[Illustration]
THE POEMS AND PROSE
SKETCHES OF
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ARMAZINDY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S
SONS NEW YORK 1917
Copyright, 1894, 1898, by
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
⁂ _The publication of this volume in the Homestead Edition
of the works of James Whitcomb Riley is made possible by
the courtesy of The Bowen-Merrill Company, of Indianapolis,
the original publishers of Mr. Riley’s books._
TO HENRY EITEL
CONTENTS
PAGE
ARMAZINDY
ARMAZINDY 3
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 15
NATURAL PERVERSITIES 17
THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 20
WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 22
THE BLIND GIRL 25
WE DEFER THINGS 28
THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 29
FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 31
A POOR MAN’S WEALTH 32
THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 34
“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?” 35
A GOOD-BYE 37
WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED 38
“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD” 40
TO A POET-CRITIC 41
AN OLD-TIMER 42
THE SILENT VICTORS 44
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 51
THREE SINGING FRIENDS 56
A NOON LULL 59
A WINDY DAY 60
MY HENRY 62
THE SONG I NEVER SING 64
TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 67
LITTLE DAVID 68
OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 69
RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 71
SERENADE—TO NORA 72
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE 74
WHAT REDRESS 76
DREAMER, SAY 77
WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ 79
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 81
“RINGWORM FRANK” 85
AN EMPTY GLOVE 87
OUR OWN 89
MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY
_The Frog_ 93
“TWIGGS AND TUDENS” 95
DOLORES 113
WHEN I DO MOCK 114
MY MARY 115
_Eros_ 118
ORLIE WILDE 119
LEONAINIE 128
TO A JILTED SWAIN 130
THE VOICES 131
_A Barefoot Boy_ 134
THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 135
PONCHUS PILUT 136
A TWINTORETTE 139
SLUMBER-SONG 140
THE CIRCUS PARADE 141
FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE 143
THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 144
THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 146
CHARMS 148
A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 150
THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 151
THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW 153
THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 154
THE TOY PENNY-DOG 156
JARGON-JINGLE 157
THE GREAT EXPLORER 158
THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE 159
ALBUMANIA 162
THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 165
SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME 168
HOME-MADE RIDDLES 169
THE LOVELY CHILD 171
THE YELLOWBIRD 172
ENVOY 173
ARMAZINDY
ARMAZINDY
Armazindy;—fambily name
_Ballenger_,—you’ll find the same,
As her Daddy answered it,
In the old War-rickords yit,—
And, like him, she’s airnt the good
Will o’ all the neighborhood.—
Name ain’t down in _History_,—
But, i jucks! it _ort_ to be!
Folks is got respec’ fer _her_—
Armazindy Ballenger!—
’Specially the ones ’at knows
Fac’s o’ how her story goes
From the start:—Her father blowed
Up—eternally furloughed—
When the old “Sultana” bu’st,
And sich men wuz needed wusst.—
Armazindy, ’bout fourteen-
Year-old then—and thin and lean
As a killdee,—but—_my la!_—
Blamedest nerve you ever saw!
The girl’s mother’d _allus_ be’n
Sickly—wuz consumpted when
Word came ’bout her husband.—So
Folks perdicted _she’d_ soon go—
(Kind o’ grief _I_ understand,
Losin’ _my_ companion,—and
Still a widower—and still
Hinted at, like neighbers will!)
So, app’inted, as folks said,
Ballenger a-bein’ dead,
Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully,
Jes grieved after him tel _she_
Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,—
And in Armazindy’s keer
Leavin’ the two twins, as well
As her pore old miz’able
Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n
Struck with palsy, and wuz then
Jes a he’pless charge on _her_—
_Armazindy Ballenger_.
Jevver watch a primrose ’bout
Minute ’fore it blossoms out—
Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow
Up its muscles, don’t you know,
And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom
Out life-size?—Well, I persume
’At’s the only measure I
_Kin_ size Armazindy by!—
Jes a _child_, _one_ minute,—nex’,
_Woman-grown_, in all respec’s
And intents and purposuz—
’At’s what Armazindy wuz!
Jes a _child_, I tell ye! Yit
She made things git up and git
Round that little farm o’ hern!—
Shouldered all the whole concern;—
Feed the stock, and milk the cows—
Run the _farm_ and run the _house_!—
_Only_ thing she didn’t do
Wuz to plough and harvest too—
But the house and childern took
Lots o’ keer—and had to look
After her old fittified
Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried,
Seein’ Armazindy smile,
’Peared-like, sweeter all the while!
And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:—
“Jes afore Pap marched away,
He says, ‘I depend on _you_,
Armazindy, come what may—
You must be a Soldier, too!’”
Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come—
And she’d _let_ ’em help her _some_,—
“Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!”
But no charity fer _her_!—
“_She_ could raise the means to pay
Fer her farm-hands ever’ day
Sich wuz needed!”—And she _could_—
In cash-money jes as good
As farm-produc’s ever brung
Their perducer, _old_ er young!
