The Poems Of Henry Timrod Part 20

That which we are and shall be is made up Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf The crimson stains bear witness of its spring; And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean sh.e.l.l Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth.

Ourselves are our own records; if we looked Rightly into that blotted crimson page Within our bosoms, then there were no need To chronicle our stories; for the heart Hath, like the earth, its strata, and contains Its past within its present. Well for us, And our most cherished secrets, that within The round of being few there are who read Beneath the surface. Else our very forms, The merest gesture of our hands, might tell Much we would hide forever. Know you not Those eyes, in whose dark heaven I have gazed More curiously than on my favorite stars, Are deeper for such griefs as they have seen, And brighter for the fancies they have shrined, And sweeter for the loves which they have talked?

Oh! that I had the power to read their smiles, Or sound the depth of all their glorious gloom.

So should I learn your history from its birth, Through all its glad and grave experiences, Better than if--(your journal in my hand, Written as only women write, with all A woman's shades and shapes of feeling, traced As with the fine touch of a needle's point)-- I followed you from that bright hour when first I saw you in the garden 'mid the flowers, To that wherein a letter from your hand Made me all rich with the dear name of friend.

To Whom?

Awake upon a couch of pain, I see a star betwixt the trees; Across yon darkening field of cane, Comes slow and soft the evening breeze.

My curtain's folds are faintly stirred; And moving lightly in her rest, I hear the chirrup of a bird, That dreameth in some neighboring nest.

Last night I took no note of these-- How it was pa.s.sed I scarce can say; 'T was not in prayers to Heaven for ease, 'T was not in wishes for the day.

Impatient tears, and pa.s.sionate sighs, Touched as with fire the pulse of pain,-- I cursed, and cursed the wildering eyes That burned this fever in my brain.

Oh! blessings on the quiet hour!

My thoughts in calmer current flow; She is not conscious of her power, And hath no knowledge of my woe.

Perhaps, if like yon peaceful star, She looked upon my burning brow, She would not pity from afar, But kiss me as the breeze does now.

To Thee

Draw close the lattice and the door!

Shut out the very stars above!

No other eyes than mine shall pore Upon this thrilling tale of love.

As, since the book was open last, Along its dear and sacred text No other eyes than thine have pa.s.sed-- Be mine the eyes that trace it next!

Oh! very n.o.bly is it wrought,-- This web of love's divinest light,-- But not to feed my soul with thought, Hang I upon the book to-night; I read it only for thy sake, To every page my lips I press-- The very leaves appear to make A silken rustle like thy dress.

And so, as each blest page I turn, I seem, with many a secret thrill, To touch a soft white hand, and burn To clasp and kiss it at my will.

Oh! if a fancy be so sweet, These shadowy fingers touching mine-- How wildly would my pulses beat, If they COULD feel the beat of thine!

Storm and Calm

Sweet are these kisses of the South, As dropped from woman's rosiest mouth, And tenderer are those azure skies Than this world's tenderest pair of eyes!

But ah! beneath such influence Thought is too often lost in Sense; And Action, faltering as we thrill, Sinks in the unnerved arms of Will.

Awake, thou stormy North, and blast The subtle spells around us cast; Beat from our limbs these flowery chains With the sharp scourges of thy rains!

Bring with thee from thy Polar cave All the wild songs of wind and wave, Of toppling berg and grinding floe, And the dread avalanche of snow!

Wrap us in Arctic night and clouds!

Yell like a fiend amid the shrouds Of some slow-sinking vessel, when He hears the shrieks of drowning men!

Blend in thy mighty voice whate'er Of danger, terror, and despair Thou hast encountered in thy sweep Across the land and o'er the deep.

Pour in our ears all notes of woe, That, as these very moments flow, Rise like a harsh discordant psalm, While we lie here in tropic calm.

Sting our weak hearts with bitter shame, Bear us along with thee like flame; And prove that even to destroy More G.o.d-like may be than to toy And rust or rot in idle joy!

Retirement

My gentle friend! I hold no creed so false As that which dares to teach that we are born For battle only, and that in this life The soul, if it would burn with starlike power, Must needs forsooth be kindled by the sparks Struck from the shock of clashing human hearts.

There is a wisdom that grows up in strife, And one--I like it best--that sits at home And learns its lessons of a thoughtful ease.

So come! a lonely house awaits thee!--there Nor praise, nor blame shall reach us, save what love Of knowledge for itself shall wake at times In our own bosoms; come! and we will build A wall of quiet thought, and gentle books, Betwixt us and the hard and bitter world.

Sometimes--for we need not be anchorites-- A distant friend shall cheer us through the Post, Or some Gazette--of course no partisan-- Shall bring us pleasant news of pleasant things; Then, twisted into graceful allumettes, Each ancient joke shall blaze with genuine flame To light our pipes and candles; but to wars, Whether of words or weapons, we shall be Deaf--so we twain shall pa.s.s away the time Ev'n as a pair of happy lovers, who, Alone, within some quiet garden-nook, With a clear night of stars above their heads, Just hear, betwixt their kisses and their talk, The tumult of a tempest rolling through A chain of neighboring mountains; they awhile Pause to admire a flash that only shows The smile upon their faces, but, full soon, Turn with a quick, glad impulse, and perhaps A conscious wile that brings them closer yet, To dally with their own fond hearts, and play With the sweet flowers that blossom at their feet.

A Common Thought

Somewhere on this earthly planet In the dust of flowers to be, In the dewdrop, in the sunshine, Sleeps a solemn day for me.

At this wakeful hour of midnight I behold it dawn in mist, And I hear a sound of sobbing Through the darkness--hist! oh, hist!

In a dim and murky chamber, I am breathing life away; Some one draws a curtain softly, And I watch the broadening day.

As it purples in the zenith, As it brightens on the lawn, There's a hush of death about me, And a whisper, "He is gone!"

POEMS WRITTEN IN WAR TIMES