One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned

Against my window-pane.

In the deep stillness of his heart convened

The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,

And fugitives of grass,—

White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,

He drew them on the glass.

A snowy path for squirrel and fox,

It winds between the wintry firs.

Snow-muffled are its iron rocks,

And o’er its stillness nothing stirs.

But low, bend low a listening ear!

Beneath the mask of moveless white

A babbling whisper you shall hear

Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.

As one who sleeps, and hears across his dream

The cry of battles ended long ago,

Inland I hear the calling of the sea.

I hear its hollow voices, though between

My wind-worn dwelling and thy wave-worn strand

How many miles, how many mountains are!

And thou beside the winter sea alone

Art walking, with thy cloak about thy face.

Bleak, bleak the tide, and evening coming on;

And gray the pale, pale light that wans thy face.

Solemnly breaks the long wave at thy feet;

And sullenly in patches clings the snow

Upon the low, red rocks worn round with years.

For days the drench of noiseless rains,

Then sunshine on the vacant plains,

And April with her blind desire

A vagrant in my veins!

Because the tardy gods grew kind,

Unrest and care were cast behind;

I took a day, and found the world

Was fashioned to my mind.

The swelling sap that thrilled the wood

Was cousin to my eager blood;

I caught the stir of waking roots,

And knew that life was good.

But something in the odors fleet,

And in the sap’s suggestion sweet,

Was lacking,—one thing everywhere

To make the spring complete.

At length within a leafy nest,

Where spring’s persuasions pleaded best,

I found a pale, reluctant flower,

The purpose of my quest.

And then the world’s expectancy

Grew clear: I knew its need to be

Not this dear flower, but one dear hand

To pluck the flower with me.

Through its brown and withered bulb

How the white germ felt the sun

In the dark mould gently stirring

His Spring children one by one!

Thrilled with heat, it split the husk,

Shot a green blade up to light,

And unfurled its orange petals

In the old Enchanter’s sight.

One step more and it had floated

On the palpitating noon

Winged and free, a butterfly

Soaring from the rent cocoon.

But it could not leave its earth,

And the May-dew’s tender tears,—

So it wavers there forever

’Twixt the green and azure spheres.

The airs that blew from the brink of day

Were fresh and wet with the breath of May.

I heard the babble of brown brooks falling,

And golden-wings in the woodside calling.

Big drops hung from the sparkling eaves;

And through the screen of the thin young leaves

A glint of ripples, a whirl of foam,

Lured and beckoned me out from home.

My feet grew eager, my eyes grew wide,

And I was off by the brown brook’s side.

Down in the swamp-bottom, cool and dim,

I cut me an alder sapling slim.

With nimble fingers I tied my line,

Clear as a sunbeam, strong and fine.

My fly was a tiny glittering thing,

With tinselled body and partridge wing.

With noiseless steps I threaded the wood,

Glad of the sun-pierced solitude.

Chattered the kingfisher, fierce and shy,

As like a shadow I drifted by.

Lurked in their watery lairs the trout,

But, silver and scarlet, I lured them out.

Wary were they, but warier still

My cunning wrist and my cast of skill.

I whipped the red pools under the beeches;

I whipped the yellow and dancing reaches.

The purple eddy, smooth like oil,

And the tail of the rapid yielded spoil.

So all day long, till the day was done,

I followed the stream, I followed the sun.

Then homeward over the ridge I went,

The wandering heart of me well content.

Sun’s up; wind’s up! Wake up, dearies!

Leave your coverlets white and downy.

June’s come into the world this morning.

Wake up, Golden Head! Wake up, Brownie!

Dew on the meadow-grass, waves on the water,

Robins in the rowan-tree wondering about you!

Don’t keep the buttercups so long waiting.

Don’t keep the bobolinks singing without you.

Wake up, Golden Head! Wake up, Brownie!

Cat-bird wants you in the garden soon.

You and I, butterflies, bobolinks, and clover,

We’ve a lot to do on the first of June.

Once in a garden, when the thrush’s song,

Pealing at morn, made holy all the air,

Till earth was healed of many an ancient wrong,

And life appeared another name for prayer,

Rose suddenly a swarm of butterflies,

On wings of white and gold and azure fire;

And one said, “These are flowers that seek the skies,

Loosed by the spell of their supreme desire.”

I am for the open meadows,

Open meadows full of sun,

Where the hot bee hugs the clover,

The hot breezes drop and run.