So folks humored her and smiled,
And at last wuz rickonciled
Fer to let her have her own
Way about it.—But a-goin’
Past to town, they’d stop and see
“Armazindy’s fambily,”
As they’d allus laugh and say,
And look sorry right away,
Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how
He’d indorse his “Soldier” now!
’Course _she_ couldn’t never be
Much in _young-folks’_ company—
Plenty of _in_-vites to go,
But das’t leave the house, you know—
’Less’n _Sund’ys_ sometimes, when
Some old _Granny_’d come and ’ten’
Things, while Armazindy _has_
Got away fer Church er “Class.”
Most the youngsters _liked_ her—and
’Twuzn’t hard to understand,—
Fer, by time she wuz sixteen,
Purtier girl you never seen—
’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner
Couldn’t rag out stylisher—
Like some _neighber_-girls, ner thumb
On their blame’ melodium,
Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed
Round the old back-porch and washed
Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed
Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!
—And jes sich a girl wuz Jule
Reddinhouse.—_She’d_ be’n to school
At _New Thessaly_, i gum!—
Fool before, but that he’pped _some_—
’Stablished-like more confidence
’At she _never_ had no sense.
But she wuz a cunnin’, sly,
Meek and lowly sort o’ lie,
’At men-folks like me and you
B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.—
Jes as purty as a snake,
And as _pizen_—mercy sake!
Well, about them times it wuz,
Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us;
And we sent him over to
Armazindy’s place to do
_Her_ work fer her.—And-sir! Well—
Mighty little else to tell,—
Sol he fell in love with her—
Armazindy Ballenger!
Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love
’At I’ve ever yit knowed of,
That-air case o’ theirn beat all!
W’y, she _worshipped_ him!—And Sol,
’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod
(Sayin’ is) where that girl trod!
Went to town, she did, and bought
Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought
Mighty strange fer _her_ to buy,—
Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!—
Cut long in the skyrt,—also
Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know;
And lace collar;—yes, and fine
Stylish hat, with ivy-vine
And red ribbons, and these-’ere
Artificial flowers and queer
Little beads and spangles, and
Oysturch-feathers round the band!
Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while—
Kindo’ went to Church in style,
Sol and Armazindy!—Tel
It was noised round purty well
They wuz _promised_.—And they wuz—
Sich news travels—well it does!—
Pity ’at _that_ did!—Fer jes
That-air fac’ and nothin’ less
Must ’a’ putt it in the mind
O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find
Out some dratted way to hatch
Out _some_ plan to break the match—
’Cause she _done_ it!—_How?_ they’s none
Knows adzac’ly _what_ she done;
_Some_ claims she writ letters to
Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View
Somers—and described, you see,
“Armazindy’s fambily”—
Hintin’ “ef Sol married _her_,
He’d jes be pervidin’ fer
Them-air twins o’ hern, and old
Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold
Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near
Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’,
And still likely, ’pearantly,
To live out the century!”
Well—whatever plan Jule laid
Out to reach the p’int she made,
It wuz _desper’t_.—And she won,
Finully, by marryun
Sol herse’f—_e-lopin’_, too,
With him, like she _had_ to do,—
’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore
“Jule should never marry pore!”
This-here part the story I
Allus haf to hurry by,—
Way ’at Armazindy jes
Drapped back in her linsey dress,
And grabbed holt her loom, and shet
Her jaws square.—And ef she fret
Any ’bout it—never ’peared
Sign ’at _neighbers_ seed er heerd;—
Most folks liked her all the more—
I know _I_ did—certain-shore!—
(’Course _I’d_ knowed her _Pap_, and what
_Stock_ she come of.—Yes, and thought,
And think _yit_, no man on earth
’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)
As fer Jule and Sol, they had
Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!—
Her folks let her go.—They said,
“Spite o’ them she’d made her bed
And must sleep in it!”—But she,
’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free
As she ust to—ner so _late_,
Ner so _fine_, I’m here to state!—
Sol wuz pore, of course, and she
Wuzn’t ust to poverty—
Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes
’Filiate with lonesomeness,—
’Cause Sol _he_ wuz off and out
With his th’asher nigh about
Half the time; er, season done,
He’d be off mi-anderun
Round the country, here and there,
Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air
Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit
Jule a bit!—and then, to boot,
_She_ had now the keer o’ two
Her own childern—and to do
Her own work and cookin’—yes,
And sometimes fer _hands_, I guess,
Well as fambily of her own.—
Cut her pride clean to the bone!
So how _could_ the whole thing end?—
She set down, one night, and penned
A short note, like—’at she sewed
On the childern’s blanket—blowed
Out the candle—pulled the door
To close after her—and, shore-
Footed as a cat is, clumb
In a rigg there and left home,
With a man a-drivin’ who
“Loved her ever fond and true,”
As her note went on to say,
When Sol read the thing next day.
