LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf.jiE.iiB & UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. BITS OF BLUE BY / WESLEY BISSONNETTE it %in&y CHICAGO CHARLES H. KERR AND COMPANY 1893. Copyright 1893 By Wesley Bissonnette BITS OF BLUE. AN AUTUMN LYRIC Dressed in a sober drab and dreamy sweet With shadowy, shy smiles, Didst slide along on satin, silvery feet, With lips of lavender in song-soft styles : — So shy with shadowy smiles In drab and dreamy dresses, sober-sweet. Dressed in a dream of days, Strange sleeper! bright in slumbery, soft shades ; Dost streak the sky as with a silver sleep, And web the world in skeiny sheens of haze; Gloom-fingered and gold-footed in the glades, Dressed dreamily, dost peep ; And darken in thy misty hair that fades, — Cooling in purple braids, Sleep-silvery songster of the shadowy days ? AN AUTUMN LYRIC 'Tis Autumn brown doth revel all abroad Enriched with gilded leaves, The which he yields unto the yellow sod That purples proud, until it grayly grieves ; Gay Autumn and his leaves, That redden on the grass and golden sod Lush laugher of the leaves! A reveler is he in red and gold ; No whit afraid to tan his yellow curls Mid buff-bronze, cribs of corn and purple sheaves, With wine-warm cheeks ablush with crimson cold He glooms the nut-brown girls Gold at his mellow heels, and then behold Poor Autumn in the cold With sober songs among his shy sweet leaves ! Gray-green upon the hills he haunts no more ; Faint-footed by the rills, He withers now and all his gilding ore AN AUTUMN LYRIC Gleams wan and wasted on the wistful hills: Ghost-golden by the rills, Gray -green upon the hills he wandered o'er. Thou art the psalmist sad, Dear Autumn, deep in thy mute mellow mood Why wilt thou pine as though a dear desire Haunted thee ever into music, mad And melancholy in the old-gold wood ? Where is thy magic fire, That flared thy fancies in the solitude, Flaming through every feud, And glaring grand in glooms and glimpses glad? And never now the music of the morn Floods fanciful his flute; And all the honeyed hollows of the horn Once glad with glee and gold are gushing mute: The music of the flute Eve echoes in the hollows of the horn. AN AUTUMN LYRIC Thus ever dost thou pine, Thus ever in the sallow and the sere On some sweet sorrow dearer day by day ; Deep as delight ! ay ; that dear death of thine! For this thy gold was garnered, for the year, The gentle year grown gray; For his reward who brought the stranger here — Fond friend so dim and dear — The dear dark death for whom thou dost repine ! So shall I leave thee with the golden year! With that fair friend of thine; Dear Autumn, with thy darling, thy most dear! Her shadowy sunlit hair doth o'er thee shine — Thy dearest, thy divine Dear death, that dreams upon the golden bier! THE GOLD-GIRL I have seen her never near, Dreamer of the dim and clear Dearest gold-girl of the year All the woodlands shaming, From the green-gray into red Where her saffron skirts were shed In a yellow flaming. I have seen her curls nut-brown, Dark and ruffled, thickly thrown O'er her hazel shoulders down, — Breezy, buff and tanning, — To her liquid limbs and zone, Slender, supple, in a gown, Sunlit amber waning. Once — her fingers faintly flare Ripe and tan upon the fair Ivory nuts enriching their THE GOLD- GIRL Gold and ebon graining ; Flushing brownly through the glare. Of the maple leaves, the air Her cheeks, redly staining. Ay : and laughing looks between Film-flushed foliage; dimly seen Red-lipped through the golden green Of the forest's flaring ; And her sweet eyes kissed and keen Darkle thro' the purple sheen Like cool violets staring. Saw her black and breezy braids In wet webs of silver shades, Shine through shadow-smiling glades Her fair flesh enchanting Vaguely, as it were a maid's, Who smiles starry as she fades, Shyly in her haunting. By a sober gold-wood way, Shy and silent, saw her stray, A sweet shadow of the day, Loving leaves and wooing THE GOLD- GIRL All their purple to the gray ; While the serious airs would say Songs of her sweet cooing. In the crisp and ci'imson corn With a frosty fringe of morn Round her rosy body worn Saw her bloom and blossom ; — Roses in the nut-brown corn ; Ah, but soon the sun had shorn Sheen thro' blush and bosom. Where red apples on gray trees Burn blush-blue — a bit of breeze, Honey-heavy as blackbees: — Was she mute or missing? Nay : but gilt the grass with lees — Scarlet sun-stains tricked from these By her wine-wild kissing. When the breezes blithe began Trickling thro' the golden tan, Was it Zephyrus, the fan, Trebling thoughts, and telling All her prettiness to Pan, THE GOLD- GIRL Whose rare reeds in ripples ran To his brown nut-shelling? When the trees took tender bloom, Rose-red glory in the gloom, Crimson in the silver spume, Was Aurora blushing — Fragrant in her flowery room, Faint with all the fond perfume Of Apollo's flushing? What was this whereof I say, Sight that never mortal may See on any working day — Beauty, boon or blessing? Girl of gold or ghost of gray : Who, ah, who, could ever say If the world were guessing? SINGERS Hark! silver rill, so sweetly spill The blue