The Two Twilights Part 1

The Two Twilights.

by Henry A. Beers.

PREFACE

The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the magazines and not heretofore collected.

For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs.

Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine and of the Yale Review.

HENRY A. BEERS.

THE THANKLESS MUSE

The muses ring my bell and run away.

I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen: You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay; And you, Terpsich.o.r.e, you long-legged quean.

When I was young you used to come and stay, But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day!

How many a summer evening have ye been Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring; And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark Where from my threshold sank the vale profound.

BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS

So late and long the shadows lie Under the quadrangle wall: From such a narrow strip of sky So scant an hour the sunbeams fall, They hardly come to touch at all This cool, sequestered corner where, Beside the chapel belfry tall, I cultivate my small parterre.

Poor, sickly blooms of Academe, Recluses of the college close, Whose nun-like pallor would beseem The violet better than the rose: There's not a bud among you blows With scent or hue to lure the bee: Only the thorn that on you grows-- Only the thorn grows hardily.

Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon The way to blush? Do you forget How once, beneath the enamored moon, You climbed against the parapet, To touch the breast of Juliet Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear, In gardens of the Capulet, Far south, my flowers, not here--not here?

THE WINDS OF DAWN

Whither do ye blow?

For now the moon is low.

Whence is it that ye come, And where is it ye go?

All night the air was still, The crickets' song was shrill; But now there runs a hum And rustling through the trees.

A breath of coolness wakes, As on Canadian lakes, And on Atlantic seas, And each high Alpine lawn Begin the winds of dawn.

ANACREONTIC

I would not be A voyager on the windy seas: More sweet to me This bank where crickets chirp, and bees Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.

I would not bide On lonely heights where shepherds dwell.

At twilight tide The sounds that from the valley swell, Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell, Are sweeter far Than music of cold mountain rills.

The evening star Wakes love and song below, but chills With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.

I would not woo Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.

Soft eyes of blue And sudden blushes unaware Do net my heart in silken snare.

I do not love The eyrie, but low woodland nest Of cushat dove: Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest And sleep in gra.s.sy meadow's breast.

b.u.mBLE BEE

As I lay yonder in tall gra.s.s A drunken b.u.mble-bee went past Delirious with honey toddy.

The golden sash about his body Could scarce keep in his swollen belly Distent with honey-suckle jelly.

Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine Had filled his soul with song divine; Deep had he drunk the warm night through: His hairy thighs were wet with dew.

Full many an antic he had played While the world went round through sleep and shade.

Oft had he lit with thirsty lip Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip, When on smooth petals he would slip Or over tangled stamens trip, And headlong in the pollen rolled, Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold.

Or else his heavy feet would stumble Against some bud and down he'd tumble Amongst the gra.s.s; there lie and grumble In low, soft ba.s.s--poor maudlin b.u.mble!

With tipsy hum on sleepy wing He buzzed a glee--a bacchic thing Which, wandering strangely in the moon, He learned from grigs that sing in June, Unknown to sober bees who dwell Through the dark hours in waxen cell.

When south wind floated him away The music of the summer day Lost something: sure it was a pain To miss that dainty star-light strain.

WATER LILIES AT SUNSET

Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake All rose and sank upon the lifting swell That swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves.

And when the sun from western gates of day Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame, So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers, When garden-walks lie dark with early shade.

That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed With liquid glory till they overflowed And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out, That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its waves In tints of violet and ruby blooms.

But when the flashing gem that lit the day Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills, The rainbow paintings faded from the mere, The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed, While, paling slow through tender amber hues, The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white, And wanly shivered in the evening breeze.

When twilight closed--when earliest dew-drops fell All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts, They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink, When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarms The untrod wildness of their virgin b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave, They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep.

But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn, Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole, Across the silent lake, the winding sh.o.r.es, The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes, The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed, And dusky woodlands where the night came down.

BETWEEN THE FLOWERS

An open door and door-steps wide, With pillared vines on either side, And terraced flowers, stair over stair, Standing in pots of earthenware Where stiff processions filed around-- Black on the smooth, sienna ground.

Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there Which, in the moisty hot-house air, Lay winter long in patient rows, Gla.s.sed snugly in from Christmas snows: Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems In bunches on their reed-like stems; Their fragrance forced by art too soon To mingle with the sweets of June.

(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals From ashes of the gilt pastilles, Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings, In dim saloons of eastern kings.) I saw the calla's arching cup With yellow spadix standing up, Its liquid scents to stir and mix-- The goldenest of toddy-sticks; Roses and purple fuchsia drops; Camellias, which the gardener crops To make the sickening wreaths that lie On coffins when our loved ones die.

These all and many more were there; Monsters and grandifloras rare, With tropical broad leaves, grown rank, Drinking the waters of the tank Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe; All curious forms of spur and spathe, Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn, There in the fresh New England morn.

But where the sun came colored through Translucent petals wet with dew, The inters.p.a.ce was carpeted With oriel lights and nodes of red, Orange and blue and violet, That wove strange figures, as they met, Of airier tissue, brighter blooms Than tumble from the Persian looms.