Raally didn’t ’pear to be
Extry waste o’ sympathy
Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit,
Sake o’ them-air little bit
O’ two _orphants_—as you might
Call ’em _then_, by law and right,—
Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and
Tried to hold him out their hand
Same as allus: But he’d flinch—
Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch,
He let _all_ holts go; and so
Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,—
Tel, to make a long tale short,
He wuz fuller than he ort
To ’a’ be’n, at work one day
’Bout his th’asher, and give way,
Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched
In the beltin’.
... Rid and fetched
Armazindy to him.—He
Begged me to.—But time ’at she
Reached his side, he smiled and _tried_
To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died....
Hands all turned and left her there
And went somers else—_some_where.
Last, she called us back—in clear
Voice as man’ll ever hear—
Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me,
As her old Pap’s ust to be.—
Give us orders what to do
’Bout the body—he’pped us, too.
So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed
In Armazindy’s hands at last.
More’n that, she claimed ’at she
Had consent from him to be
Mother to his childern—now
’Thout no parents anyhow.
_Yes-sir!_ and she’s _got_ ’em, too,—
Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do—
So they let her have _her way_—
Like she’s doin’ yit to-day!
Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her—
Armazindy Ballenger—
To in-large her fambily
Jes _one_ more by takin’ _me_—
Which I’m feared she never will,
Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED
O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!
O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.
O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of
love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories my memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head
Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.
NATURAL PERVERSITIES
I am not prone to moralize
In scientific doubt
On certain facts that Nature tries
To puzzle us about,—
For I am no philosopher
Of wise elucidation,
But speak of things as they occur,
From simple observation.
I notice _little_ things—to wit:—
I never missed a train
Because I didn’t _run_ for it;
I never knew it rain
That my umbrella wasn’t lent,—
Or, when in my possession,
The sun but wore, to all intent,
A jocular expression.
I never knew a creditor
To dun me for a debt
But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or
I never knew one yet,
When I had plenty in my purse,
To make the least invasion,—
As I, accordingly perverse,
Have courted no occasion.
Nor do I claim to comprehend
What Nature has in view
In giving us the very friend
To trust we oughtn’t to.—
But so it is: The trusty gun
Disastrously exploded
Is always sure to be the one
We didn’t think was loaded.
Our moaning is another’s mirth,—
And what is worse by half,
We say the funniest thing on earth
And never raise a laugh:
’Mid friends that love us overwell,
And sparkling jests and liquor,
Our hearts somehow are liable
To melt in tears the quicker.
We reach the wrong when most we seek
The right; in like effect,
We stay the strong and not the weak—
Do most when we neglect.—
Neglected genius—truth be said—
As wild and quick as tinder,
The more you seek to help ahead
The more you seem to hinder.
I’ve known the least the greatest, too—
And, on the selfsame plan,
The biggest fool I ever knew
Was quite a little man:
We find we ought, and then we won’t—
We prove a thing, then doubt it,—
Know _everything_ but when we don’t
Know _anything_ about it.
THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM
He puts the poem by, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day!
A sudden glamour o’er his sight—
A something vague, indefinite—
An oft-recurring blur that blinds
The printed meaning of the lines,
And leaves the mind all dusk and dim
In swimming darkness—strange to him!
It is not childishness, I guess,—
Yet something of the tenderness
That used to wet his lashes when
A boy seems troubling him again;—
The old emotion, sweet and wild,
That drove him truant when a child,
That he might hide the tears that fell
Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”
And so it is he puts aside
The poem he has vainly tried
To follow; and, as one who sighs
In failure, through a poor disguise
Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say
His eyes are not themselves to-day.
WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS
My dear old friends—It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So’s ever’ _last_ line beats the _first_,
And ever’ _next_-un’s better!—
W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
You make so inte_rest_in’,
A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
Can’t tell which is the _best_-un.
It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
’Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw’s begun
And country couples marries.
It’s all so good-old-fashioned like
To _talk_ jes like we’re _thinkin’_,
Without no hidin’ back o’ fans
And giggle-un and winkin’,
Ner sizin’ how each other’s dressed—
Like some is allus doin’,—
“_Is_ Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n _turned_
Er shore-enough a new-un!”—
Er “ef Steve’s city-friend hain’t jes
‘A _lee_tle kindo’-sorto’”—
Er “wears them-air blame’ eye-glasses
Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”—
And so straight on, _dad-libitum_,
Tel all of us feels, _some_way,
Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best
When we git up to come ’way!
That’s why I like _old_ friends like _you_,—
Jes ’cause you’re so _abidin’_.—
Ef I wuz built to live “_fer keeps_,”
My principul residin’
Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’
Me allus _thinkin’_ of ’em,
And sorto’ eechin’ all the time
To tell ’em how I love ’em.—
Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn’t live without ’em,
Er couldn’t even drap asleep
But what I _dreamp’_ about ’em,—
And ef we minded God, I guess
We’d _all_ love one another
Jes like one famb’ly,—me and Pap
And Madaline and Mother.
THE BLIND GIRL
If I might see his face to-day!—
He is so happy now!—To hear
His laugh is like a roundelay—
So ringing-sweet and clear!
