“A wind that blows from the sea, and smells Of spring and fall together, Runs racing up the yellow fields Into the autumn weather.
And I run too, for I am young And breathless with all living— The trees are shouting as we pass, The asters singing in the grass.
In half an hundred years from now, When all my songs are sung, I’ll not be old and crossly sage, I’ll love the bright hill of my age Under its winter sun, And wave the gayest hand I know To everything that’s young.”
““Woe……!” My Lord Wind sings. His voice is a harp, a harp of a thousand strings; His voice is a harp, and he rides on swift and terrible wings.
“Woe……!” My Lord Wind shrills; And the pine-trees mutter threats to their parent hills, The ragged scrub-oaks writhe and clash at fierce demoniac wills.
“Woe……!” My Lord Wind rails; And the young oak bends to the hiss of his stinging flails, While the old oak breaks and the cowering pine-tree wails.
“Woe……!” My Lord Wind grieves; And a plaintive echo stirs through the fallen leaves, Like a child-lorn mother’s breast the grassy hill-side heaves.
“Woe……!” My Lord Wind cries, And the word is a mad crescendo of sobs and sighs. Then out in the far somewhere the voice of my Lord Wind dies.”
“My soul is a dancer— A dancer under shimmering willows in the sunlight.
The wind draws a bow across his violin. He plays a scherzo— Rippling notes on strings of silver.
Play faster, wind! My feet are more swift than the leaves of the willow— Shimmering, shimmering— Amber shadows in the sunlight. My feet are more swift than the laughter of waters. Play faster, wind!”
“Dear, were you ever here? It has all grown so faint— Just reminders, Like the squeak of a bat, the chirp of a starling on the rim of the chimney outside, As I lie in bed of a morning; The cry of a new-born kitten, Or the crawling of a beetle on a slate, As I sit out in the warm summer evenings.
Yet there are traces Less intangible…. There is the dear little amateur letter-box You put in yourself for me, The knots you made for me in the hammock cords, The marks of your burnt cigarette-ends That blemish the corners of tables and shelves.
Well, well!… One throws away garments, one destroys photographs That remind one…. Is it worth while to give up a house Because of such slight aura As these?”
“Lilacs lift leaves of cool satin And blossoms of mother-of-pearl Against the tarnished silver of the deserted house. Tall, exquisite grasses fill the door-yard with spray. Through the sun-drenched fragrance drifts the hazy monotone of bees. Tints of opal and jade; the hush of emerald shadows, And a sense of the past as a living presence Distil a haunting wistful peace.”
“Since I lost my ancient wealth These are they that have nourished my life In this grotesque, grey desert of the town: The leaping up of flame; The widening of the sky at the corner of the street; The soft renewals of steam at the funnel’s lip, Rising, coiling, dissolving; White flowers of the roofs That in unfolding vanish.”
“This is a magic cup That needs no lifting up, And gushes the cool drink From an ever flowing brink, From an ever filling hollow. As you swallow, You can feel the water go Against your lips with tumbling flow And all its noises hear: As if you were a deer Or a wild goat, Sucking the water into your throat Where a little brook goes by Under the trees and the summer sky. Oh it is fun to drink this way!— Like a pleasant game to play, Not like drinking in other places; And it is fun to watch the faces That come and bend them at this urn. Something you can learn Of each person’s secret mind: Know which is selfish, which is kind: Those who guard their dignity. And those whose curiosity Is turning cold. Many of the young are old, And think A drink is nothing but a drink, Water is water—always the same; They could not turn it into a game. Charily, with solemn mien, They lean— These incurious of heart— And hurrying depart. But the children know it’s a gay rare thing To drink outdoors from a running spring; And laugh And quaff, As if their inquisitive zest Would challenge to a test The bounty of this store Which gives, and still has more. They drink up all they can: Wait in turn to drink again. As I watch the reaching lips It seems to be my mouth that sips: I stoop and rise with each one. But when they are done, And their faces touched with spray, They quickly wipe it away. And this, sometimes, I regret,— Because their lips look prettier, wet.”
“This is the field that was crushed in their dying, And over and over the wind blows sighing— A desolate, sobbing, searching wind. ’Tis a low gray land of barren spaces And long rough ridges of burial places, The grass bruised into the choking sod.
