Part 3 (1/2)
THE MOON-PATH
The full, clear moon uprose and spread Her cold, pale splendor o'er the sea; A light-strewn path that seemed to lead Outward into eternity.
Between the darkness and the gleam An old-world spell encompa.s.sed me: Methought that in a G.o.dlike dream I trod upon the sea.
And lo! upon that glimmering road, In s.h.i.+ning companies unfurled, The trains of many a primal G.o.d, The monsters of the elder world; Strange creatures that, with silver wings, Scarce touched the ocean's thronging floor, The phantoms of old tales, and things Whose shapes are known no more.
Giants and demi-G.o.ds who once Were dwellers of the earth and sea, And they who from Deucalion's stones, Rose men without an infancy; Beings on whose majestic lids Time's solemn secrets seemed to dwell, Tritons and pale-limbed Nereids, And forms of heaven and h.e.l.l.
Some who were heroes long of yore, When the great world was hale and young; And some whose marble lips yet pour The murmur of an antique tongue; Sad queens, whose names are like soft moans, Whose griefs were written up in gold; And some who on their silver thrones Were G.o.ddesses of old.
As if I had been dead indeed, And come into some after-land, I saw them pa.s.s me, and take heed, And touch me with each mighty hand; And evermore a murmurous stream, So beautiful they seemed to me, Not less than in a G.o.dlike dream I trod the s.h.i.+ning sea.
COMFORT OF THE FIELDS
What would'st thou have for eas.e.m.e.nt after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night, Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief?
To me, when life besets me in such wise, 'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain, And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth, To roam in idleness and sober mirth, Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes.
By hills and waters, farms and solitudes, To wander by the day with wilful feet; Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat; Along gray roads that run between deep woods, Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine, Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred, And only the rich-throated thrush is heard; By lonely forest brooks that froth and s.h.i.+ne In bouldered crannies buried in the hills; By broken beeches tangled with wild vine, And log-strewn rivers murmurous with mills.
In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet With the keen perfume of the ripening gra.s.s, Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pa.s.s, Spread thick as stars with s.h.i.+ning marguerite; To haunt old fences overgrown with brier, m.u.f.fled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries, Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elderberries, And pied blossoms to the heart's desire, Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom, Pink-ta.s.seled milkweed, breathing dense perfume, And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire.
To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks, The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn; To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborne Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks With iron roar of waters; far away Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon, To hear the querulous outcry of the loon; To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by; Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jay Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry.
To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains, The thrasher humming from the farm near by, The prattling cricket's intermittent cry, The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes; Or in the shadow of some oaken spray, To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams, The far-off hay-fields, where the dusty teams Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay, And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low, With drowsy cadence half a summer's day, The clatter of the reapers come and go.
Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers, The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom, The voices of the breathing gra.s.s, the hum Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers: Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn, And cool fair fingers radiantly divine, The mighty mother brings us in her hand, For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan, Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine: Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!
AT THE FERRY
On such a day the shrunken stream Spends its last water and runs dry; Clouds like far turrets in a dream Stand baseless in the burning sky.
On such a day at every rod The toilers in the hay-field halt, With dripping brows, and the parched sod Yields to the crus.h.i.+ng foot like salt.
But here a little wind astir, Seen waterward in jetting lines, From yonder hillside topped with fir Comes pungent with the breath of pines; And here when all the noon hangs still, White-hot upon the city tiles, A perfume and a wintry chill Breathe from the yellow lumber-piles.
And all day long there falls a blur Of noises upon listless ears, The rumble of the trams, the stir Of barges at the clacking piers; The champ of wheels, the crash of steam, And ever, without change or stay, The drone, as through a troubled dream, Of waters falling far away.
A tug-boat up the farther sh.o.r.e Half pants, half whistles, in her draught; The cadence of a creaking oar Falls drowsily; a corded raft Creeps slowly in the noonday gleam, And wheresoe'er a shadow sleeps The men lie by, or half a-dream, Stand leaning at the idle sweeps.
And all day long in the quiet bay The eddying amber depths r.e.t.a.r.d, And hold, as in a ring, at play, The heavy saw-logs notched and scarred; And yonder between cape and shoal, Where the long currents swing and s.h.i.+ft, An aged punt-man with his pole Is searching in the parted drift.