PART III
_I heard The poet pass with a sound Like the breaking of ground, Like a storm, like a violent bird; His head was a king’s, And I noted the gay common things Of his strange diadem; I was blinded by them._
_Crown of weeds! For his brow debonair, For his vagabond needs, Crown of weeds, Bud, berry, thistle and tare: Yes! but who flung the far seeds?_
October Trees
It seemed a cup that brimmed hot leaves, That held all fires, all fruits; I put the red tree to my lips And drained it to the roots.
* * *
Beneath the smouldering trees I walk at night. I know they burn! although they give no light.
* * *
I plucked a flame from off a tree, Not thinking it would injure me; It scorched my hand, it caught my hair, It burned my heart to ashes there; I played with fire in the wood-- No woman should, no woman should!
* * *
All day it rains--but on the hill The dripping embers warm me still!
* * *
Hush--
Is this the burning bush That Moses heard? And was the voice a bird?
New England Cottage
The house is all in wooden rags, The chimney tilts, the gable sags, And where I pass Are weedy flags That my feet guess.
A horse-shoe rusts above the door, Young roses prowl the porch’s floor, Up in the dark Wide sycamore Is thrushes’ talk.
And here, a well not yet gone dry! Lean in and meet its mellow eye, Look deep, to where A round of sky Lurks with its star.
Happy old house of moldy beams, Of cobweb rooms and loosening seams, Besieged old walls That guard their dreams Like sentinels.
Old ark--slow-withering stick and stone, Oak flesh that fades on iron bone; And not deserted, Just alone And drowsy-hearted.
Migration
The dawn is dizzy with birds: Summer’s last handful scattered wide, Summer’s last pennies sung aside!
Jingle of birds in the dawn: Hedges and bushes in beggared need, Lifting brown hands with a desolate greed!
Spendthrift content in the dawn: Squandered uncounted across the sky, But into no purse will these winged coins fly!
The dawn is a resolute path Of irresolute flight and dim half-tunes-- But I am a miser of hoarded Junes!
The dawn is dizzy with birds.
Sand-pipings
_GULLS_
Strong wings in the stormy weather-- Gray stitches that hold The raveling fabrics of sea and sky Forever together!
_STORM’S END_
As if engraved upon the dawn, The sleek gulls stand Along the rim of an exhausted sea That rumbles up the sand.
Amazing birds, untired and trim of wing, Whose round unflinching eyes Meet like a challenge the leaden-lidded sun About to rise.
_FOR A SPRING DAY_
Here is no bud, no blade, No young green thing; This stark earth knows a meager spring.
Gulls are the only birds, And thin their cries, Bleak winter in their frosty eyes.
Somewhere, are fields and boughs, A hill, a brook; I would not lift my head to look
From this wind-shapen dune, This stern still place, This sea that stares me in the face,
This unimpeded sun!-- And for my hand, The fine unfecund yellow sand!
King’s Garden
Who was the royal Ming That bade his tinkling musicians play All through a wide and windy day Of spring To the royal flowers?
--Bliss Of tall iris, Discreet applause Of cherry and almond boughs Along the ledges Of sun-lacquered hours; Pursed lily-pods Out-lipping one by one, And sudden hush Amid the lush Green sedges!--
There walked the king Beneath the quivering Leaves, The weary players bidden Play on and on, With slight, imperial nods; And in his satin sleeves His hands, omniscient, hidden, As are the hands of gods.
Abrigada
I had been told A foolish tale: Of stone, dank, cold. But you, Erect to winter storm, To clutch of frosty-fingered gale, Are warm.
I thought that stone was silent too, Unmoved by beauty, Unaware of season or of mirth, (Stern sister of quiet earth), But I hear laughter, singing, as I lay My face against your gray Surely I hear a rhythm of near waves And sense the leaping spray, Mixed with wild-rose and honeysuckle, Budding sassafras, And the cool breath of pungent leafy bay?
I knew that walls were sheltering And strong, But you have sheltered love so long That love is part Of your straight towering, Lifting you straighter still, As heart lifts heart--
Hush-- How the Whip-poor-will Wails from his bush, The thrush Is garrulous with delight, There is a rapture in that liquid monotone: “Bob-White! Bob-_White_!” (Dear living stone!)
* * *
In the great room below, Where arches hold the listening spaces, Flames crackle, toss and gleam In the red fire-places; Memories dream-- Of other memories, perhaps, Of other lives; Of births And of re-births that men deem death; Of voices, foot-steps tapping the stone floor, And faces--faces--
Beyond, the open door, The meadow drowsy with the moon, The mild outline of dune, The lake, the silver magic in the trees: Walls, you are one with these.
* * *
Up on the loggia-roof, Under stars pale as they, Two silent ones have crept away, Seeking the deeper silence lovers know; Into the drifting shadows of the night, Into the aching beauty of the night They dare to go.
The moon Is a vast cocoon, Spinning her wild white thread Across the sky; A thousand crickets croon Their sharp-edged lullaby; I hear a murmuring of lips on lips: “All that I am, beloved-- All--” (Lovers’ eternal cry!) Hold them still closer, wall!
* * *
You stand serene. The salt winds linger, lean Upon your breast; The mist Lifts up a gray face to be kissed; The east and west Hang you with banners, Flaunt their brief victories of dusk and dawn; Seasons salute you as they pass, Call to you and are gone. Amid your meadow-grass, Lush, green, You stand serene.
* * *
Houses are like the hearts of men, I think; They must have life within, (This is their meat and drink), They must have fires and friends and kin, Love for the day and night, Children in strong young laps: Then they live--then! Houses and hearts of men, Joyful and woeful, Haunted perhaps;
Loving, forgetting, Loved and forgot, Fading at last, to die, Crumble and rot:
But they who know you, Abrigada, They and I Forget you not.
* * *
Nor they who stand On Abrigada’s roof, (Red-tiled, aloof), Who climb as I climb now, Withdrawn from reach of hand, From call of crowd, Looking down on distance, dune and bough, And looking up on distance, cloud and cloud.
Only not looking back! For it is well finally to forget The thirst, the much-lipped cup, The plethora, the piteous lack, The broken things, the stains, the scars--
Well to look up and up: To dream undaunted dreams aloud And stumble toward the stars!
* * *
_This be in praise Of Abrigada, In all the ways That come to me Through the mild midsummer days._
_In speech; In rhyme and rhythm of written word-- Name it a poem, maybe!_
_In song: Tuck the brown shining wood under my chin-- My bird, My heart, My violin!_
_In dream; In prayer; In silence, best of all, Leaning there On the beloved wall._
_In silence like a cry, Ardent and high; A note of Abrigada’s silence Sung to a quiet sky._