that brims thy bowl : Spill out the laugh my love doth quaff- The spikenard of my soul ! Sing sweetly, rill, to bud and bee, That my dear love may sing to me. Say budding breeze, whose trieklings tease — Wine filtered from a wire ! — Do thou blow by the sweetest sigh Unto my soul's desire! Sigh, little songs, sweet sorrows be, That my dear love may sigh for me. Say, yellow bee, O sunny bee, The one that getteth honey, From any bud the dew-drops stud, — A golden strain and sunny ! Fetch strains of sun and spice, O bee, My sweet love brings her soul to me. A LYRIC OF JUNE I see her where she sits, Among green leaves, a maiden singing there In love's melodious fits ! A girl of fresh white hue and yellow hair, In her sweet maidenhood Fanned faintly, till a woman pure and fair Unfoldeth like a bud Before a breeze of love; — but love, despair! Thy warm pipes melt on air! For back she blooms a girl ; Tempting herself into a maiden mood — A singer with an eyelid and a curl ! And half white womanhood, and half A dear wild girl — The fairest of fresh things — A sweet young face to pity, pout or laugh ; But now that fondly sings. Shy silences in sweet blue summer noons ! To white maturities her lilies calm — An essence of warm girlhood and soft dreams — A LYRIC OF JUNE A dreamer fair and bland ! Faint languors of the night and florid moons! She swooneth like a dim delirious balm, And like a blonde voluptuary seems, With yellow curls, myrrh-fanned. Ah, June, Thou hast a decent and a drunken tune! O thou bird-throated loon, AVith love-lipped reeds adrip and breezy bells ; One is a liquid tune — A lyric silenced in sweet lilac smells, And rich in restful spells, That ripple like the singer unto the lolling stops ! And one wild joy Blown to the moon from mossy forest tops : — A gust of roses and of poppies fraught With such enjoyment hot ! — More like the mad emotion of a boy Than any blooming maiden's, white and coy : — A LYRIC OF JUNE A maiden sober-sweet, and then A shape of soft delirium in a dream Art thou again, And never art the thing that thou dost seem ! Sweet sylvanist! sylph statued from a bird ! Or slumberer in violets cool and thick ; thou art but a word For musing conjurers and idlers sad Whose pipes are weak and sick : Or some solution strained from bud and bird Heard, but unheard! Though yet I see Thou hast another method than the mad Wild jubilance akin to mockery That makes the greenwood glad ! 1 know thee in a mood When thou dost pout and brood Whole afternoons and gloat on lilies cold, Pouting away the gold — Thy life's rich fits of honey like too-sweet food, A LYRIC OF JUNE By apple-sick, stale men profusely rolled : — A winning girl lured by a pouting mood ! The golden pout Of thy hot mood ooze musically out Upon a slow, long, langorous tune; Dissolving lips that cause a balmy swoon In gushing pipes of some melodious glee — Reeds throbbing silverly : There thy mad longing and sweet passion soon, Thy liquid fits of love too hot for thee Lull slow and languorously And dream like pure clouds swimming in the moon. Sing azure maiden, thuft, Thy best self back to us : Melt passion's purple hue From out the pallid blue Of love and leave a lilac purity : Leave August violet skies To cloud cerulean eyes, And dip her senses in a drowsy dream i And in spiced stupors be A LYRIC OF JUNE And sunny luxury And doze deep in the days her mellow mood doth deem ! SUN-SONG Sun, Sun, that falleth to the waning eves What if thou diest, ere the mute to-mor- row? The year is flee.ng, fading, like the leaves And the gray days reveal agolden sorrow. The leaves are dying and the days are dy- ing: The leaves of life are blown like autumn leaves ; The sun hath set and where is he who grieves. The leaves have fallen, all on the fallen grass-; All on the blown and fallen grasses lying. Life's leaves are dead forever : let it pass ! Gray o'er the golden sod the year is -dying: SUN-SONG Sun, Sun, that falleth to the waning eves: We fall with thee that fallest with the leaves ; Autumn hath come and Autumn will be going. Sweet Autumn came; his dying was so dear ; All o'er the gilded grass the year was graying ; Dear Autumn died, and fallen to the sere All in gray grass the golden year's de- caying, Sun, Sun, that falleth to the waning eves ; A leaf may go! and where is he who grieves ? Leaf, life and love and Autumn all are going. AUTUMN ETCHINGS The sky is gray and on the world a gloom ; The woods are gold and gray -green fields forlorn Gleam in the wan death of the wasted day. The leaves are red, (who cares for sallow leaves ? ) The golden buffs, the tan of brownish yellow ; The russet dusks, the cream of fairness mellow Are very dear, although they dream and die. Broad vales are brown below the barren hills ; And all the gold has withered in the grass ; AUTUMN ETCHINGS The purple grass is gray upon the hills. Nor chill nor wan, but shocks of the red corn Rich in tanned suns and baked with the bronze Are, And ivory nuts of ebon-colored desire And flaring fruits grow friendly with the world. ***** The winds are wild and bitter are the trees : The winds are still until they grieve no more; And the weak rains are hushed by fallen