His step—I heard it long before
He bounded through the open door
To tell his marriage.—Ah! so kind—
So good he is!—And I—so blind!
But thus he always came to me—
Me, first of all, he used to bring
His sorrow to—his ecstasy—
His hopes and everything;
And if I joyed with him or wept,
It was not long _the music_ slept,—
And if he sung, or if I played—
Or both,—we were the braver made.
I grew to know and understand
His every word at every call,—
The gate-latch hinted, and his hand
In mine confessed it all:
He need not speak one word to me—
He need not sigh—I need not see,—
But just the one touch of his palm,
And I would answer—song or psalm.
He wanted recognition—name—
He hungered so for higher things,—
The altitudes of power and fame,
And all that fortune brings:
Till, with his great heart fevered thus,
And aching as impetuous,
I almost wished sometimes that _he_
Were blind and patient made, like me.
But he has won!—I knew he would.—
Once in the mighty Eastern mart,
I knew his music only could
Be sung in every heart!
And when he proudly sent me this
From out the great metropolis,
I bent above the graven score
And, weeping, kissed it o’er and o’er.—
And yet not blither sing the birds
Than this glad melody,—the tune
As sweetly wedded with the words
As flowers with middle-June;
Had he not _told_ me, I had known
It was composed of love alone—
His love for _her_.—And she can see
His happy face eternally!—
While _I_—O God, forgive, I pray!—
Forgive me that I did so long
To look upon his face to-day!—
I know the wish was wrong.—
Yea, I am thankful that my sight
Is shielded safe from such delight:—
I can pray better, with this blur
Of blindness—both for him and her.
WE DEFER THINGS
We say and we say and we say,
We promise, engage and declare,
Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday,
And yesterday is—Where?
THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY
The Muskingum Valley!—How longin’ the gaze
A feller throws back on its long summer days,
When the smiles of its blossoms and _my_ smiles wuz one-
And-the-same, from the rise to the set o’ the sun:
Wher’ the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to noon,
And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune,
And the hours glided past as the bubbles ’ud glide,
All so loaferin’-like, ’long the path o’ the tide.
In the Muskingum Valley—it ’peared-like the skies
Looked lovin’ on me as my own mother’s eyes,
While the laughin’-sad song of the stream seemed to be
Like a lullaby angels was wastin’ on me—
Tel, swimmin’ the air, like the gossamer’s thread,
’Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead,
My thoughts went astray in that so-to-speak realm
Wher’ Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them.
In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away,
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day—
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees—
Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.—
That the grass is all hid ’long the side of the road
Wher’ the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed—
And I feel in my life the same changes is there,—
The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair.
But, Muskingum Valley! my memory sees
Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees—
Not the froze’-over gorge, but the current, as clear
And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here;
Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow,
But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago
When my little bare feet wundered down wher’ the stream
In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream.
FOR THIS CHRISTMAS
Ye old-time stave that pealeth out
To Christmas revellers all,
At tavern-tap and wassail-bout,
And in ye banquet-hall.—
Whiles ye old burden rings again,
Add yet ye verse, as due:
“_God bless you, merry gentlemen_”—
_And gentlewomen, too!_
A POOR MAN’S WEALTH
A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
No foot of fat or fallow land
Where rightfully my feet may stand
The while I claim it as my own—
By deed and title, mine alone.
Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say—
But spare me your compassion, pray!—
When I ride not—with you—I walk
In Nature’s company, and talk
With one who will not slight or slur
The child forever dear to her—
And one who answers back, be sure,
With smile for smile, though I am poor.
And while communing thus, I count
An inner wealth of large amount,—
The wealth of honest purpose blent
With Penury’s environment,—
The wealth of owing naught to-day
But debts that I would gladly pay,
With wealth of thanks still unexpressed
With cumulative interest.—
A wealth of patience and content—
For all my ways improvident;
A faith still fondly exercised—
For all my plans unrealized;
A wealth of promises that still,
Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill;
A wealth of charity for those
Who pity me my ragged clothes.
A poor man? Yes, I must confess—
No wealth of gold do I possess;
No pastures fine, with grazing kine,
Nor fields of waving grain are mine;
But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end!
For millionaires might condescend
To bend the knee and envy me
This opulence of poverty.
THE LITTLE RED RIBBON
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes—
And never a blossom in all of the land
As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!
The long winter months, and the glare of the snows;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!
Dreams only are true; but they fade and are gone—
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn;
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose
_Mine_ only; _hers_ only the dream and repose.
I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears,
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years,
Moaning over the one only song that it knows,—
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!
“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?”
“How did you rest, last night?”—
I’ve heard my gran’pap say
Them words a thousand times—that’s right—
Jes them words thataway!
As punctchul-like as morning dast
To ever heave in sight
Gran’pap ’ud allus haf to ast—
“How did you rest, last night?”
