And the jessamine said at midnight, Ere the red c.o.c.k woke and crew, That the fays of queen t.i.tania Came there to bathe in the dew.

And the merry moonlight glistened On wet, long, yellow hair, And their feet on the flowers drowsy Trod softer than any air.

And their petticoats, gay as bubbles, They hung up every one On the morning-glories' tendrils Till their moonlight bath were done.