THERE are two of these poems to which I will call special attention. The
first is entitled, "A Word Out of the Sea."
The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and
fields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of
briers and blackberries--from the memories of birds--from the thousand
responses of his heart--goes back to the sea and his childhood, and
sings a reminiscence.
Two guests from Alabama--two birds--build their nest, and there were
four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for
joy:
"Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great sun!
While we bask, we two together.
Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black, .
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together."
In a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again,
and all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of
the lost:
"Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me."
And the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare
feet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers
were tirelessly tossing; listening to the songs and translating the
notes.
And the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what
the dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever
way he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping
that the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he might not lose her
answer; waiting and then crying again: "Here I am! And this gentle call
is for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those are the
shadows;" and at last crying:
"O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my mate no more, no more with me!
We two together no more."
And then the 'boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his
breast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the
birds, knowing that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be
absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the
sea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying
not, spoke the low delicious word "Death!" "ever Death!"
The next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled:
"When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd," is on the death of Lincoln,
"The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands."
One who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, "the
lustrous western star" and "the gray-brown bird singing in the pines and
cedars."
In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, the
atmosphere and climate in harmony with every event.
Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin through day and
night, with the great cloud darkening the land, nor the pomp of inlooped
flags, the processions long and winding, the flambeaus of night,
the torches' flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the
thousand voices rising strong and solemn, the dirges, the shuddering
organs, the tolling bells--and the sprig of lilac.
And then for a moment they will hear the gray-brown bird singing in the
cedars, bashful and tender, while the lustrous star lingers in the west,
and they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn
the burial house--pictures of spring and farms and homes, and the gray
smoke lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold--of the gorgeous
indolent sinking sun--the sweet herbage under foot--the green leaves of
the trees prolific--the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here
and there, and the varied and ample land--and the most excellent sun so
calm and haughty--the violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes--the
gentle soft-born measureless light--the miracle spreading, bathing
all--the fulfill'd noon--the coming eve delicious, and the welcome night
and the stars.
And then again they will hear the song of the gray-brown bird in the
limitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the
star, and again the odor of the lilac.
But most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant
for death: