A Jongleur Strayed Part 7

The white-robed widow of the vanished year.

Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers, Dreams hath she too and tender reveries, Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers, Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees; Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours, Autumn has no such antic wizardries.

Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows, Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes, Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose, What rapture and what pa.s.sionate surprise Awaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows, And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies.

Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense, l.u.s.tral, austere, and of the spirit fine; No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincense Drug in her arms the ecstasy divine; But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense, And hallowed glories of the inner shrine.

And, for the idle summer, in our blood Pleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy, With ruddy laughter 'neath her frozen hood, Purging our mortal metal of alloy, Stern benefactress of beat.i.tude, Turning our leaden age to girl and boy.

A LOVER'S UNIVERSE

When winter comes and takes away the rose, And all the singing of sweet birds is done, The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows, Still, independent of the summer sun, In vain, with sullen roar, December shakes my door, And sleet upon the pane Threatens my peace in vain, While, seated by the fire upon my knee, My love abides with me.

For he who, wise in time, his harvest yields Reaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure, Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields, For wealth is his no winter can make poor; Safe all his waving gold Shut in against the cold, Treasure of summer gra.s.s-- So sit I with my la.s.s, My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charms Safe in my happy arms.

Still fragrant in the garden of her breast, The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom, The birds that shook with song each empty nest Still, when she speaks, fill all the listening room, Deep-sheltered from the storm Within her blossoming form.

Flower-breathed and singing sweet Is she from head to feet; All summer in my sweetheart doth abide, Though winter be outside.

So all the various wonder of the world, The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea, In her small being mystically furled, She brings as in a golden cup to me; Within no other book My eyes for wisdom look, That have her eyes for lore; And when the flaming door Opens into the dark, what shall I fear Adventuring with my dear?

TO THE GOLDEN WIFE

With laughter always on the darkest day, She danced before the very face of dread, Starry companion of my mortal way, Pre-destined merrily to be my mate, With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate: "For this it was that you and I were wed-- What else?" she smiled and said.

Fair-weather wives are any man's to find, The pretty sisters of the b.u.t.terfly, Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind; The daughters of the rainbow all may win-- Pity their lovers when the sun goes in!

_Her_ smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky-- Thrice blest and all unworthy I!

BURIED TREASURE

When the musicians hide away their faces, And all the petals of the rose are shed, And snow is drifting through the happy places, And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead; O Joy, where shall we find thee?

O Love, where shall we seek?

For summer is behind thee, And cold is winter's cheek.

Where shall I find me violets in December?

O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day!

Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember Where it lies hidden safe and warm away?

When woods once more are ringing With sweet birds on the bough, And brooks once more are singing, Will it be there--thinkst thou?

When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing, We found a place of moonlight and of tears, And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in, Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres.

It lies like buried treasure Beneath the winter's cold, The love beyond all measure, In heaps of living gold.

When April's here, with all her sweet adorning, And all the joys steal back December hid, Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning, And of our treasure lift the leafy lid?

Again to find it dreaming, Just as we left it still, Our treasure far out-gleaming Crocus and daffodil.

THE NEW HUSBANDMAN

Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed, G.o.d give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting, Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud, And all about it ever the birds sing.

Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine That sowed there stars along with good white grain, But reaped thereof--be better fortune thine-- Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.

Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance, Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil, Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance, And took to other furrows my laughing toil.

And other men as I that ploughed before Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.

PATHS THAT WIND . . .

Paths that wind O'er the hills and by the streams I must leave behind-- Dawns and dews and dreams.

Trails that go Through the woods and down the slopes To the vale below; Done with fears and hopes, I must wander on Till the purple twilight ends, Where the sun has gone-- Faces, flowers and friends.

THE IMMORTAL G.o.dS

The G.o.ds are there, they hide their lordly faces From you that will not kneel-- Worship, and they reveal, Call--and 'tis they!

They have not changed, nor moved from their high places, The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray; Lovely to look on are they as bright gold, They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise.

Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes-- Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold.

III

BALLADE OF WOMAN

A woman! lightly the mysterious word Falls from our lips, lightly as though we knew Its meaning, as we say--a flower, a bird, Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew, Simple familiar things, mysterious too; Or as a star is set down on a chart, Named with a name, out yonder in the blue: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard, And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe?

What sage hath yet fit designation dared?

Yet I have sought the dictionaries through, And of thy meaning found me not a clue; Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart, So fairy false, yet so divinely true: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

Mother of G.o.d, and Circe, bosom-bared, That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew; First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared, Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue; Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue, Thou art the whole of life--the rest but part Of thee, all things we ever dream or do; A woman--and yet how much more thou art!