Poems by William Dean Howells Part 2

But the stately, wide-winged ship Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; Far under, dead in his coral bed, The lover lies asleep.

III.

Through the silent streets of the city, In the night's unbusy noon, Up and down in the pallor Of the languid summer moon,

I wander, and think of the village, And the house in the maple-gloom, And the porch with the honeysuckles And the sweet-brier all abloom.

My soul is sick with the fragrance Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: O darling! the house is empty, And lonesomer than death!

If I call, no one will answer; If I knock, no one will come: The feet are at rest forever, And the lips are cold and dumb.

The summer moon is shining So wan and large and still, And the weary dead are sleeping In the graveyard under the hill.

IV.

We looked at the wide, white circle Around the Autumn moon, And talked of the change of weather: It would rain, to-morrow, or soon.

And the rain came on the morrow, And beat the dying leaves From the shuddering boughs of the maples Into the flooded eaves.

The clouds wept out their sorrow; But in my heart the tears Are bitter for want of weeping, In all these Autumn years.

V.

The bobolink sings in the meadow, The wren in the cherry-tree: Come hither, thou little maiden, And sit upon my knee;

And I will tell thee a story I read in a book of rhyme; I will but fain that it happened To me, one summer-time,

When we walked through the meadow, And she and I were young.

The story is old and weary With being said and sung.

The story is old and weary: Ah, child! it is known to thee.

Who was it that last night kissed thee Under the cherry-tree?

VI.

Like a bird of evil presage, To the lonely house on the sh.o.r.e Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, And shrieked at the bolted door,

And flapped its wings in the gables, And shouted the well-known names, And buffeted the windows Afeard in their shuddering frames.

It was night, and it is morning,-- The summer sun is bland, The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In to the summer land.

The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In the sun so soft and bright, And toss and play with the dead man Drowned in the storm last night.

VII.

I remember the burning brushwood, Glimmering all day long Yellow and weak in the sunlight, Now leaped up red and strong,

And fired the old dead chestnut, That all our years had stood, Gaunt and gray and ghostly, Apart from the sombre wood;

And, flushed with sudden summer, The leafless boughs on high Blossomed in dreadful beauty Against the darkened sky.

We children sat telling stories, And boasting what we should be, When we were men like our fathers, And watched the blazing tree,

That showered its fiery blossoms, Like a rain of stars, we said, Of crimson and azure and purple.

That night, when I lay in bed,

I could not sleep for seeing, Whenever I closed my eyes, The tree in its dazzling splendor Against the darkened skies.

I cannot sleep for seeing, With closed eyes to-night, The tree in its dazzling splendor Dropping its blossoms bright;

And old, old dreams of childhood Come thronging my weary brain, Dear, foolish beliefs and longings: I doubt, are they real again?

It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, That I either think or see: The phantoms of dead illusions To-night are haunting me.

IN AUGUST.

All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream.

The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit.

Through the sere gra.s.s, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute.

There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.

THE EMPTY HOUSE.

The wet trees hang above the walks Purple with damps and earthish stains, And strewn by moody, absent rains With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks.

Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths, The ripe June-gra.s.s is wanton blown; Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone; Along the sills hang drowsy moths.

Down the blank visage of the wall, Where many a wavering trace appears, Like a forgotten trace of tears, From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl.

Where everything was wide before, The curious wind, that comes and goes, Finds all the latticed windows close, Secret and close the bolted door.

And with the shrewd and curious wind, That in the arched doorway cries, And at the bolted portal tries, And harks and listens at the blind,--

Forever lurks my thought about, And in the ghostly middle-night Finds all the hidden windows bright, And sees the guests go in and out,

And lingers till the pallid dawn, And feels the mystery deeper there In silent, gust-swept chambers, bare, With all the midnight revel gone;