Lyrics of Earth | Page 8

rather some spare company
Of hermit folk, who long ago,

Wandering in bodies to and fro,
Had chanced upon this lonely way,

And rested thus, till death one day
Surprised them at their compline
prayer,
And left them standing lifeless there.
There was no sound about the wood
Save the wind's secret stir. I
stood
Among the mullein-stalks as still
As if myself had grown to
be
One of their sombre company,
A body without wish or will.

And as I stood, quite suddenly,
Down from a furrow in the sky
The
sun shone out a little space
Across that silent sober place,
Over the
sand heaps and brown sod,
The mulleins and dead goldenrod,
And
passed beyond the thickets gray,
And lit the fallen leaves that lay,

Level and deep within the wood,
A rustling yellow multitude.
And all around me the thin light,
So sere, so melancholy bright,
Fell
like the half-reflected gleam
Or shadow of some former dream;
A
moment's golden revery
Poured out on every plant and tree
A
semblance of weird joy, or less,
A sort of spectral happiness;
And I,
too, standing idly there,
With muffled hands in the chill air,
Felt the
warm glow about my feet,
And shuddering betwixt cold and heat,

Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak,
While something in my blood

awoke,
A nameless and unnatural cheer,
A pleasure secret and
austere.
BY AN AUTUMN STREAM
Now overhead,
Where the rivulet loiters and stops,
The bittersweet
hangs from the tops
Of the alders and cherries
Its bunches of
beautiful berries,
Orange and red.
And the snowbirds flee,
Tossing up on the far brown field,
Now
flashing and now concealed,
Like fringes of spray
That vanish and
gleam on the gray
Field of the sea.
Flickering light,
Come the last of the leaves down borne,
And
patches of pale white corn
In the wind complain,
Like the slow
rustle of rain
Noticed by night.
Withered and thinned,
The sentinel mullein looms,
With the pale
gray shadowy plumes
Of the goldenrod;
And the milkweed opens
its pod,
Tempting the wind.
Aloft on the hill,
A cloudrift opens and shines
Through a break in
its gorget of pines,
And it dreams at my feet
In a sad, silvery sheet,

Utterly still.
All things that be
Seem plunged into silence, distraught,
By some
stern, some necessitous thought:
It wraps and enthralls
Marsh,
meadow, and forest; and falls
Also on me.
SNOWBIRDS
Along the narrow sandy height
I watch them swiftly come and go,

Or round the leafless wood,
Like flurries of wind-driven snow,

Revolving in perpetual flight,
A changing multitude.

Nearer and nearer still they sway,
And, scattering in a circled sweep,

Rush down without a sound;
And now I see them peer and peep,

Across yon level bleak and gray,
Searching the frozen ground,--
Until a little wind upheaves,
And makes a sudden rustling there,

And then they drop their play,
Flash up into the sunless air,
And
like a flight of silver leaves
Swirl round and sweep away.
SNOW
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
SUNSET
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We
have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and
pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
Tho' the biting north wind breaks
Full across this drifted hold,
Let
us stand with icèd cheeks
Watching westward as of old;
Past the violet mountain-head
To the farthest fringe of pine,
Where
far off the purple-red
Narrows to a dusky line,
And the last pale
splendors die
Slowly from the olive sky;

Till the thin clouds wear away
Into threads of purple-gray,
And the
sudden stars between
Brighten in the pallid green;
Till above the spacious east,
Slow returnèd one by one,
Like pale
prisoners released
From the dungeons of the sun,
Capella and her
train appear
In the glittering Charioteer;
Till the rounded moon shall grow
Great above the eastern snow,

Shining into burnished gold;
And the silver earth outrolled,
In the
misty yellow light,
Shall take on the width of night.
WINTER-STORE
Subtly conscious, all awake,
Let us clear our eyes, and break

Through the cloudy chrysalis,
See the wonder as it is.
Down a
narrow alley, blind,
Touch and vision, heart and mind;
Turned
sharply inward, still we plod,
Till the calmly smiling god
Leaves us,
and our spirits grow
More thin, more acrid, as we go.
Creeping by
the sullen