leaves. There is a hush of sorrow in the air There is a -sound of sadness in the leaves; Sad year art thou, that like a palmer grieves As if the magic of the tinsel noon Gilding her gloom, left Autumn more forlorn ; As if her music was the lingering swoon Gnarled in the golden hollows of a horn ! AUTUMN ETCHINGS The red day Dies in a rose of crimson, cloudy ripples ; Ay, from the dying day The gold hath gone away ; Faint browns, soft lavenders, what other shades Have withered in the glades; So hath the world grown gray LEAF LYRICS SPRING Buds of breezy spring, Birds and breeze and blue ; Love in the lilacs sing, Blue, blue, blue! Buds of balmy blue Breeze of beauty bring. SUMMER Blushes bright and bold Like a girl in green ; Lush life of greenest gold, Green, green, green! Purple grass and pale; Pansy passion old. LEAF L YRICS World-ward windy wings, Gold-wings growing gray; Bird-blight! the silence sings, Gray, gray, gray! Where the bine bird sings, Swan-like shadows say. l' envoi Bird and breeze of blue; Grass of gold and green; Left, love and life of you. Gold girl, green! Blithest blue hath been; Gray is going, too. HALF-TONE The sky is rainy and pale, And gloomed in a glass of gray; And dull-black blue-dark sheets Of a sleep that slays the day. Over the gray-green world A gray-blue mist is still, In a steel and satin sheen Like a cloth of silver chill. And the brown-red woods are gloomed And the waste-white fields are lorn ; Gray with the green gone out In the dolorous dream of morn. And the black-blue slopes are blurred; And the pale-blue landscapes lay Drab; with the dull, dark trees, Black in the blur of gray, HALF-TONE And wild as the wandering birds; Far as my fancies roam ; Over the waste world wide What words are the haunting home : Cold as a coil of clay In the chill and clime of night, And the doom of dark decay And the death of all delight. ENCHANTMENT Old legends had I read in poesy; Old curled tales antique in gnarled rhyme, Of witching spells and weird grotesquerie, Dusk-dreams and tranced enchantments in the time Of drear astrologers in dread retreat With witches bad and death moths boding slow, Haunting the twilight shades of long ago, With sleepy gnomes and dim enchanters sweet. Oft had I heard of beauty's featured charm, And oft of magic music's golden spell ; And sometimes felt; but never knew, the staves Were so divine to make the dolphins swarm ; — Winning dominion with a silver shell. Sweet Arion warbling o'er the purple waves ! PHANTOMS I am haunted by a flute. Tender tones are never mute. 'Tis the musicallest reed Ever sweetened from a weed. Sings the silver of the breeze Songs that trickle in the trees. Melts the music of the morn From hushed hollows of her horn. Lips the laughter of the hills In blue ripples of the rills. Listens like the liquid swoon Silenced in the purple noon. Dreams the the deepest in a drowse Ruffled bees disturb nor rouse. Tempts me with a turtle's tune Through the slumbery afternoon, PHANTOMS Tinkles twenty times, a cricket Tangling trebles in a thicket, Sorrows as mystic bird, Melts a magical sweet word. Muses melancholy, mad. In the twilight starred and sad. Hark ! and hear ; it mutters mute, Silence sweeter than a lute. Hush! and never now a noon Sweetens in this solitude. Thus in music, thus, or mute, I am haunted by a flute. Music of the mellow morn: Magic of the marble horn. Drowsy straws that spirt and swoon Serene slumbers of the moon. Tongues among the green and gold,— Turtle's tales of twilight cold. Ay ; and songs of far and near, Sweet and strangled in my ear. Ay; and sounds in silver skies Strained from shells of Paradise. These and more of deep and dear PHANTOMS Lipped and lyred in mine ear. Answer, music never mute, Am I haunted by a flute? These and more of deep and dear; What is there I may not hear? THE AUTUMN GRASS In this faint green a girl of gold doth gleam. The grass-ghost gray, — Gray-green beneath the yellow maple's dream Glares pale and withered in her gilding gay The yellow reddens; for the maid hath blushed Pale-pink among the trees ; And all she feels in rose and gold is flushed And glows upon the grass, and blooms the breeze. Ay; think not, thou, who grievest for the grass. Her beauty gay — Her beauty gold and glowing may not pass Nor purple the pale grass nor gild the gra y ! THE NAIAD-NIGHT The daffodil that dreams! thou, darling dark, Tinct by the magic moon-maid's gracious glow ; Her marble roses, diamond-dewy, mark, The white stars blow ! Dai'k with the dreams that shade in starry smiles Through pallid eyelids, pearly as with myrrh, — The swan-sweet sih r ery cloud-curls sleep beguiles To lavender. The maiden sleepeth and her mind doth dream ; Ah me, the light of love, the loveliness ; — THE hi 'A IAD- NIGHT The bloom of beautv in the blush and beam — A god might guess ! She sleeps, the sleep in slow smiles spangled o'er The sweet-senescent shadow songs that seem Luted by lovely lips from long lost lore. — The lilac gleam. She dreams, a dream of visions vague and bright Desires and dawns, to lustrous lyres set; Praying, the purple pansy of the night On some pale violet. The mystic maid! May no dark dream enfold : Nor