Us young-uns used to grin,
At breakfast, on the sly,
And mock the wobble of his chin
And eyebrows helt so high
And kind: “_How did you rest, last night?_”
We’d mumble and let on
Our voices trimbled, and our sight
Wuz dim, and hearin’ gone.
...
Bad as I ust to be,
All I’m a-wantin’ is
As puore and ca’m a sleep fer me
And sweet a sleep as his!
And so I pray, on Jedgment Day
To wake, and with its light
See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say—
“How did you rest, last night?”
A GOOD-BYE
“Good-bye, my friend!”
He takes her hand—
The pressures blend:
They understand
But vaguely why, with drooping eye,
Each moans—“Good-bye!—Good-bye!”
“Dear friend, good-bye!”
O she could smile
If she might cry
A little while!—
She says, “I _ought_ to smile—but I—
Forgive me—_There!_—Good-bye!”
“‘Good-bye?’ Ah, no:
I hate,” says he,
“These ‘good-byes’ so!”
“And _I_,” says she,
“Detest them so—why, I should _die_
Were this a _real_ ‘good-bye!’”
WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED
When Maimie married Charley Brown,
Joy took possession of the town;
The young folks swarmed in happy throngs—
They rang the bells—they carolled songs—
They carpeted the steps that led
Into the church where they were wed;
And up and down the altar-stair
They scattered roses everywhere;
When, in her orange-blossom crown,
Queen Maimie married Charley Brown.
So beautiful she was, it seemed
Men, looking on her, dreamed they dreamed;
And he, the holy man who took
Her hand in his, so thrilled and shook.
The gargoyles round the ceiling’s rim
Looked down and leered and grinned at him,
Until he half forgot his part
Of sanctity, and felt his heart
Beat worldward through his sacred gown—
When Maimie married Charley Brown.
The bridesmaids kissed her, left and right—
Fond mothers hugged her with delight—
Young men of twenty-seven were seen
To blush like lads of seventeen,
The while they held her hand to quote
Such sentiments as poets wrote.—
Yea, all the heads that Homage bends
Were bowed to her.—But O my friends,
_My_ hopes went up—_my_ heart went down—
When Maimie married—_Charley Brown!_
“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD”
I
This woman, with the dear child-heart,
Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what?
With faith as artless as her Art,
I question not,—
But dare divine, and feel, and know
Her blessedness—as hath been writ
In allegory.—Even so
I fashion it:—
II
A stately figure, rapt and awed
In her new guise of Angelhood,
Still lingered, wistful—knowing God
Was very good.—
Her thought’s fine whisper filled the pause;
And, listening, the Master smiled,
And lo! the stately angel was
—A little child.
TO A POET-CRITIC
Yes,—the bee sings—I confess it—
Sweet as honey—Heaven bless it!—
Yit he’d be a _sweeter_ singer
Ef he didn’t have no stinger.
AN OLD-TIMER
Here where the wayward stream
Is restful as a dream,
And where the banks o’erlook
A pool from out whose deeps
My pleased face upward peeps,
I cast my hook.
Silence and sunshine blent!—
A Sabbath-like content
Of wood and wave;—a free-
Hand landscape grandly wrought
Of Summer’s brightest thought
And mastery.—
For here form, light and shade,
And color—all are laid
With skill so rarely fine,
The eye may even see
The ripple tremblingly
Lip at the line.
I mark the dragon-fly
Flit waveringly by
In ever-veering flight,
Till, in a hush profound,
I see him eddy round
The “cork,” and—’light!
Ho! with the boy’s faith then
Brimming my heart again,
And knowing, soon or late,
The “nibble” yet shall roll
Its thrills along the pole,
I—breathless—wait.
THE SILENT VICTORS
MAY 30, 1878
_“Dying for victory, cheer on cheer_
_Thundered on his eager ear.”_
CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN.
I
Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation’s heart
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away,
Who in grim Battle’s drama played their part,
And slumber here to-day.—
Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath
As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line
And marched upon their death:
When Freedom’s Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed,
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again
To shudder in the storm of battle-field—
The elements of men,—
When every star that glittered was a mark
For Treason’s ball, and every rippling bar
Of red and white was sullied with the dark
And purple stain of war:
When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey,
Were howling o’er their gory feast of lives,
And sending dismal echoes far away
To mothers, maids, and wives:—
The mother, kneeling in the empty night,
With pleading hands uplifted for the son
Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight—
The victory had won:
The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say
The babe was waiting for the sire’s caress—
The letter meeting that upon the way,—
The babe was fatherless:
The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed
Against the brow once dewy with her breath,
Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed
Save by the dews of death.
II
What meed of tribute can the poet pay
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine
Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day
In epitaph design?—
Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows
That ache no longer with a dream of fame,
But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house,
Renown’d beyond the name.