I am for the uncut hayfields

Open to the cloudless blue,—

For the wide unshadowed acres

Where the summer’s pomps renew;

Where the grass-tops gather purple,

Where the ox-eye daisies thrive,

And the mendicants of summer

Laugh to feel themselves alive;

Where the hot scent steams and quivers,

Where the hot saps thrill and stir,

Where in leaf-cells’ green pavilions

Quaint artificers confer;

Where the bobolinks are merry,

Where the beetles bask and gleam,

Where above the powdered blossoms

Powdered moth-wings poise and dream;

Where the bead-eyed mice adventure

In the grass-roots green and dun.

Life is good and love is eager

In the playground of the sun!

When the partridge coveys fly

In the birch-tops cool and high;

When the dry cicadas twang

Where the purpling fir-cones hang;

When the bunch-berries emboss—

Scarlet beads—the roadside moss:

Brown with shadows, bright with sun,

All day long till day is done

Sleeps in murmuring solitude

The worn old road that threads the wood.

In its deep cup—grassy, cool—

Sleeps the little roadside pool;

Sleeps the butterfly on the weed,

Sleeps the drifted thistle-seed.

Like a great and blazing gem,

Basks the beetle on the stem.

Up and down the shining rays

Dancing midges weave their maze.

High among the moveless boughs,

Drunk with day, the night-hawks drowse.

Far up, unfathomably blue,

August’s heaven vibrates through.

The old road leads to all things good;

The year’s at full, and time’s at flood.

O the sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

And the apples, hanging mellow,

Red and yellow,

All down the orchard seen

Make a glory in the green.

The sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

And the hollow barrels wait

By the gate.

The cider-presses drip

With nectar for the lip.

The sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

And the yellow miles of grain

Forget the rain.

The happy gardens yet

The winter’s blight forget.

The sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

O’er the marsh the cattle spread,

White and red.

The sky is all as blue

As a gentian in the dew.

The sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

And the maples are ablaze

Through the haze.

The sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

Now with flocking call and stir

Birds confer,

As if their hearts were crost

By a fear of coming frost.

O the sun has kissed the apples,

Kissed the apples;

And the harvest air is sweet

On the wheat.

Delight is not for long,—

Give us laughter, give us song!

Oh, to be a cricket,

That’s the thing!

To scurry in the grass

And to have one’s fling!

And it’s oh, to be a cricket

In the warm thistle-thicket,

Where the sun-winds pass,

Winds a-wing,

And the bumble-bees hang humming,

Hum and swing,

And the honey-drops are coming!

It’s to be a summer rover,

That can see a sweet, and pick it

With the sting!

Never mind the sting!

And it’s oh, to be a cricket

In the clover!

A gay summer rover

In the warm thistle-thicket,

Where the honey-drops are coming,

Where the bumble-bees hang humming—

That’s the thing!

Vast, unrevealed, in silence and the night

Brooding, the ancient hills commune with sleep.

Inviolate the solemn valleys keep

Their contemplation. Soon from height to height

Steals a red finger of mysterious light,

And lion-footed through the forests creep

Strange mutterings; till suddenly, with sweep

And shattering thunder of resistless flight

And crash of routed echoes, roars to view,

Down the long mountain gorge the Night Express

Freighted with fears and tears and happiness....

The dread form passes; silence falls anew.

And lo! I have beheld the thronged, blind world

To goals unseen from God’s hand onward hurled.

The long tides sweep

Around its sleep,

The long red tides of Tantramar.

Around its dream

They hiss and stream,

Sad for the ships that have sailed afar.

Its kale-dark sides

Throb in the tides;

The long winds over it spin and hum;

Its timbers ache

For memory’s sake,

And the throngs that never again will come.

Come, Red Mouse,

And come, Black Cat

Oh, see what the goat

And the toad are at!

Oh, see them where

They rise in the air,

And wheel and dance

With the whirling bat!

We rise, we rise

On the smoking air;

And the withered breast

Grows young and fair;

Come, White Sisters,

Naked of limb!

The horned moon reddens;

The stars grow dim;

The crags in the gloom

Of our caldron’s fume

Shudder and topple

And reel and swim.

We mount, we mount

Till the moon seems nigh.

Our rout possesses

The middle sky.

Come, White Sisters,

And four-foot kin,

For the horned moon sinks

And the reek grows thin,

And brief is the night

Of our delight,

And brief the span

Of our secret sin.

Three good things I’ve thanked the Gods for,—

Play, and love, and wine!

So by Tiber sang my poet;—

Would the song were mine!

Yet methinks I would not turn it

Just the Roman way,

But for ludum say read libros,—

Books are more than play!

Through the togaed Latin trembles

Laughter half divine;

Flash the dice beside the column;

Rosy flagons shine.

I, for gleams of yellow Tiber,

Down my garden way

See a water blue and beaming

In the northern day.