white-winged dawn, nor darling dove of day; But this delight of violet and gold, Swan sleep away. A MARBLE LAMP It is a sphere of whiteness and of dew, — A marble orb of pallid purity Globed in a satin glass and washed anew With phosphorous foam that filters radi- antly In lustrous lees of light like dreams of dew. It is a lucid temple limned in light By golden motes with glittering denizens : It is an ivory fane whence shepards white, Emerging faintly from those golden pens, Watch all the gilded fleeces bland and bright Roam from the meads of angels down to men's. It is an image of the mighty sun, This mild and mellow orb of milky glass,— A minute of an immortality — Made by a hand it yet survives for onp A MARBLE LAMP Long second — so, and then doth sweetly pass To that decay which yet must mildly be For thee and all, fair image of the sun ! SPRING SKETCHES Ye pale disciples of the beautiful. Worn whitely by the fair fleet-figured thoughts That faint and flutter dove-like, dreamily : Pure, through the marble porches of the mind ; If the sweet senses are acute no more To snare the shadowy fragrancy of forms, And that thy fingers feel the fairy skill Fade fleetly : — O sweet painters fanciful, Feed on the fragile fancies ere they fade: — A glow of roses in the blush of morn. And soon the roses open to the blush ; A purple pallor laves the lilac eve, And soon the lilacs odorously bloom. A cloud of blossoms sparkles out of trees, And now a blossom flutters o'er the world,— SPRING SKETCHES The green and bine are mystically one ; An artist melts in tree and grass and sky : — The dales have fair and yellow buttercups, And yellow buttercups have gilded bees : — The fresh young lambs are whitened like the cloud, And all the clouds are purified like cream : — The pale pink buds are fledged to carmine blooms, And all the birds are budding into song: — The winds have sweetness like a gust of spice, The flavored voids of sweet and gushing stops ; — A shepardess has strayed among the hills, And feeds with honey all the breed of flow- ers : — There comes a maiden white with yellow curls And they are dressed with dew and buds and stars ; — SPRING SKETCHES A sweet musician in the gauze and strain Of fingered cymbals, dimly lipping reeds. She is a rosy priestess bibbing wine From rills, and eating garland-foam for bz*ead. O what a birth of love,— the flowery babe; And now she is a maid and loves herself;— The innocent white months have felt her face Glow whitely down, and they are mad for spring, And she has kissed them till their hearts are red As hers is red, and she is white for love. AN IDYL IN BLUE A lilac liquor brims the white tureen With fringing lips of marble cloud, spilled o'er, By the cerulean surplus, drenching more With indigo the pallid lakes between Where sails of spring haunt round the sapphire shore. Now is the globe of heaven glassed serene, The sky is such a bowl of melted blue; The temple and the trees, the white and green, Are sippiug bibbers of the sapphire hue. Almost the birds seem blue upon the wing ; The violet lamp of spring is lit to day Nearly to purple : — O thou pallid spring, Dostthou know this, that blue fades into gray, AN IDYL IN BLUE Blue artist, though you hear but summer sing? TO A WILD DOVE Sweet argonaut, with sky-gray wings that fare. On lavender and lily bays above : Thou white- winged shell of song ! O pal- lid dove ! Thou slim and shapely sailor of the air! Thou seraph style ! Thou attic argosy ! Thou attitude, thou instance pale and proud ! Thou marble mould of any satin cloud, The spirit of the sculptor shaping thee! Thou art an Argonaut more fair and free Than any here and thou hast not the strife Of starving mortals, thou hast liberty, O artist, and the art that is thy life. A TEMPLE OF SPRING The gracile clouds are fledged like feathers there And cloudy fledges blossom round the blue, Like flowery figures, o'er this dsedal day :— A violet vase imbloomed with tinctures rare, Moist roses and the sunlight and the dew, At this white altar where few pilgrims spare To serve for aye, their virtue to renew With its red wine, though they are weak and gray ! More like a temple is the sky to-day, With gold and myrrh, the lilliesand the wine ! And O ye votaries of beauty, say A TEMPLE OF SPRING Now wherefore are ye shut from the divine, In your own mortal temples frail and gray : Leaving the birds and pipers here to play, O stone-blind statues at a marble shrine? VIOLETS The world is like a water color scene That some fair artist paints with pallors bine, And tinctures spared from bowls of white and green To lend the lovely lavender their hue. The sky is a sweet violet of spring ; — The beautiful imperial fn the blue ; The world is like the moss beneath the dew, The statue-stone that evermore doth sing- Sweetly, for beauty, too! What if wild beauty lives no more to-day ; Melt not thy tears, fair sculptor, where it sets; Nor thou sweet artist raving at the gray,— The sky is yet a vase of violets ! LILACS They faded with the flowery fading days, Their birth made sweeter than the violets ; Nor did they spare in lavender decays Their lovelier amulets. Too lovely and too sweetly