A Womans Love Letters | Page 2

65
Song, 70
Barter, 72
Song, 76
To-morrow, 78
Song, 82
A Dream.
I stood far off above the haunts of men?Somewhere, I know not, when the sky was dim?From some worn glory, and the morning hymn?Of the gay oriole echoed from the glen.?Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I sought?A visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.
I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed,?Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowers?Drank in the morning mist, dawn's tender showers,?And looked forth for the Day-god who had blazed?His heart away and died at sundown. Far?In the gray west faded a loitering star.
It seemed that I had wandered through long years,?A life of years, still seeking gropingly?A thing I dared not name; now I could see?In the still dawn a hope, in the soft tears?Of the deep-hearted violets a breath?Of kinship, like the herald voice of Death.
Slow moved the morning; where the hill was bare?Woke a reluctant breeze. Dimly I knew?My Day was come. The wind-blown blossoms threw?Their breath about me, and the pine-swept air?Grew to a shape, a mighty, formless thing,?A phantom of the wood's imagining.
And as I gazed, spell-bound, it seemed to move?Its tendril limbs, still swaying tremulously?As if in spirit-doubt; then glad and free?Crystalled the being won from waiting grove?Into a human likeness. There he stood,?The vine-browed shape of Nature's mortal mood.
"Now have I found thee, Vision I have sought?These years, unknowing; surely thou art fair?And inly wise, and on thy tasselled hair?Glows Heaven's own light. Passion and fame are naught?To thy clear eyes, O Prince of many lands,--?Grant me thy joy," I cried, and stretched my hands.
No answer but the flourish of the breeze?Through the black pines. Then, slowly, as the wind?Parts the dense cloud-forms, leaving naught behind?But shapeless vapor, through the budding trees?Drifted some force unseen, and from my sight?Faded my god into the morning light.
Again alone. With wistful, straining eyes?I waited, and the sunshine flecked the bank?Happy with arbutus and violets where I sank?Hearing, near by, a host of melodies,?The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood?The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo'd.
He ceased; the fresh moss-odors filled the grove?With a strange sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs?Moved soft, as though they heard the brooklet rouse?To its spring soul, and whisper low of love.?The white-robed birches stood unbendingly?Like royal maids, in proud expectancy.
Athwart the ramage where the young leaves press?It came to me, ah, call it what you will?Vision or waking dream, I see it still!?Again a form born of the woodland stress?Grew to my gaze, and by some secret sign?Though shadow-hid, I knew the form was thine.
The glancing sunlight made thy ruddy hair?A crown of gold, but on thy spirit-face?There was no smile, only a tender grace?Of love half doubt. Upon thy hand a rare?Wild bird of Paradise perched fearlessly?With radiant plumage and still, lustrous eye.
And as I gazed I saw what I had deemed?A shadow near thy hand, a dusky wing,?A bird like last year's leaves, so dull a thing?Beside its fellow; as the sunshine gleamed?Each breast showed letters bright as crystalled rain,?The fair bird bore "Delight," the other "Pain."
Then came thy voice: "O Love, wilt have my gift?"?I stretched my glad hands eagerly to grasp?The heaven-blown bird, gold-hued, and longed to clasp It close and know it mine. Ere I might lift?The shining thing and hold it to my breast?Again I heard thy voice with vague unrest.
"These are twin birds and may not parted be."?Full in thine eyes I gazed, and read therein?The paradox of life, of love, of sin,?As on a night of cloud and mystery?One darting flash makes bright the hidden ways,?And feet tread knowingly though thick the haze.
Thy gift, if so I chose,--no other hand?Save thine.--I reached and gathered to my heart?The quivering, sentient things.--Sometimes I start?To know them hidden there.--If I should stand?Idly, some day, and _one_,--God help me!--breast?A homing breeze,--my _brown_ bird knows _its_ nest.
Dream-Song.
Cam'st thou not nigh to me?In that