Ovid, Meleager, Omar,

In the orchard shade,

With a jug that gurgles gently,

And a white-armed maid.

Three good things I thank the Gods for,—

Books, and love, and wine:

So, my poet, singing later,

Would have run your line!

Dear! Dear!

As the night draws nigh draw near.

The world’s forgotten;

Work is done;

The hour for loving

Is begun.

Sweet! Sweet!

It is love-time when we meet.

The hush of desire

Falls with the dew,

And all the evening

Turns to you.

Child! Child!

With the warm heart wise and wild.

My spirit trembles

Under your hand;

You look in my eyes

And understand.

Mine! Mine!

Mistress of mood divine.

What lore of the ages

Bids you know

The heart of a man

Can love you so?

When the white moon divides the mist,

My longing eyes believe

’Tis the white arm my lips have kissed

Flashing from thy sleeve.

And when the tall white lily sways

Upon her queenly stalk,

Thy white form fills my dreaming gaze

Down the garden walk.

When, rich with rose, a wandering air

Breathes up the leafy place,

It seems to me thy perfumed hair

Blown across my face.

And when the thrush’s golden note

Across the gloom is heard,

I think ’tis thy impassioned throat

Uttering one sweet word.

And when the scarlet poppy-bud

Breaks, breathing of the south,

A sudden warmth awakes my blood

Thinking of thy mouth.

And when that dove’s wing dips in flight

Above the dreaming land,

I see some dear, remembered, white

Gesture of thy hand.

Wonder and love upon me wait

In service fair, when I

Into thy sweetness thus translate

Earth and air and sky.

The tide goes out, the tide goes out; once more

The empty day goes down the empty shore.

The tide goes out; the wharves deserted lie

Under the empty solitude of sky.

The tide goes out; the dwindling channels ache

With the old hunger, with the old heartbreak.

The tide goes out; the lonely wastes of sand

Implore the benediction of thy hand.

The tide goes out, goes out; the stranded ships

Desire the sea,—and I desire thy lips.

The tide goes out, the tide goes out; the sun

Relumes the hills of longing one by one.

The tide goes out, goes out; and goes my heart

On the long quest that ends but where thou art.

Over the tops of the houses

Twilight and sunset meet.

The green, diaphanous dusk

Sinks to the eager street.

Astray in the tangle of roofs

Wanders a wind of June.

The dial shines in the clock-tower

Like the face of a strange-scrawled moon.

The narrowing lines of the houses

Palely begin to gleam,

And the hurrying crowds fade softly

Like an army in a dream.

Above the vanishing faces

A phantom train flares on

With a voice that shakes the shadows,—

Diminishes, and is gone.

And I walk with the journeying throng

In such a solitude

As where a lonely ocean

Washes a lonely wood.

Mary, when the childing pain

Made thy patient eyes grow dim,

Of that anguish wert thou fain,

Wert thou glad because of Him?

How thou smiledst in thy woe

Every mother’s heart doth know.

Mary, when the helpless Child

Nursed and slumbered at thy breast,

In the rosy form and mild

Didst thou see the Heavenly Guest?

Such a guest from Paradise

Gladdens every mother’s eyes.

Tide’s at full; the wave breaks white

(Oh, up and away in the morning);

Blue is the blown grass, red is the height;

Washed with the sun the sail shines white

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

Wide is the world in the laughing sun

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

Work’s to be done and wealth’s to be won

Ere a man turns home with the homing sun

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

Long is the heart’s hope, long as the day

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

Heart has its will and hand has its way

Till the world rolls over and ends the day

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

It’s home that we toil for all day long

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

Hand on the line and heart in the song,

The labor of love will not seem long

(Oh, up and away in the morning).

When the crows fly in from sea

(Oh, home, home in the evening),

My love in his boat comes back to me,

Over the tumbling leagues of sea

(Oh, home, home in the evening).

And when the sun drops over the hill

(Oh, home, home in the evening),

My happy eyes they take their fill

Of watching my love as he climbs the hill

(Oh, home, home in the evening).

And when the dew falls over the land

(Oh, home, home in the evening).

I hold in my hand his dearest hand,

The happiest woman in all the land

(Oh, home, home in the evening).

All day she sang by the cottage door

(Oh, home, home in the evening).

At sundown came his boat to the shore—

But he to the hearthside comes no more,

Home, home in the evening.

When the Sleepy Man comes with the dust on his eyes

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies.

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun;

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

The stars that he loves he lets out one by one.

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town;

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down.

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes with a murmur of dream in his wings

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things.

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

Then the top is a burden, the bugle a bane

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane,

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)

To Sleepy Man’s Castle by Comforting Ferry.

(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)