The clouds are lank with a dull slow weeping, And the mist enshrouds the place of their sleeping. ”
“I walked with you beside the orchard bars, Where the still plum-tree drops her whiteness down. You kissed my brow: your kiss was like a crown. You kissed my mouth: my crown was set with stars. ”
“The cock crows clear On Christmas morn. “Oooo-oo-oo-oo!” To-day a child Lies in the manger, Where the brown ox Lies too. “Oooo-oo-oo-oo!” “Come and see him— A beggar woman Bore him last night.” “Worthless brazen hussy!— Put her out of my barn!” Said Grandam; “Send her to the poor house.” “Could you not keep her One day?” I asked. “No indeed!” she said; “This is Christmas, When I must serve my black pudding, Burning in brandy, And when thou Shalt see thy little tree, Sparkling with candles, And hung with gay sugar mice.” “But grandam, Was not the Christ-child Born in a manger too?” “That was a different matter,” She said. The cock crowed Three times, Loud and clear. “Oooo-oo-oo-oo!” “Bastard brat In our barn!” “Oooo-oo-oo-oo!” Different! Different! Different! But I slipped out to see him And take him a sugar mouse; And all about his head Was a golden glory!”
“My sheep hear my pipe-call— To fine grass sweet with dew I lead them The morn-hour. They are refreshed and strengthened and fed; Trees thick with leaves afford them cool shade.
My sheep hear my pipe-call— To brown depths of the stream I lead them The noon-hour. On bright ripples their warm mouths are fed; The low wind disturbs not their quiet shade.
My sheep hear my Christ-call— Through rough world-work to life I lead them Till eve-hour. Of spirit immortal they are fed; My great wing spreads over them calm shade.”
“Spring crept over the purple hills, Over the yellow, sun-baked sands. No wild music of April rills, But her hands, Slim and wanton and softly white, Waved in the windy, cloudless night.
Spring danced over the cactus plains, Vaguely tender in timid green, Veiled in the sudden, fleeting rain’s Silver sheen. No mad riot of buds, and yet Wild red poppies and mignonette, Flung from her floating garland gown, Fluttered down.
Spring fled out of the panting South— Drooping eyelids and burning mouth, Blown gold hair and a robe of mist, Desert-kissed.”
“When in the spring I go forth at morn A-quiver with life I sing: The world and I, new-born. Then when I see all rampant growing Beds of tulips o’er the plain, Like pools and lakes of color glowing, I would fain Outstrip all speed, run Naked in the sun, Plunge, riot, be immersed, Quench this color-thirst!
II Where go the birds when the rain Roars and sweeps and fells the grain, When tortured trees groan with pain, And the storm-worn night is old— Driven forth from their slumber cold, Where go the birds?”
“Delicate land, Fabulous land, Clear as a bird-song afloat in the morning, Keener than glacial air; Exquisite gift of the slow-building sea, Held like an altar up to the sky, Circled with light, cliff-columns high Rising aerially.
Dare men approach your enchantments of sand, Land where the rainbow lies bare?— Enter your sun-guarded gateways of space, Mortals, like snails with a cheapening trail, Fearful of mystery, wearily pale, Out of today’s commonplace?
Over the wasteland a strong wind goes; Like captured heat lies the cactus rose. The desert sings: Sand-precious flowers and quick lizards lie In a world like the brazen bowl of the sky— Sun-captured things. Color and distance come weaving their dances, Mystery-full the great silence advances; Then, at your hand, Marvelling, mortals unfold strange wings. Delicate, fabulous land!”
“She goes through the order of the day Like a nun. The rattle of her typewriter Is the rustle of a rosary; And she speaks in the telephone With the retreated delicacy Of one who murmurs before an altar. ”
“They told me When I came That this would be drudgery, Always the same Thing over and over Day after day— The same swift movement In the same small way.
Pick up, Place, Push, And it’s tied. Take off, Cut, And put It aside.
Over and over In rhythmical beat— Some say it is drudgery But to me it is sweet.
Pick up, Place, Push, And it’s tied. Out-doors The sky Is so blue And so wide!
It’s a joyous song Going steadily on, Marching in measures Till the day is gone.
Pick up, Place, Push, And it’s tied. Soon end Of day Will bring him To my side.
Oh, I love the measures Singing so fast, Speeding happy hours Till he comes at last!”
“There is a little room in my heart Where we used to live together— A very cozy little room.
You walked out carelessly, Leaving the door half open; But I closed and locked it, crying.
Sometimes when I pass the door I wish you would come back, Throw wide the seaward windows, Kindle the fire again; Although I know we are both better Out here in the changing, crowded world— For, after all, it is a very little room.”