The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall,
And tender morning with her shining hand
May brush them from the grasses green and tall
That undulate the land.—
Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift,
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap,
Can yield us hope the Hero’s head to lift
Out of its dreamless sleep:
The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies
A stirring echo through each patriot breast,
Can never coax to life the folded eyes
That saw its wrongs redressed—
That watched it waver when the fight was hot,
And blazed with newer courage to its aid,
Regardless of the shower of shell and shot
Through which the charge was made;—
And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings,
Like some proud bird in stormy element,
And soar untrammelled on its wanderings,
They closed in death, content.
III
O mother, you who miss the smiling face
Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight,
And left you weeping o’er the vacant place
He used to fill at night,—
Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns
That drowned the farewell words you tried to say
To incoherent ones;—
Be glad and proud you had the life to give—
Be comforted through all the years to come,—
Your country has a longer life to live,
Your son a better home.
O widow, weeping o’er the orphaned child,
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send
A keener pang to grief unreconciled,—
Teach him to comprehend
He had a father brave enough to stand
Before the fire of Treason’s blazing gun,
That, dying, he might will the rich old land
Of Freedom to his son.
And, maiden, living on through lonely years
In fealty to love’s enduring ties,—
With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears
That gather in your eyes,
Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer,
Submission to the will of Heaven’s High Host:—
I see your Angel-soldier pacing there,
Expectant at his post.—
I see the rank and file of armies vast,
That muster under one supreme control;
I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast—
The calling of the roll—
The grand divisions falling into line
And forming, under voice of One alone,
Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine
The hymn that shakes the Throne.
IV
And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom
And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best,
In silence o’er the tomb.
With reverent hands we twine the Hero’s wreath
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone
That stands the sentinel for each beneath
Whose glory is our own.
While in the violet that greets the sun,
We see the azure eye of some lost boy;
And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one
We kissed in childish joy,—
Recalling, haply, when he marched away,
He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.—
The kiss he gave his mother’s brow that day
Is there and burning yet:
And through the storm of grief around her tossed,
One ray of saddest comfort she may see,—
Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost
To weeping Liberty.
...
But draw aside the drapery of gloom,
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away
And gild with brighter glory every tomb
We decorate to-day:
And in the holy silence reigning round,
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere,
Where loyal souls of love and faith are found,
Thank God that Peace is here!
And let each angry impulse that may start,
Be smothered out of every loyal breast;
And, rocked within the cradle of the heart,
Let every sorrow rest.
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
Up and down old Brandywine,
In the days ’at’s past and gone—
With a dad-burn hook-and-line
And a saplin’-pole—i swawn!
I’ve had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever _any_where!
Heaven to come can’t discount _mine_,
Up and down old Brandywine!
Hain’t no sense in _wishin’_—yit
Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes
“Gee” the blame’ world round and git
Back to that old happiness!—
Kindo’ drive back in the shade
“The old Covered Bridge” there laid
’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!
Honest, now!—it hain’t no _dream_
’At I’m wantin’,—but _the fac’s_
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!—
Gimme back my bare feet—and
Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!—
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!
In and on betwixt the trees
’Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo’ curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer’s tune;
And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
O’ the turnpike at its wusst—
_Saturd’ys_, say, when it seems
Road’s jes jammed with country teams!
Whilse the old town, fur away
’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
Peaceful’ as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar
With yer blame’ percession-line—
Up and down old Brandywine!
Souse me and my new straw hat
Off the foot-log!—what _I_ care?—
Fist shoved in the crown o’ that—
Like the old Clown ust to wear.—
Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!—
Keep yer _King_ ef you’ll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!
Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal
My best “goggle-eye!”—but you
Can’t lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin’ like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my “cork” and saggin’ line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
There the logs is, round the hill,
Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dewfall—’fore he’d leave “The Drift”
And give _us_ a chance—and then
Kindo’ fish back home again,
Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right
Where _we_ hadn’t got “a bite”!
Er, ’way windin’ out and in,—
Old path th’ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin—
Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds
And cattails, smack into where
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
Us clean ’crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
But the dim roar o’ the dam
It ’ud coax us furder still
To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m,
Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill—
Where, I ’spect, “the Freeport crowd”
Never _warmed_ to us er ’lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.
Still it ’peared-like ever’thing—
Fur away from home as _there_—
Had more _relish_-like, i jing!—
Fish in stream, er bird in air!
O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden’s School-house stands!
Wortermelons!—_master-mine!_
Up and down old Brandywine!
And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o’ raw
Gold and green,—jes oozy th’ough
With ripe yallar—like you’ve saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes _gorges_ o’ wild plums
Till a feller’d suck his thumbs
Clean up to his elbows! _My!_—
_Me some more er lem me die!_
Up and down old Brandywine!...
Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—
Flick me with a pizen-vine
And yell “_Yip!_” and lem me loose!
—Old now as I then wuz young,
’F I could sing as I _have_ sung,
Song ’ud shorely ring _dee-vine_
Up and down old Brandywine!
THREE SINGING FRIENDS
I
LEE O. HARRIS
Schoolmaster and Songmaster! Memory
Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy
Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high
Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy.
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee,
Throughout all seasons of the years gone by,
With all enduring joys ’twixt earth and sky—
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me.
