A Jongleur Strayed Part 6

Noon like a naked sword lies on the gra.s.s, Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse; The little stream, too indolent to pa.s.s, Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs, That build amid the glare a shadowy house, And with a Paradisal freshness brims Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade; The antic water-fly above it skims, And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade, Or knee-deep in the gra.s.sy glimmer wade.

The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, Nor bird, nor bee; and even the b.u.t.terflies, Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.

Only at times a little breeze will stir, And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, And sway the rushes momently agleam-- Then all fall back again into a dream.

A RAINY DAY

The beauty of this rainy day, All silver-green and dripping gray, Has stolen quite my heart away From all the tasks I meant to do, Made me forget the resolute blue And energetic gold of things . . .

So soft a song the rain-bird sings.

Yet am I glad to miss awhile The sun's huge domineering smile, The busy s.p.a.ces mile on mile, Shut in behind this shimmering screen Of falling pearls and phantom green; As in a cloister walled with rain, Safe from intrusions, voices vain, And hurry of invading feet, Inviolate in my retreat: Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- So runs my rainy-day desire.

Or I old letters may con o'er, And dream on faces seen no more, The buried treasure of the years, Too visionary now for tears; Open old cupboards and explore Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, A delicate romantic ache, Sometimes a swifter pang of pain To read old tenderness again, As though the ink were scarce yet dry, And She still She and I still I.

What if I were to write as though Her letter came an hour ago!

An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . .

But out upon these rainy days!

Come tie the packet up again, The sun is back--enough of rain.

IN THE CITY

Away from the silent hills and the talking of upland waters, The high still stars and the lonely moon in her quarters, I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers; And I leave behind me the hush and the dews and the flowers, The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer among the rocks, The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear and the fox, The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon, And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's endless tune.

And what shall I find in the city that shall take the place of these?

O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees, And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes, And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.

COUNTRY LARGESSE

I bring a message from the stream To fan the burning cheeks of town, From morning's tower Of pearl and rose I bring this cup of crystal down, With br.i.m.m.i.n.g dews agleam, And from my lady's garden close I bring this flower.

O walk with me, ye jaded brows, And I will sing the song I found Making a lonely rippling sound Under the boughs.

The tinkle of the brook is there, And cow-bells wandering through the fern, And silver calls From waterfalls, And echoes floating through the air From happiness I know not where, And hum and drone where'er I turn Of little lives that buzz and die; And sudden lucent melodies, Like hidden strings among the trees Roofing the summer sky.

The soft breath of the briar I bring, And wafted scents of mint and clover, Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling, Sweet-thoughted as a lover; Incense from lilied urns a-swaying, And the green smell of gra.s.s Where men are haying.

As through the streets I pa.s.s, With their shrill clatter, This largesse from the hills and streams, This quietude of flowers and dreams, Round me I scatter.

MORN

Morn hath a secret that she never tells: 'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes-- I think it is the way to Paradise, Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells.

The bee hath no such honey in her cells Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies, As in her garden of the budding skies She walks among the silver asphodels.

He that is loveless and of heart forlorn, Let him but leave behind his haunted bed, And set his feet toward yonder singing star, Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn; She shall come running to him from afar, And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.

THE SOURCE

Water in hidden glens From the secret heart of the mountains, Where the red fox hath its dens And the G.o.ds their crystal fountains; Up runnel and leaping cataract, Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked, Till I came to the top of the world and the fen That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain, And down through the floors of the deep mora.s.s The procreant woodland essences drain-- The thunder's home, where the eagles scream And the centaurs pa.s.s; But, where it was born, I lost my stream.

'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs, Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;"

And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew Of morning made and shining dew-- I remembered the mire of the marshes too.

AUTUMN

The sad nights are here and the sad mornings, The air is filled with portents and with warnings, Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry, A mournful prescience Of bright things going hence; Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky, And late disconsolate blooms Dankly bestrew The garden walks, as in deserted rooms The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu, Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind, Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave-- Wreckage none cares to save, And hearts grow sad to find; And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls, Wander and weary out in the thin air, And the last cricket calls-- A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?"

THE ROSE IN WINTER

When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing, Drearily rocking in the cold, The relic of a vanished spring, A rose abominably old.

Amid the stainless snows it grinned, A foul and withered shape, that cast Ribbed shadows, and the gleaming wind Went rattling through it as it pa.s.sed; It filled the heart with a strange dread, Hag-like, it made a whimpering sound, And gibbered like the wandering dead In some unhallowed burial-ground.

Whoso on that December day Had seen it so deject and lorn, So lone a symbol of decay, Had dreamed of it this summer morn?

Divined the power that should relume A flame so spent, and once more bring That blackened being back to bloom,-- Who could have dreamed so strange a thing?

THE FROZEN STREAM

Stream that leapt and danced Down the rocky ledges, All the summer long, Past the flowered sedges, Under the green rafters, With their leafy laughters, Murmuring your song: Strangely still and tranced, All your singing ended, Wizardly suspended, Icily adream; When the new buds thicken, Can this crystal quicken, Now so strangely sleeping, Once more go a-leaping Down the rocky ledges, All the summer long, Murmuring its song?

WINTER MAGIC

Winter that hath few friends yet numbers those Of spirit erect and delicate of eye; All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose, And Autumn, with her banners in the sky; But when from the earth's cheek the colour goes, Her old adorers from her presence fly.

So cold her bosom seems, such icy glare Is in her eyes, while on the frozen mere The shrill ice creaks in the congealing air; Where is the lover that shall call her dear, Or the devotion that shall find her fair?