born, too soon The odorous vials spilled; twas hardly mete Fond love should so be cheated, though in June Their death was very sweet ! THE FAR CLOUDS What are ye there, wreathed flowery and white About the broad-orbed forehead of the blue? Are ye sweet shapes bred by his inmost sight That his cerulean brows have budded through? White sluniberers in the blue crystaline! White shadows in the pallid amethyst; Whose lillied dreams through all their slum- bers shine As though their feathery lids were lucent- kissed By marble liquids tinctured fair and fine ! Sleep on and ever by that purple shore, Ye satin slumber-shells of argentry ; — Ye waxen bowls of Morphean melody ! THE FAR CLOUDS Swoon on, till deepest sleep is sleep no more ! ►Spill from thy drowsy brims the slumber- ous store The music of thy dewy deepness free In cooling quietude soft-swimming o'er The flowery world of mortals on to me ! So could I dream forever but to feel Thy fairy fingers o'er my eyelids faint Melt the immortal curtains that conceal What words may never paint ! But ye fan on, till this is like to thee, Ye lucid fans with azure whiteness pin shed ! But ye fan on, though that may never be; Fan on, for the warm world is never hushed : Wave on, fair fans ! we only look and long For a faint feather never wafted by, Like some sweet shell dissolving in a song, Dreaming of death and immortality, Until the showy legends sleep in shade — Fading and fading as all fancies fade — Until we long to live and long to die. MAGIC The ruffled god his anger 'gan relent When music dripped like honey in his ears, From the white hives of Hermes' ivory sent ; Then o'er the green and glittering slopes they went — The thief and he to hunt the golden steers ! THE WORD From the green and glorious woods ; From the golden solitudes ; From the woodlands of the west: From the forest's flaring fancies, Dark and gold as purple pansies, That the birds impassion best : — From the dewy deeps enchanted By green sunsets grayly haunted, Mute and musical I heard ; — Like a music wild with folly, Mystic, mad and melancholy, But the wonder of a word. Haunted me through every olden Alley, gray and grand and golden Of the green and ghostly woods. Haunted me with harpings never THE WORD Hushed, as now it haunts me ever, With its mad and mighty moods. 80 my soul went rich and roaming Through the gray and golden gloaming Of the green and gloomy woods ; When a word that was a wonder, My mad musing shore asunder, In the mighty solitudes. Its wild music haunts me ever, Like a might that misses never Magic in these mystic moods. THE DAY-DREAM Though thou art pink with play, Most modest maid art thou, dream of day; Though proud as pansy night, A soft sweet beauty reared in roses white, And lured by lilac love to purple-gray, Too gracile-sweet for sight ; Or paling in an amethystine myrrh Thou dove of dreams and daisy of de- light ! Thou darling daffodil, thou dove end eared! Was never girl so gay ! How like a lucent nymph hath she ap- peared Tinct with the marble slumber where she lay Her blossom bare or in gray glosses bleared THE DAY-DREAM And lovely clouds of lustrous lavender: Mali an Day Mild in the mellow mists of myrrh, Mute with the marble slumber far away. How doth she languish in the slumbery clear, Streaking her whitest body with drab laces And orbing in the dewy atmosphere, Fair swan of silver spaces ! As if to feel the ether fond and faint And blush to blisses at its bright embraces; As if to faint from all her features dear, And fan her love beyond such rare restraint. She is a virgin in white ivory, Too pallid-pure to dip into the gold And gild her limbs with delicate delight ! She is a maid of moistest modesty Who doth her fairness fragrantly enfold From the plush palmy pleasures of the sun, Who still would kiss and kiss for sweet- est spite What he doth madly mold, — Her bai*e blonde beauties in his flush and flight :— THE DAY-DREAM Gold aquiline, the apples white, and won, For a warm wooer, tender balmy bold ; Burning in his dark violet vault anon, — The purple, panting, sweet, impassioned night ! THE MAY-MAID She is a slim-sheathed being, blossom- born ; With gray gold gauzes stirring into sight, Like misty dresses o'er the shadowy grass, Swathing her limbs in skeins of slumbery light, Until the white hot sodder of the morn, Swelling o'er all the silvery sluices bright Seals the chill world in frosty wreaths of glass. * * * * Whence came this flowery mortal we be- hold In starred skirts all bud-bewildered, bright, With golden whiteness gleamed with whit- est gold, And all her lucent body laced in light THE MAY-MAID And white embroideries that plume and press Her budding' beauties in their fairy fold, Until they shimmer into satin sight In plush-pouts pale from crystal wreaths of dress? She hath a lily for a silver horn,— A milky shell, clear-tinct with diamond- dew, And marbled with moist strains that curd and chill, Embossing all the music of the morn, Until her lips melt out a liquid thrill Of zephyrs sweet and ditties sweet and new! Art thou that other, thou that winter- white, — That marble May, fledged with the feath- ery herds Of death-white myrrh who cometh now to fright The buds of spring ?