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on,
Is endless inspiration, fresh and free
As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine;
And musical as then, at dewy dawn,
The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly
Our one path wandered under wood and vine.
II
BENJAMIN S. PARKER
Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light
And shadow mystical as some dreamland
Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand
With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright
With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night
Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned
By odorous midsummer breezes and
Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite.
This is thy voiced beatific art—
To make melodious all things below,
Calling through them, from far, diviner space,
Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart
Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so
Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.
III
JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS
Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide,
With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways;
Its isolated farms, with roundelays
Of orchard warblers heard on every side;
Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide
Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze
First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise
Of that, didst find thine own song glorified.
So singing, smite the strings and counterchange
The lucently melodious drippings of
Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,”
To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range,
In praise of our To-day and home and love—
Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.
A NOON LULL
’Possum in de ’tater-patch;
Chicken-hawk a-hangin’
Stiddy ’bove de stable-lot,
An’ cyarpet-loom a-bangin’!
Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin’ yo’ terbacker,
Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker!
Niggah in de roas’in’-yeers,
Whiskers in de shuckin’;
Weasel croppin’ mighty shy,
But ole hen a-cluckin’!
—What’s got de matter er de mule-colt now?
Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin’ f’um de cow!
A WINDY DAY
The dawn was a dawn of splendor,
And the blue of the morning skies
Was as placid and deep and tender
As the blue of a baby’s eyes;
The sunshine flooded the mountain,
And flashed over land and sea
Like the spray of a glittering fountain.—
But the wind—the wind—Ah me!
Like a weird invisible spirit,
It swooped in its airy flight;
And the earth, as the stress drew near it,
Quailed as in mute affright;
The grass in the green fields quivered—
The waves of the smitten brook
Chillily shuddered and shivered,
And the reeds bowed down and shook.
Like a sorrowful miserere
It sobbed, and it blew and blew,
Till the leaves on the trees looked weary,
And my prayers were weary, too;
And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer
That failed in the awful strain,
All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer
In a spatter of spiteful rain.
MY HENRY
He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’
Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’-
Like, and ruther still-appearin’—
Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’
Whether school helt out er not—
That’s my Henry, to a dot!
Allus kindo’ liked him—whether
Childern, er growed-up together!
Fifteen year’ ago and better,
’Fore he ever knowed a letter,
Run acrosst the little fool
In my Primer-class at school.
When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’,
He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’
Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n
Likely, on the stove; er borin’
Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—
Nothin’ _that_ boy wouldn’t resk!
But, somehow, as I was goin’
On to say, he seemed so knowin’,
_Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin’—
Allus wuz a notion runnin’
Thue my giddy, fool-head he
Jes had be’n cut out fer me!
Don’t go much on _prophesyin’_,
But last night whilse I wuz fryin’
Supper, with that man a-pitchin’
Little Marthy round the kitchen,
Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes
Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”
THE SONG I NEVER SING
As when in dreams we sometimes hear
A melody so faint and fine
And musically sweet and clear,
It flavors all the atmosphere
With harmony divine,—
So, often in my waking dreams,
I hear a melody that seems
Like fairy voices whispering
To me the song I never sing.
Sometimes when brooding o’er the years
My lavish youth has thrown away—
When all the glowing past appears
But as a mirage that my tears
Have crumbled to decay,—
I thrill to find the ache and pain
Of my remorse is stilled again,
As, forward bent and listening,
I hear the song I never sing.
A murmuring of rhythmic words,
Adrift on tunes whose currents flow
Melodious with the trill of birds,
And far-off lowing of the herds
In lands of long ago;
And every sound the truant loves
Comes to me like the coo of doves
When first in blooming fields of Spring
I heard the song I never sing.
The echoes of old voices, wound
In limpid streams of laughter where
The river Time runs bubble-crowned,
And giddy eddies ripple round
The lilies growing there;
Where roses, bending o’er the brink,
Drain their own kisses as they drink,
And ivies climb and twine and cling
About the song I never sing.
An ocean-surge of sound that falls
As though a tide of heavenly art
Had tempested the gleaming halls
And crested o’er the golden walls
In showers on my heart....
Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes
Uplifted toward the alien skies,
Forgetting every earthly thing,
I hear the song I never sing.
O nameless lay, sing clear and strong,
Pour down thy melody divine
Till purifying floods of song
Have washed away the stains of wrong
That dim this soul of mine!
O woo me near and nearer thee,
Till my glad lips may catch the key,
And, with a voice unwavering,
Join in the song I never sing.
TO EDGAR WILSON NYE
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship
What liberty is mine—what sweet release
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase
Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease
To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip
Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret
Of all distress is stilled—no syllable
Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet
My teeming lids save those that leap to tell
Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet
Only because thou jokest overwell.
LITTLE DAVID
The mother of the little boy that sleeps
Has blest assurance, even as she weeps:
She knows her little boy has now no pain—
No further ache, in body, heart or brain;
All sorrow is lulled for him—all distress
Passed into utter peace and restfulness.—
All health that heretofore has been denied—
All happiness, all hope, and all beside
Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps
In voiceless joy—the little boy that sleeps.
OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
The land that the Lord’s love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
And the smiles that greet him along the streets:
Where the mother that left you years ago
Will lift the hands that were folded so,
And put them about you, with all the love
And tenderness you are dreaming of.
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
Will laugh again as he used to do,
Running to meet you, with such a face
As lights like a moon the wondrous place
Where God is living, and glad to live,
Since He is the Master and may forgive.
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON!—
Stay the hopes we are leaning on—
You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
Looking down from the far-away skies,—
Smile upon us, and reach and take
Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.—
And so Amen,—for our all seems gone
Out of the hitherwhere into the YON.
RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES
Rabbit in the cross-ties.—
Punch him out—quick!
Git a twister on him
With a long prong stick.
Watch him on the south side—
Watch him on the—Hi!—
There he goes! Sic him, Tige!
Yi! Yi!! Yi!!!
SERENADE—TO NORA
The moonlight is failin’—
The sad stars are palin’—
The black wings av night are a-dhroopin’ an’ trailin’;
The wind’s miserere
Sounds lonesome an’ dreary;
The katydid’s dumb an’ the nightingale’s weary.
Troth, Nora! I’m wadin’
The grass an’ paradin’
The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenadin’,
Alone and forsaken,
Whilst you’re never wakin’
To tell me you’re wid me an’ I am mistaken!
Don’t think that my singin’
It’s wrong to be flingin’
Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin’;
For if your pure spirit
Might waken and hear it,
You’d never be draamin’ the Saints could come near it!
Then lave off your slaapin’—
The pulse av me’s laapin’
To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin’.
Och, Nora! It’s hopin’
Your windy ye’ll open
And light up the night where the heart av me’s gropin’.
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,
And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky—
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A stranger petted a ragged child
In the crowded walks, and she knew not why,
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
And a boot-black thrilled with a pleasure strange,
As a customer put back his change
With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh,
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry,
For a dead child even were dear to him!
And he thought of his empty life, and said:—
“Loveless alive, and loveless dead—
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!”
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
WHAT REDRESS
I pray you, do not use this thing
For vengeance; but if questioning
What wound, when dealt your humankind,
Goes deepest,—surely he will find
Who wrongs _you_, loving _him_ no less—
There’s nothing hurts like tenderness.
DREAMER, SAY
Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O’er crags of opal and amethyst?
Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of wasted wine,—
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the waters run?
Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquet
Breaks the sleep of the silence there?
WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_
When Lide married _him_—w’y, she had to jes dee-fy
The whole popilation!—But she never bat’ an eye!
Her parents begged, and _threatened_—she must give him up—that _he_
Wuz jes “a common drunkard!”—And he _wuz_, appearantly.—
Swore they’d chase him off the place
Ef he ever showed his face—
Long after she’d _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!—
When Lide married _him_, it wuz “_Katy, bar the door!_”
When Lide married _him_—Well! she had to go and be
A _hired girl_ in town somewheres—while he tromped round to see
What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,—you might say, jes sawed wood
From door to door!—that’s what he done—’cause that wuz best he could!
And the strangest thing, i jing!
Wuz, he didn’t _drink_ a thing,—
But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to,
When Lide married _him_, like they warned her _not_ to do!
When Lide married _him_—er, ruther, _had_ be’n married
A little up’ards of a year—some feller come and carried
That _hired girl_ away with him—a ruther _stylish_ feller
In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:
And he whispered, as they driv
To’rds the country, “_Now we’ll live!_”—
And _somepin’ else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,
’Bout “_trustin’ Love and Heav’n above_, sence Lide married _him_!”
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE
O Soul of mine, look out and see
My bride, my bride that is to be!—
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside—
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified—
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me—
My bride, my bride that is to be.
The shadow of a willow-tree
That wavers on a garden-wall
In summer-time may never fall
In attitude as gracefully
As my fair bride that is to be;—
Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
The path of love she loiters down.—
O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet—
Ay, she might _dance_ upon the way
Nor crush a single drop to spray,
So airy-like she seems to me,—
My bride, my bride that is to be.
I know not if her eyes are light
As summer skies or dark as night,—
I only know that they are dim
With mystery: In vain I peer
To make their hidden meaning clear.
While o’er their surface, like a tear
That ripples to the silken brim,
A look of longing seems to swim
All worn and weary-like to me;
And then, as suddenly, my sight
Is blinded with a smile so bright,
Through folded lids I still may see
My bride, my bride that is to be.
Her face is like a night of June
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon
Hangs pendent in a diadem
Of stars, with envy lighting them.—
And, like a wild cascade, her hair
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,
Till only through a gleaming mist
I seem to see a Siren there,
With lips of love and melody
And open arms and heaving breast
Wherein I fling myself to rest,
The while my heart cries hopelessly
For my fair bride that is to be.
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