A Boys Will | Page 9

and his hair and his eyes were gray,?The gray of the moss of walls were they,--?And stood in the sun and looked his fill?At wooded valley and wooded hill.?He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,?On a height of naked pasture land;?In all the country he did command?He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.?That was well! and he stamped a hoof.?His heart knew peace, for none came here?To this lean feeding save once a year?Someone to salt the half-wild steer,?Or homespun children with clicking pails?Who see no little they tell no tales.?He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach?A new-world song, far out of reach,?For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech?And the whimper of hawks beside the sun?Were music enough for him, for one.?Times were changed from what they were:?Such pipes kept less of power to stir?The fruited bough of the juniper?And the fragile bluets clustered there?Than the merest aimless breath of air.?They were pipes of pagan mirth,?And the world had found new terms of worth.?He laid him down on the sun-burned earth?And ravelled a flower and looked away--?Play? Play?--What should he play?
The Demiurge's Laugh
IT was far in the sameness of the wood;?I was running with joy on the Demon's trail,?Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.?It was just as the light was beginning to fail?That I suddenly heard--all I needed to hear:?It has lasted me many and many a year.?The sound was behind me instead of before,?A sleepy sound, but mocking half,?As of one who utterly couldn't care.?The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,?Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;?And well I knew what the Demon meant.?I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.?I felt as a fool to have been so caught,?And checked my steps to make pretence?It was something among the leaves I sought?(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).?Thereafter I sat me against a tree.
Now Close the Windows
NOW close the windows and hush all the fields;?If the trees must, let them silently toss;?No bird is singing now, and if there is,?Be it my loss.?It will be long ere the marshes resume,?It will be long ere the earliest bird:?So close the windows and not hear the wind,?But see all wind-stirred.
A Line-storm Song
THE line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,?The road is forlorn all day,?Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,?And the hoof-prints vanish away.?The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,?Expend their bloom in vain.?Come over the hills and far with me,?And be my love in the rain.?The birds have less to say for themselves?In the wood-world's torn despair?Than now these numberless years the elves,?Although they are no less there:?All song of the woods is crushed like some?Wild, easily shattered rose.?Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,?Where the boughs rain when it blows.?There is the gale to urge behind?And bruit our singing down,?And the shallow waters aflutter with wind?From which to gather your gown.?What matter if we go clear to the west,?And come not through dry-shod??For wilding brooch shall wet your breast?The rain-fresh goldenrod.?Oh, never this whelming east wind swells?But it seems like the sea's return?To the ancient lands where it left the shells?Before the age of the fern;?And it seems like the time when after doubt?Our love came back amain.?Oh, come forth into the storm and rout?And be my love in the rain.
October
O HUSHED October morning mild,?Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;?To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,?Should waste them all.?The crows above the forest call;?To-morrow they may form and go.?O hushed October morning mild,?Begin the hours of this day slow,?Make the day seem to us less brief.?Hearts not averse to being beguiled,?Beguile us in the way you know;?Release one leaf at break of day;?At noon release another leaf;?One from our trees, one far away;?Retard the sun with gentle mist;?Enchant the land with amethyst.?Slow, slow!?For the grapes' sake, if they were all,?Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,?Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--?For the grapes' sake along the wall.
My Butterfly
THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too,?And the daft sun-assaulter, he?That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead:?Save only me?(Nor is it sad to thee!)?Save only me?There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.?The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;?Its two banks have not shut upon the river;?But it is long ago--?It seems forever--?Since first I saw thee glance,?With all the dazzling other ones,?In airy dalliance,?Precipitate in love,?Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,?Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.?When that was, the soft mist?Of my regret hung not on all the land,?And I was glad for thee,?And glad for me, I wist.?Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,?That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,?With those great careless wings,?Nor yet did I.?And there