— but, no ! thy face is bright THE MAY- MAID With joyous June; and hark! what bud- ding words Haunt thy white bosom through green gauzes light, Dreamed by delighted birds ! Ay ; thou art like a lily fresh and sweet. Thy bosoms are orbed lilies plushed and pale ; Thou art a lily budding from thy feet In gradual grace, — a turtle-sculptured tale Of some immortal sweetness thou dost taste. Thou art a lilac into whiteness kissed By hyacinthine rains that sweetly sail Splashed from the tiny stars of amethyst And globing o'er the world in glasses pale ! But thou art best thyself, in flowery haste Strewing the spangled buds like purple hail! DREAM DAYS Shy and sweet and mystical, Wining ways; Sober, shadowy and still Homes of haze; These I love — the lavender Dreams of days. Drowsy, dark and slumbery ; Cool and clear; Wove in webs streaked silvery, Thou dost peer, Pale through purple smiles and stars, Dreamy dear! Green and gleaming with old gold ; Strands of shade and shine, That thy breezy braids infold, Trickle like wild wine: One look liquid, long and mute Melts to mine! DREAM DAYS Gray and golden in the woods ; Gilded gray; In the sober solitudes Deep decay, Darkens dearly thy mild moods, Mellow May! Songs as sharp as tears and tunes Toll at morn; Sighs ! the amber afternoons Flare forlorn Fancies, as they flicker o'er The crimson corn. Yearnings of the yielding year To the yellow leaf; Sighings of a strange and sere Shadowy grief; Shades of silvery sadness o'er The gold sheaf. Dear are these, the dreamful days; Days of dreams! Smiling through the happy haze, Breezy beams DREAM DAYS Of a blurred and beautiful Song that seems: Of a something starred in mists Smile the shades, Through the airy amethysts Of gold glades, Like the demon of my dreams Ere she fades. Dear are these, the dreamy days, Days of dreams; When from happy homes of haze Something seems, Dreaming like the darling demon Of my dreams. WORLD-WAY The fields were broad and green, And now they are brown and flat; The way of the fields of the world, However you think of that. And the woods were green-and-gold ; And the gold hath gone in the gray ; The way of the woods and the world, The wistful world-wood way! And the days that once were dreams, Ah, the days are dark and deep;— The way of the days of death, With a song as strange as sleep. For the clouds are over the blue, Over every bit of the blue ; — The way of the winds of the world That have nothing better to do! WORLD- WAY Ay, that is the way of the world, And the way of the yearing years; And the yielding life and the yellow leaf And the thoughts that turn to tears. And the fields were broad and green, And now they are brown and flat ; — Not only the way of the fields of the world" However you think of that! THE WAYSIDE MILL Half-sunken to its shadow in the stream That like a destiny doth dream anear, It keeps a hoary vigil year by year, Like a gray patriarch who aye doth seem To pause and ponder on a lost regime Through immemorial age, and not a tear Of great regret or memory most dear Survives upon the portals of his dream. And death hath gone away, as half afraid To lay his shadowy hand upon its dome; The old domain of all the days decayed Hath not a legend for death's utter tome; Hath naught for death's demesne that here hath stayed ; Here only haunting echoes have a home. A NIGHT THOUGHT Smiling in stars, with brilliance beautiful, The night nymph darkens, like a sweet surmise Of some swan-spirit singing, Sweeter than beauty unto earthly eyes. Might and imagination, mystical — The music of the mind : lo this doth seem The muse-maid universal Starring her songs and dying in the dream. Dying the death ■ of dreams for one desire, Dearer than death, the diamond dark above ; Tinct with eternity — the silence — stars — Lo, like a thought of truth the night I love. THE DREAM YEAR Dreams are the days of gold in gloom and glare ; They dream and die and soon the gold is gone ; And the gray year in silvery shadowy hair Faints in his foot-flare wan. Fades, and his eyes are purple where they peer, Deep with the death that webs the world in gray ; Flares faint into the yellow of the year The gilded world away. Shades with the shadowy star-smiles morn doth brim : Vague with the violet, vapory veils of noon ; Duskswalnut-dark, with golden liquors dim THE DREAM YEAR In twilight's silvery swoon. Ay, like a nut, it hath a kernel, too: — A song of sweetness, though the shell is sere; Are not sweet sorrows and the dearer due Of death thine, dreaming year? IN AUTUMN When dying leaves gloom amberly, And weak things sigh, Upon the wind's shrill melody And pine to die: When pleading reeds are heard in hollows old And shrilly scare the moon, And haggard grasses chiding at the cold Are ruffled into tune : When the last gilts of gloom are rained forlorn On hills grown grayly old ; And like strange sepulchers are shocks of corn, Sweet with the season's gold : In yellow woods rich hazel hues are mild And sweet nuts choke the shell ; IN AUTUMN And the loud shrilling of the geese is wild Above the amber chill. When silvery meadows wear a purple down With skirts of saffron spray ; And