Dreams and Days | Page 4

stood,?With Winthrop and his followers;?The maid in flake-embroidered hood,?The magistrate well cloaked in furs,
That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath?Of ample, throat-encircling ruff?As white as some wind-gathered wreath?Of snow quilled into plait and puff.
A few grave words, a question asked;?Eyelids that with the answer fell?Like falling petals;--form that tasked?Brief time;--and so was wrought the spell!
Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said,?"Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb?The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped?These lovers on their way. But, come,
"Henceforth forever be thou known?By memory of this day's fair bride:?So shall thy slender music's moan?Sweeter into the ocean glide!"
Then laughed they all, and sudden beams?Of sunshine quivered through the sky.?Below the ice, the unheard stream's?Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy;
And lo, a visionary blush?Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild;?And in her rapt and wintry hush?The lonely face of Nature smiled.
Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite?Is all that tender vision now;?And, like lost snow-flakes in the night,?Mute are the lovers as their vow.
And O thou little, careless brook,?Hast thou thy tender trust forgot??Her modest memory forsook,?Whose name, known once, thou utterest not?
Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy;?In willow bough or alder bush?Birds sing, o'er golden filigree?Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush;
But none can tell us of that name?More than the "Mary." Men still say?"Bride Brook" in honor of her fame;?But all the rest has passed away.
MAY-ROSE
[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20]
On this day to life she came--
May-Rose, my May-Rose!?With scented breeze, with flowered flame,?She touched the earth and took her name
Of May, Rose.
Here, to-day, she grows and flowers--
May-Rose, my May-Rose.?All my life with light she dowers,?And colors all the coming hours
With May, Rose!
THE SINGING WIRE
Ethereal, faint that music rang,?As, with the bosom of the breeze,?It rose and fell and murmuring sang?Aeolian harmonies!
I turned; again the mournful chords,?In random rhythm lightly flung?From off the wire, came shaped in words;?And thus meseemed, they sung:
"I, messenger of many fates,?Strung to the tones of woe or weal,?Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates?With all men know or feel,--
"Is it so strange that I should wail??Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,?When in the pine-top wakes the gale?That breathes of coming rain.
"There is a spirit in the post;?It, too, was once a murmuring tree;?Its withered, sad, imprisoned ghost?Echoes my melody.
"Come close, and lay your listening ear?Against the bare and branchless wood.?Can you not hear it crooning clear,?As though it understood?"
I listened to the branchless pole?That held aloft the singing wire;?I heard its muffled music roll,?And stirred with sweet desire:
"O wire more soft than seasoned lute,?Hast thou no sunlit word for me??Though long to me so coyly mute,?Her heart may speak through thee!"
I listened, but it was in vain.?At first, the wind's old wayward will?Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain.?That ceased; and all was still.
But suddenly some kindling shock?Struck flashing through the wire: a bird,?Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock?Rose with him; wheeled and whirred.
Then to my soul there came this sense:?"Her heart has answered unto thine;?She comes, to-night. Go, speed thee hence:?Meet her; no more repine!"
Perhaps the fancy was far-fetched;?And yet, perhaps, it hinted true.?Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched?In mine, that gave me--you!
And so more dear to me has grown?Than rarest tones swept from the lyre,?The minor movement of that moan?In yonder singing wire.
Nor care I for the will of states,?Or aught beside, that smites that string,?Since then so close it knit our fates,?What time the bird took wing!
THE HEART OF A SONG
Dear love, let this my song fly to you:?Perchance forget it came from me.?It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;?But in your breast lie quietly.
Only beware, when once it tarries?I cannot coax it from you, then.?This little song my whole heart carries,?And ne'er will bear it back again.
For if its silent passion grieve you,?My heart would then too heavy grow;--?And it can never, never leave you,?If joy of yours must with it go!
SOUTH-WIND
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease?(Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!)?Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed?'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these?Loth blushes faint and maidenly:--rich breeze,?Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade?Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid?The power to build or blight the fruit of trees,?The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain.
Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,?Both measureless, but either counted gain?Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow?Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.?Tears are the gems of joy and misery.
THE LOVER'S YEAR
Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve,?My summer and my winter, spring and fall;?For Nature left on thee a touch of all?The moods that come to gladden or to grieve?The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve?From lagging sameness. So do these forestall?In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall?Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave.
Scenes that I love to