The Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems Part 7

He loved her; having felt his love begin With that first look,--as lover oft avers.

He made pale flowers his pleading ministers, Impressed sweet music, drew the springtime in To serve his suit; but when he could not win, Forgot her face and those gray eyes of hers; And at her name his pulse no longer stirs, And life goes on as though she had not been.

She never loved him; but she loved Love so, So reverenced Love, that all her being shook At his demand whose entrance she denied.

Her thoughts of him such tender color took As western skies that keep the afterglow.

The words he spoke were with her till she died.

A MYSTERY

That sunless day no living shadow swept Across the hills, fleet shadow chasing light, Twin of the sailing cloud: but, mists wool white, Slow-stealing mists, on those heaved shoulders crept, And wrought about the strong hills while they slept In witches' wise, and rapt their forms from sight.

Dreams were they; less than dream, the n.o.blest height And farthest; and the chilly woodland wept.

A sunless day and sad: yet all the while Within the grave green twilight of the wood, inscrutable, immutable, apart, Hearkening the brook, whose song she understood, The secret birch-tree kept her silver smile, Strange as the peace that gleams at sorrow's heart.

TRIUMPH

This windy sunlit morning after rain, The wet bright laurel laughs with beckoning gleam In the blown wood, whence breaks the wild white stream Rus.h.i.+ng and flas.h.i.+ng, glorying in its gain; Nor swerves nor parts, but with a swift disdain O'erleaps the boulders lying in long dream, Lapped in cold moss; and in its joy doth seem A wood-born creature bursting from a chain.

And "Triumph, triumph, triumph!" is its hoa.r.s.e Fierce-whispered word. O fond, and dost not know Thy triumph on another wise must be,-- To render all the tribute of thy force, And lose thy little being in the flow Of the unvaunting river toward the sea!

IN WINTER, WITH THE BOOK WE READ IN SPRING

The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way, Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white; The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May.

Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day, Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright; Where clung the birds that long have taken flight, Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray.

O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same, Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom, Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring!

I hold thee--frozen skies to rosy flame Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom, And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing.

SERE WISDOM

I had remembrance of a summer morn, When all the glistening field was softly stirred And like a child's in happy sleep I heard The low and healthful breathing of the corn.

Late when the sumach's red was dulled and worn, And fainter grew the trite and troublous word Of tristful cricket, that replaced the bird, I sought the slope, and found a waste forlorn.

Against that cold clear west, whence winter peers, All spectral stood the bleached stalks thin-leaved, Dry as papyrus kept a thousand years, And hissing whispered to the wind that grieved, _It was a dream--we have no goodly ears-- There was no summer-time--deceived! deceived!_

ISOLATION

White fog around, soft snow beneath the tread, All sunless, windless, tranced, the morning lay; All noiseless, trackless, new, the well-known way.

The silence weighed upon the sense; in dread, "Alone, I am alone," I shuddering said, "And wander in a region where no ray Has ever shone, and as on earth's first day Or last, my kind are not yet born or dead."

Yet not afar, meanwhile, there faltered feet Like mine, through that wide mystery of the snow, Nor could the old accustomed paths divine; And even as mine, unheard spake voices low, And hearts were near, that as my own heart beat, Warm hands, and faces fas.h.i.+oned like to mine.

THE LOST DRYAD

(TO EDITH M. THOMAS)

Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend Suspected ever of a dryad strain, Hast crept at last, delighting to regain Thy sylvan house? Now whither shall I wend, Or by what winged post my greeting send, Bird, b.u.t.terfly, or bee? Shall three moons wane, And yet not found?--Ah, surely it was pain Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend To any hamadryad! In his hour Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves: She flees, she seeks her strait enmossed bower And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves, Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves, Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower.

A MEMORY

Though pent in stony streets, 'tis joy to know, 'Tis joy, although we breathe a fainter air, The spirit of those places far and fair That we have loved, abides; and fern-scents flow Out of the wood's heart still, and shadows grow Long on remembered roads as warm days wear; And still the dark wild water, in its lair, The narrow chasm, stirs blindly to and fro.

Delight is in the sea-gull's dancing wings, And suns.h.i.+ne wakes to rose the ruddy hue Of rocks; and from her tall wind-slanted stem A soft bright plume the goldenrod outflings Along the breeze, above a sea whose blue Is like the light that kindles through a gem.

THE GIFTS OF THE OAK

(FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL)

'There needs no crown to mark the forest's king.'

Thus, long ago thou sang'st the sound-heart tree Sacred to sovereign Jove, and dear to thee Since first, a venturous youth with eyes of spring,-- Whose pilgrim-staff each side put forth a wing,-- Beneath the oak thou lingeredst lovingly To crave, as largess of his majesty, Firm-rooted strength, and grace of leaves that sing.

He gave; we thank him! Graciousness as grave, And power as easeful as his own he gave; Long broodings rich with sun, and laughters kind; And singing leaves, whose later bronze is dear As the first amber of the budding year,-- Whose voices answer the autumnnal wind.