Later Poems Part 15

The fireflies across the dusk Are flas.h.i.+ng signals through the gloom-- Courageous messengers of light That dare immensities of doom.

About the seeding meadow-gra.s.s, Like busy watchmen in the street, They come and go, they turn and pa.s.s, Lighting the way for Beauty's feet.

Or up they float on viewless wings To twinkle high among the trees, And rival with soft glimmerings The s.h.i.+ning of the Pleiades.

The stars that wheel above the hill Are not more wonderful to see, Nor the great tasks that they fulfill More needed in eternity.

The Path to Sankoty

It winds along the headlands Above the open sea-- The lonely moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty.

The crooning sea spreads sailless And gray to the world's rim, Where hang the reeking fog-banks Primordial and dim.

There fret the ceaseless currents, And the eternal tide Chafes over hidden shallows Where the white horses ride.

The wistful fragrant moorlands Whose smile bids panic cease, Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed In grave and lonely peace.

Across their flowering bosom, From the far end of day Blow clean the great soft moor-winds All sweet with rose and bay.

A world as large and simple As first emerged for man, Cleared for the human drama, Before the play began.

O well the soul must treasure The calm that sets it free-- The vast and tender skyline, The sea-turn's wizardry,

Solace of swaying gra.s.ses, The friends.h.i.+p of sweet-fern-- And in the world's confusion Remembering, must yearn

To tread the moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty, Hearing the field-larks shrilling Beside the sailless sea.

Off Monomoy

Have you sailed Nantucket Sound By lights.h.i.+p, buoy, and bell, And lain becalmed at noon On an oily summer swell?

Lazily drooped the sail, Moveless the pennant hung, Sagging over the rail Idle the main boom swung;

The sea, one mirror of s.h.i.+ne A single breath would destroy, Save for the far low line Of treacherous Monomoy.

Yet eastward there toward Spain, What castled cities rise From the Atlantic plain, To our enchanted eyes!

Turret and spire and roof Looming out of the sea, Where the prosy chart gives proof No cape nor isle can be!

Can a vision s.h.i.+ne so clear Wherein no substance dwells?

One almost harks to hear The sound of the city's bells.

And yet no pealing notes Within those belfries be, Save echoes from the throats Of s.h.i.+p-bells lost at sea.

For none shall anchor there Save those who long of yore, When tide and wind were fair, Sailed and came back no more.

And none shall climb the stairs Within those ghostly towers, Save those for whom sad prayers Went up through fateful hours.

O image of the world, O mirage of the sea, Cloud-built and foam-impearled.

What sorcery fas.h.i.+oned thee?

What architect of dream, What painter of desire, Conceived that fairy scheme Touched with fantastic fire?

Even so our city of hope We mortal dreamers rear Upon the perilous slope Above the deep of fear;

Leaving half-known the good Our kindly earth bestows, For the feigned beat.i.tude Of a future no man knows.

Lord of the summer sea, Whose tides are in thy hand, Into immensity The vision at thy command

Fades now, and leaves no sign,-- No light nor bell nor buoy,-- Only the faint low line Of dangerous Monomoy.

In St. Germain Street

Through the street of St. Germain March the tattered hosts of rain,

While the wind with vagrant fife Whips their chilly ranks to life.

From the window I can see Their ghostly banners blowing free,

As they pa.s.s to where the s.h.i.+ps Crowd about the wharves and slips.

There at day's end they embark To invade the realms of dark,

And the sun comes out again In the street of St. Germain.

Pan in the Catskills

They say that he is dead, and now no more The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, When the long summer heat is on the land.

But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, And therefore am incredulous of death, Of pain and sorrow and mortality.

In these blue canons, deep with hemlock shade, In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, I have been rapt away from time and care By the enchantment of a golden strain As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, Filling the listener with a mute surmise.

At evening and at morning I have gone Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, And heard the haunting music of the wood Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy And all the ardors of creation old.

And then within my pagan heart awoke Remembrance of far-off and fabled years In the untarnished sunrise of the world, When clear-eyed h.e.l.las in her rapture heard A slow mysterious piping wild and keen Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!"