Rose and Roof-Tree | Page 2

each dry day's intent?United; so that I could stand?In silence, covering with my hand?The circle of the universe,?Balance the blessing and the curse,?And trust in deeds without chagrin,?Free from to-morrow and yesterday--content.
PART FIRST.
AN APRIL ARIA.
When the mornings dankly fall?With a dim forethought of rain,?And the robins richly call?To their mates mercurial,?And the tree-boughs creak and strain?In the wind;?When the river's rough with foam,?And the new-made clearings smoke,?And the clouds that go and come?Shine and darken frolicsome,?And the frogs at evening croak?Undefined?Mysteries of monotone,?And by melting beds of snow?Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
Then I know?That the bitter winter's dead.
Over his head?The damp sod breaks so mellow,--?Its mosses tipped with points of yellow,--?I cannot but be glad;?Yet this sweet mood will borrow?Something of a sweeter sorrow,?To touch and turn me sad.
THE BOBOLINK.
How sweetly sang the bobolink,?When thou, my Love, wast nigh!?His liquid music from the brink?Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink,?Built in the blue-domed sky.
How sadly sings the bobolink!?No more my Love is nigh:?Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink?Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,--?Once more before I die!
THE SUN-SHOWER.
A penciled shade the sky doth sweep,?And transient glooms creep in to sleep
Amid the orchard;?Fantastic breezes pull the trees?Hither and yon, to vagaries
Of aspect tortured.
Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe?Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge
That locked their tears,?Falls on the hills a mist of rain,--?So faint, it seems to fade again;
Yet swiftly nears.
Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright,?With drops swept down in arrow-flight,
Keen, quivering lines.?Ceased in a breath the showery sound;?And teasingly, now, as I look around,
Sweet sunlight shines!
JUNE LONGINGS.
Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown?Light vapors white, like thistle-down,?That from their softened silver heaps opaque?Scatter delicate flake by flake,?Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving?Forms of fancies past believing,?And, with fantastic show of mute despair,?As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,?Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.
All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:?Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon?Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,?Far and faint as a fairy spirit!?Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,?Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,?A frustrate passion haunts me evermore?For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.?O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?
A RUNE OF THE RAIN.
I.
O many-toned rain!?O myriad sweet voices of the rain!?How welcome is its delicate overture?At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west?Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest!
At first it would allure?The earth to kinder mood,?With dainty flattering?Of soft, sweet pattering:?Faintly now you hear the tramp?Of the fine drops falling damp?On the dry, sun-seasoned ground?And the thirsty leaves around.?But anon, imbued?With a sudden, bounding access?Of passion, it relaxes?All timider persuasion,?And, with nor pretext nor occasion,?Its wooing redoubles;?And pounds the ground, and bubbles?In sputtering spray,?Flinging itself in a fury?Of flashing white away;?Till the dusty road?Flings a perfume dank abroad,?And the grass, and the wide-hung trees,?The vines, the flowers in their beds,?The vivid corn that to the breeze?Rustles along the garden-rows,?Visibly lift their heads,--?And, as the shower wilder grows,?Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.
Then, the slow and pleasant murmur?Of its subsiding,?As the pulse of the storm beats firmer,?And the steady rain?Drops into a cadenced chiding.?Deep-breathing rain,?The sad and ghostly noise?Wherewith thou dost complain,--?Thy plaintive, spiritual voice,?Heard thus at close of day?Through vaults of twilight-gray,--?Doth vex me with sweet pain!?And still my soul is fain?To know the secret of that yearning?Which in thine utterance I hear returning.
Hush, oh hush!?Break not the dreamy rush?Of the rain:?Touch not the marring doubt?Words bring, to the certainty?Of its soft refrain,?But let the flying fringes flout?Their gouts against the pane,?And the gurgling throat of the water-spout?Groan in the eaves amain.
The earth is wedded to the shower.?Darkness and awe, gird round the bridal-hour!
II.
O many-tonèd rain!?It hath caught the strain?Of a wilder tune,?Ere the same night's noon,?When dreams and sleep forsake me,?And sudden dread doth wake me,?To hear the booming drums of heaven beat?The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud,?With an echoing loud,?Bursts asunder?At the sudden resurrection of the thunder;?And the fountains of the air,?Unsealed again sweep, ruining, everywhere,?To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet.
III.
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!?When the airy war doth wane,?And the storm to the east hath flown,?Cloaked close in the whirling wind,?There's a voice still left behind?In each heavy-hearted tree,?Charged with tearful memory?Of the vanished rain:?From their leafy lashes wet?Drip the dews of fresh regret?For the lover that's gone!?All else is still.?But the stars are listening;?And low o'er the wooded hill?Hangs, upon listless wing?Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud,?Watching, like a bird of evil?That knows no mercy nor reprieval,?The slow and silent death of the pallid moon.
IV.
But soon, returning duly,?Dawn whitens the wet hill-tops bluely.?To her vision pure and cold?The night's wild tale is told?On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool,?The garden mold turned dark and