The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 8

The Nightingale unheard. [Josephine Preston Peabody]

Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.

All the white way beside the girdling blue, Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, We listened; -- from the old year to the new.

Brown bird, and where were you?

You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats!

Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; Nor yet -- of all bird-song should glorify -- a.s.sisi, Little Portion of the blest, a.s.sisi, in the bosom of the sky, Where G.o.d's own singer thatched his sunward nest, That little, heavenliest!

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, That beckon with white looks an endless way; Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, A lamb shines out as sudden as a star, Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale, The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far, And the red may-trees wear a shining veil.

And still, no nightingale!

The one vain longing, -- through all journeyings, The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot, -- All the soft-swarming dark where you were not, Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings, And wonders, that your own must ever make To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache; -- Even for Music's sake.

But most, his music whose beloved name Forever writ in water of bright tears, Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years, That kindle there the hallowed April flame Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, Violets still! -- When falls, to leave no sign, The arch of Constantine.

Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he, From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe, Your song once shook to surging overflow.

How was it, sovran dweller of the tree, His cry, still throbbing in the flooded sh.e.l.l Of silence with remembered melody, Could draw from you no answer to the spell?

-- O Voice, O Philomel?

Long time we wondered (and we knew not why): -- Nor dream, nor prayer, of wayside gladness born, Nor vineyards waiting, nor reproachful thorn, Nor yet the nested hill-towns set so high All the white way beside the girdling blue, -- Nor olives, gray against a golden sky, Could serve to wake that rapturous voice of you!

But the wise silence knew.

O Nightingale unheard! -- Unheard alone, Throughout that woven music of the days From the faint sea-rim to the market-place, And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!

So be it, better so: that there should fail For sun-filled ones, one blessed thing unknown.

To them, be hid forever, -- and all hail!

Sing never, Nightingale.

Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheek Against the window, like a starving flower.

Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hour Of journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek.

Loose, with your singing, captives such as these In misery and iron, hearts too meek, For voyage -- voyage over dreamful seas To lost Hesperides.

Sing not for free-men. Ah, but sing for whom The walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade, The windows take no heed of light nor shade, -- The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom.

Sing near! So in that golden overflowing They may forget their wasted human bloom; Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing, -- Reck not of life's bright going!

Sing not for lovers, side by side that hark; Nor unto parted lovers, save they be Parted indeed by more than makes the Sea, Where never hope shall meet -- like mounting lark -- Far Joy's uprising; and no memories Abide to star the music-haunted dark: To them that sit in darkness, such as these, Pour down, pour down heart's-ease.

Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt The world's forgotten, both of men and birds; The alleys of no hope and of no words, The hidings where men reap not, though they plant; But toil and thirst -- so dying and so born; -- And toil and thirst to gather to their want, From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn, -- To gather grapes of thorn!

And for those two, your pilgrims without tears, Who prayed a largess where there was no dearth, Forgive it to their human-happy ears: Forgive it them, brown music of the Earth, Unknowing, -- though the wiser silence knew!

Forgive it to the music of the spheres That while they walked together so, the Two Together, -- heard not you.

Only of thee and me. [Louis Untermeyer]

Only of thee and me the night wind sings, Only of us the sailors speak at sea, The earth is filled with wondered whisperings Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me the breakers chant, Only of us the stir in bush and tree; The rain and sunshine tell the eager plant Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me, till all shall fade; Only of us the whole world's thoughts can be -- For we are Love, and G.o.d Himself is made Only of thee and me.

When the Wind is low. [Cale Young Rice]

When the wind is low, and the sea is soft, And the far heat-lightning plays On the rim of the west where dark clouds nest On a darker bank of haze; When I lean o'er the rail with you that I love And gaze to my heart's content; I know that the heavens are there above -- But you are my firmament.

When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bow And the watch climbs up the shroud; When the dim mast dips as the vessel slips Through the foam that seethes aloud; I know that the years of our life are few, And fain as a bird to flee, That time is as brief as a drop of dew -- But you are Eternity.

Love Triumphant. [Frederic Lawrence Knowles]

Helen's lips are drifting dust; Ilion is consumed with rust; All the galleons of Greece Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; Lost was Solomon's purple show Restless centuries ago; Stately empires wax and wane -- Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; -- Only one thing, undefaced, Lasts, though all the worlds lie waste And the heavens are overturned.

Dear, how long ago we learned!

There's a sight that blinds the sun, Sound that lives when sounds are done, Music that rebukes the birds, Language lovelier than words, Hue and scent that shame the rose, Wine no earthly vineyard knows, Silence stiller than the sh.o.r.e Swept by Charon's stealthy oar, Ocean more divinely free Than Pacific's boundless sea, -- Ye who love have learned it true.

Dear, how long ago we knew!

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream. [Trumbull Stickney]

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream That over Persian roses flew to kiss The curled lashes of Semiramis.

Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.

Provence and Troubadour are merest lies, The glorious hair of Venice was a beam Made within t.i.tian's eye. The sunsets seem, The world is very old and nothing is.

Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake, Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart, But patter in the darkness of thy heart.

Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl Blind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake, And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.