Songs, Merry and Sad | Page 9

thrill the swamps when spring is near,
Fly o'er the fields at
fullness of the year,
And twitter where the autumn hedges run,
Join
all the months of music into one.
I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there,
And all the leaves hang
still to catch his spell;
Wrens cheep among the bushes; from
somewhere
A bluebird's tweedle passes o'er the fell;
From rustling
corn bob-white his name doth tell;
And when the oriole sets his full
heart free
Barefooted boyhood comes again to me.
The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail
Before a dusty window, looking
dim
On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale;
The
sad-eyed passers have no time for him.
His captor sits, with beaded
face and grim,
Plying a listless awl, as in a dream
Of pastures
winding by a shady stream.
Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?
For now, when every
songster finds his love
And makes his nest where woods are deep and
green,
Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.
If I were
thou, my grief in moans should move
At thinking -- otherwhere, by
others' art
Charmed and forgetful -- of mine own sweetheart.

But I, who weep when fortune seems unkind
To prison me within a
space of walls,
When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrined
And
every love is cruel when it calls;
Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged
waterfalls, --
I blush to offer sorrow unto thee,
Master of fate,
scorner of destiny!
Dawn
The hills again reach skyward with a smile.
Again, with waking life
along its way,
The landscape marches westward mile on mile
And
time throbs white into another day.
Though eager life must wait on livelihood,
And all our hopes be
tethered to the mart,
Lacking the eagle's wild, high freedom, would

That ours might be this day the eagle's heart!
Harvest
Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
Clouds in the west, deep
crimson and gold;
A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;
The
twitter of killdees keen in the air;
The noise of a wagon that jolts
through the gloam
On the last load home.
There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
Climbs from
the grange grove of elm and oak.
The smell of the Earth, where the
night pours to her
Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
And an
incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
On the last load home.
Two Pictures
One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm,
A halo, like an
angel's, on her hair.
She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm.
A holy

presence hovers round her there,
And she, for all her mother-pains
more fair,
Is happy, seeing that all sweet thoughts that stir
The
hearts of men bear worship unto her.
Another wanders where the cold wind blows,
Wet-haired, with eyes
that sting one like a knife.
Homeless forever, at her bosom close

She holds the purchase of her love and life,
Of motherhood,
unglorified as wife;
And bitterer than the world's relentless scorn

The knowing her child were happier never born.
Whence are the halo and the fiery shame
That fashion thus a crown
and curse of love?
Have roted words such power to bless and blame?

Ay, men have stained a raven from many a dove,
And all the grace
and all the grief hereof
Are the two words which bore one's lips apart

And which the other hoarded in her heart.
He who stooped down and wrote upon the sand,
The God-heart in
him touched to tenderness,
Saw deep, saw what we cannot understand,
--
We, who draw near the shrine of one to bless
The while we
scourge another's sore distress,
And judge like gods between the ill
and good,
The glory and the guilt of womanhood.
October
The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes,
O, month of
memories!
Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of,
Old joy,
dead hope, dear love,
I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet
To cast down at thy feet

The garnered largess of the fruitful year,
And on thy cheek a tear.
Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf
To blind the eyes of grief;

Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit
That sorrow may be
mute;

A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep,
Ere the gray dusk may
creep
Sober and sad along thy dusty ways,
Like a lone nun, who
prays;
High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls;
Thy lazy lizard
sprawls
On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep
About thy
hedge, asleep;
The sun swings farther toward his love, the south,
To kiss her
glowing mouth;
And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers,

Is deeply hid in flowers.
Would that thy streams were Lethe, and might flow
Where lotus
blossoms blow,
And all the sweets wherewith thy riches bless

Might hold no bitterness!
Would, in thy beauty, we might all forget
Dead days and old regret,

And through thy realm might fare us forth to roam,
Having no
thought for home!
And yet I feel, beneath thy queen's attire,
Woven of blood and fire,

Beneath the golden glory of thy charm
Thy mother heart beats warm,
And if, mayhap, a wandering child of