the blue summer's passioned death doth drown Blue grapes till blue is gray : When buff brown roamers feebly pipe 'mong hills. Ruffling the leaves that sleep ; — The gray squirrels bark and by the pining rills Strange rabbits leap. When wind woos wind and leaf luhs leaf to sleep And wild paths darken And the gray stars in silver strangeness peep And grayly barken : When thin-fleeced nights, clear, cool and silvery, And dim white hollows lone IN AUTUMN To lilac stars that melt in bluest glee Dream a soft tone ; And gray owls strangely burst the pallid dark And like a frozen throat The bare hollows wind-loud, pale and stark Boom back the barren note : When dreary streams cry to the chill brown trees, In feeble swells, And hollow reeds are blown upon the breeze Like tearful knells ; How like a gust of tears the marble rains Rush from their cloudy spheres ; How soon dry age is quenched in tongue- less pains Poured from its heart of tears. Sadly the leaves and airs of Autumn sing Until they stir at last ; Sadly the rhymes of thought to dittying IN AUTUMN On sweet pipes of the past. Sweetly a sense of sorrow swoons around, O Autumn day divine ; And a rich sadness swells without a sound From thy sad heart to mine. WHY, WIND? Why dost thou mourn So loud, O wind, and then so dimly ring, And sweetly sing To tree and star by the gray shore Like some lorn Druid of a pristine morn Wnose words are muffled slumberously, dying more and more? Why dost thou dream Despairingly in fits of melancholy, Thy sweet rich sorrow holy, — To ruffled rills and rim pie silver swells Of music from the marble-moulded stream, Whining apassion of shrill harps and plead- ing shells ? Why dost thou muse And to the sallow leaves so sadly rhyme, — WHY, WIND? As a dim chime Stirred in the silver sculptured fern, That doth the spangled shapes peruse And sings a sacred ditty in an ancient urn ? Why dost thou chant A marble serenade unto the sky, And pause for no repy, — As to bare censors the void pipes in- quire For stifled sweetness where stale savors haunt Around a hoary stair where swoons a ghostly golden choir? Why art thou sad As when a Druid in green solitudes So grayly broods Like pining harps and silvery-ailing shells : Like hollow urns and reeds made mu- sic-mad ; — Thou sorrow, O thou symbol of her yearn- ing syllables ? What wouldst thou learn WHY, WIND? In thy shrill query unto bearded spheres, Thy satin strain of tears? Dost ask for .some lost love? Dost blow A pipe of love unto the orbs eterne, That to thy strange distress no silver an- swer glow? Ah, thou dost sing So drearily among the mossy trees Those mad mysteries : — Those songs unto the sands, those words unsaid ; To muse, to ponder on while minutes ring! Ah, now I guess thy history of love grown old or dead ! Ay, thou art growing Old, and older growing, thou art weary, Deaf and dreary, — Wind and world of moss and mold ; Strings are stiff and pieces are older blowihg, going: — Dying world; old age is dying and the young grow old ! SUNSETS See, where the racer wins the golden spirt ; And see, gashed on the goal his body faint, Red in the gilded reek of his dim hurt ; As if a Titian spilt a pot of paint. How like a crimson rose the sunset dieth, Bleeding its heart of all the purple wine ; 'Tis a red rose that in the lilacs lieth, Flushing the pallid blooms with its de- cline. Else doth it seem a scarlet poppy flamed By some proud goddess who doth plushly pout; Then is her brow by all its redness shamed Until her golden fingers flare it out. MIDNIGHT This, to the dawn, doth like a lily swim ; In dew the emerald elves their eyes have set, — In this green crevice tinct with moonlight dim, Where, hark ! a tree-toad faintly trebles yet! THE GODDESS OF SPRING A silvery maid is stepping with a jar, — A white immortal milking atthefountain Of heaven, all the beauty and delight Of moist and marble joy in sylph and star, To pour it everywhere from cloud and mountain About the world and sky, in blue and white. So like a fair immortal when the trees Shaping slim leaves like pallid shells of light Bud sweetly ; and her flesh is dressed like these And greenly wreathed, although her brows are white. The sky is trickling blue o'er cloudy hills ; The breeze is blue among the trees and soon THE GODDESS OF SPRING Sweetly the breezes ditty in the tune , Dripping 1 and sweet from seasonable quills That swell upon her lips, or yet they swoon By golden leafage, all the lilac rills Filling the nostrilled voids of budding June! So white a singer in the sapphire shell That seals the world like a cerulean vase; What miracle is this that we who dwell In its sweet scope so swiftly scan the shell And miss her mortal face? Is she more like a goddess than a maid ; — A fair Pandora, to this mortal breed Gracing with flowery brides the race of men ? But yet she seems a lily, all afraid To dip into love's lavender, indeed, Her whitest self, and so she pales again In marble love, a sweet immortal maid! THE METEOR See how the glassy stars are startled sweetly Even as this moth doth flutter into fame: See how the golden beetle fareth fleetly Drenched to the core with flimsy curls of flame. THE SLEEPING STATUE