Renascence and Other Poems | Page 9

is here; and
so 'tis spring; --
But not in the old way!
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your
face,
And blossoms covered you.
If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and
so 'tis spring --
But not in the old way!
III
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was
going -- ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of
you and me, --
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the
edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a
mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!
The Shroud
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine, -- O mother!
This red
gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress
dark as my hair
Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as
bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine, -- O mother!
This red
gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
The Dream
Love, if I weep it will not matter,
And if you laugh I shall not care;

Foolish am I to think about it,
But it is good to feel you there.
Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, --
White and awful the
moonlight reached
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,

There was a shutter loose, -- it screeched!
Swung in the wind, -- and no wind blowing! --
I was afraid, and
turned to you,
Put out my hand to you for comfort, --
And you were
gone! Cold, cold as dew,
Under my hand the moonlight lay!
Love, if you laugh I shall not care,

But if I weep it will not matter, --
Ah, it is good to feel you there!
Indifference
I said, -- for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come, -- "I'll hear
his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; But I'll never leave
my pillow, though there be some
As would let him in -- and take him
in with tears!" I said. I lay, -- for Love was laggard, O, he came not
until dawn, -- I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep;
And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,
All sorry with
the tears some folks might weep!
Witch-Wife
She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She
learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And
her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But
she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
Blight
Hard seeds of hate I planted
That should by now be grown, --

Rough stalks, and from thick stamens
A poisonous pollen blown,

And odors rank, unbreathable,
From dark corollas thrown!
At dawn from my damp garden
I shook the chilly dew;
The thin
boughs locked behind me
That sprang to let me through;
The
blossoms slept, -- I sought a place
Where nothing lovely grew.
And there, when day was breaking,
I knelt and looked around:
The
light was near, the silence
Was palpitant with sound;
I drew my
hate from out my breast
And thrust it in the ground.
Oh, ye so fiercely tended,
Ye little seeds of hate!
I bent above your
growing
Early and noon and late,
Yet are ye drooped and pitiful, --

I cannot rear ye straight!
The sun seeks out my garden,
No nook is left in shade,
No mist nor
mold nor mildew
Endures on any blade,
Sweet rain slants under
every bough:
Ye falter, and ye fade.
When the Year Grows Old
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old --
October --
November --
How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn
from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And
the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget --
The look of a
scared thing
Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the
bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling
of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old --
October --
November --
How she disliked the cold!
Sonnets
I
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs, -- no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not
more fair
Than small white single poppies, -- I can bear
Thy beauty;
though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing
where to go,
I turn my troubled