Accolon of Gaul Part 7

How to a folded bud again She drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

Naught deigning save eyes' utterance, Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

Then, afterwards, how melted there The austere woman to one tear;

Then were I wise to know how grew This star-stained miracle of blue, How G.o.d makes wild flowers out of dew.

THE MOOD O' THE EARTH.

My heart is high, is high, my dear, And the warm wind sunnily blows; My heart is high with a mood that's cheer, And burns like a sun-blown rose.

My heart is high, is high, my dear, And the Heaven's deep skies are blue; My heart is high as the pa.s.sionate year, And smiles like a bud in dew.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet, For wild is the smell o' the wood, That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat, Mad heat that beats like a blood.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet, And the sense of summer is full; A sense of summer,--full fields of wheat, Full forests and waters cool.

My heart is high, is high, my heart, As the bee's that groans and swinks In the dabbled flowers that dart and part To his woolly bulk when he drinks.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,-- Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird, That I may get that lilt by heart, And fit each note with a word.

G.o.d's saints! I tread the air, my dear!

Flow one with the running wind; And the stars that stare I swear, my dear, Right soon in my hair I'll find.

To live high up a life of mist With the white things in white skies, With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst, Who laugh blue humorous eyes!

Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thing To the aching heart of a rose; In the harebell's ear to cling and swing And whisper what no one knows!

To live on wild honey as fresh as thin As the rain that's left in a flower, And roll forth golden from feet to chin In the G.o.d-flower's Danae shower!

Or free, full-throated curve back the throat With a vigorous look at the blue, And sing right staunch with a l.u.s.ty note Like the hawk hurled where he flew!

G.o.d's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!

And the mood of the Earth I'll take, And brim my soul with her wonderful wine, And sing till my heart doth break!

A GRAY DAY.

I.

Long vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane, And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow, Like a rich barbaric dirk.

II.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,-- Who hold in their hues cool dawns, Which a healthy yellow paints,-- Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant s.h.i.+ne, A faery vat of rare wine, Which the honey thinly taints.

III.

Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the c.o.xcomb and the pink; While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet; And long spikes o' the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set, Which the dripping o' dew drags down.

IV.

Stretched taunt on the blades of gra.s.s, Like a gossamer-fibered gla.s.s, Which the garden-spider spun, The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings;-- A hammock for Elfin things When the stars succeed the sun.

V.

And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose, How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside.-- And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees,--who defied The first strong gusts,--distressed.

VI.

Yet I feel that the gray will blow Aside for an afterglow; And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r, Big drops heard hard on each flow'r On the gra.s.s and the flowering moss.

VII.

And then for a minute, may be,-- A pearl--hollow worn--of the sea,-- A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk As spice from an Indian isle.

CARMEN.

La _Gitanilla!_ tall dragoons In Andalusian afternoons, With ogling eye and compliment Smiled on you, as along you went Some sleepy street of old Seville; Twirled with a military skill Moustaches; b.u.t.toned uniforms Of Spanish yellow bowed your charms.

Proud, wicked head and hair blue-black!

Whence your mantilla, half thrown back, Discovered shoulders and bold breast Bohemian brown: and you were dressed-- In some short skirt of gipsy red Of smuggled stuff; thence stockings dead White silk exposed with many a hole Thro' which your plump legs roguish stole A fleshly look; and tiny toes In red morocco shoes with bows Of scarlet ribbons. Daintily You walked by me and I did see Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip, That gnawed the rose you once did flip At bashful Jose's nose while loud Laughed the guant guards among the crowd.

And, in your brazen chemise thrust, Heaved with the swelling of your bust, That bunch of white acacia blooms Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes.

As in a cool _neveria_ I ate an ice with Merimee, Dark Carmencita, you pa.s.sed gay, All holiday bedizened, A new mantilla on your head; A crimson dress bespangled fierce; And crescent gold, hung in your ears, Shone wrought Morisco; and each shoe Cordovan leather, spangled blue, Glanced merriment; and from large arms To well-turned ancles all your charms Blew flutterings and glitterings Of satin bands and beaded strings; And 'round each arm's fair thigh one fold, And graceful wrists, a twisted gold Coiled serpents, tails fixed in the head, Convulsive-jeweled glossy red.

In flowers and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs to the jar Of mandolin and low guitar You in the grated _patio_ Danced; the curled c.o.xcombs' flirting row Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance, With wily motion and glad glance Voluptuous, the wild _romalis_, Where every movement was a kiss Of elegance delicious, wound In your Basque tambourine's dull sound.

Or as the ebon castanets Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets, Saw angry Jose thro' the grate Glare on us a pale face of hate, When some indecent colonel there Presumed too lewdly for his ear.

Some still night in Seville; the street, _Candilejo_; two shadows meet-- Flash sabres; crossed within the moon,-- Clash rapidly--a dead dragoon.