Waken, my singer, when all souls awaken Unto a song, the cymballing of spring : — Spring! the immortal singer, though yet forsaken Of her green leaves: — the piping is so sweet ! Rise from thy darling dreams, white reed, and sing ! Waken, thou Bud ! the blossoms all awaken, With dewy eyes, and thou hast eyes of dew; Cool kisses of the breeze are sweetly shaken, And purple buds are spangled o'er thy feet; And over me thy beauty buds anew ! The buds are sweet, and the sweet birds are budding THE SLEEPING STATUE Their vernal ditties into leaves of song ; And like wild leaves the swallows shrill are scudding Through the slim breezes piping to the trees : Let thy young leaves, Olove, sprout sweet and strong. Up from the dew like gold of all the grasses, Faint bees and butterflies do fleetly sail : Fair from the azure amethystine glasses Clouds of fresh flutterers are hailing these ! And at my voice, arise, sweet statue pale! Waken, O voice, these are the days of sing- ing! Mute music! O melodious marble, sing! And reed-lipped birds like shapely ditties, winging; But they are wild and shrill and thou art sweet. Sweeter art thou than all the songs of spring ! THE SLEEPING STATUE Spring hath a reed the dreaming buds to waken ; O thou, fair flutist, sweeter than the spring, Thou hast a song,— my soul is here forsaken In the green spring: O melodist most sweet, Gold as thy glad, dear dreams, white swan, O sing ! NIGHT SOUNDS Was that a fairy fainting and forlorn Or fleeting fairly o'er the forest wild, Scared by a dreamy gnome with moonlight horn, — Or but the yearning of a weary child ? THE NIGHT-NYMPH Lo,like a lotus of the mystic stream, Like a red lily glowing from the dark : Blest with the emerald dew of stars that beam Wan from their temples ;— mark, Pure as a woman hushed in some o Id room Hidden in Egypt like a ruby rare, The night disrobes and not a blush or bloom Doth warm the ivory fair! Lo the lily stares, Darkened wild and wan ; O and the ruby glares Chilled with its crimson gone! Why palest thou, light lady beautiful, As in a fear, That some sweet lover, bad, undutiful, Betrayed thee, dear? THE NIGHT-NYMPH 'Tis sorrow's sinile that softens thy sweet eyes,— Sweet eyes that smile senescent stars of light, To lead lost love unto thee in the skies From its proud passion for the nadir night. From its clear demon, death, the dark delight ! Lost love that lingers in a world of gloom ; Long love alone that plumes and pines and dies, Even as its tears are marbled on the tomb — Tears that are thine, the syballic, sweet eyes, Soft with the sorrow, lustrous with the light Of liquid love, and smiling irom thy skies ; — Sweet stars of Paradise, — Upon the orb thou lovest, liquid night. Is that thy sorrow, clear, THE NIGHT-NYMPH Longing for the lost; Thine the sighs I hear Tenderly tossed? How are thine eyes so clear Beautiful and bright? — Love-light in every tear, Tears of love are light. Sighs, and her silver hair Strange in the breeze; Shy songs! O anguished air! Sweet Mercides! Thou night of stars, Dark mistress of shy smiles and shadowy, — Ah, thou sweet shade of stars, Dost woo the world, thou beauty, deathfully ; Or peer so mortally beyond her bars, Beyond the stars, — Beyond the life of love where that may be Lost in eternity? Why wilt thou sweeten like a legend old Upon this human heart that burns below ; THE NIGHT-NYMPH Old shadow of lost love that once did hold The purple and the passion long ago ? Why dost thou wear the ivory ebony Of dark pale brows, and why dost thou beguile With those looks luminous, so liquidly, Unless that thou art she, With that vague violet smile Deepening immortally — The dear, dark lily of old loving Nile? 'Tis Cleopatra's face Of clear eternity, Sta* ved in a smile of sweet senescent grace Shading through splendid space On some orbed Antony. Pantest, sweet night, for one Lost like a star; Passionest, dear night for none Sweeter than a star ? Deep death and thou art one Loving a star; Dark death, thou dearest one, Pale Potiphar! THE NIGHT-NYMPH Dark death, dear death, thou loveliest, my love, Is that thy cool caressing of the breeze, That stirs the slender skein of dreams I wove Of thee, with sweet and shapely subtleties, Until fair Dian dies, and bright above,— Is that thy shadow, love, And thy soft bosom tossing in the trees? A DRYAD'S THOUGHT Here may I sit, deep in my haunted home Amid the silences that sweetly utter, Mute melodies unto some gnarled gnoine, And moodful musings that in music mut- ter Until the leaves drip each a syrinx sweet ! Where o,er the world might any satyr roam And l?"?ar the songs that these still reeds i-epea* ? AN ALLEGORY Sweet is the night of shadows and of stars, — Still as a swan doth swoon ; So like a slim white swan with lilies laced Shines the gold moon. Soft as a song of silvery sweet smiles, Sweet is the violet dark ; So like a shy and shadowy violet Gold pansies mark. O daisy dark ! and tender with the tunes, Trebled from tinkling trees ; Rare ripples from the reeds of lovely loons On the bright breeze : Lovely and lost in liquid loveliness, Lit with the lilac love Of legend-lamps of laughing lavender, — Lode-stars above. AN ALLEGORY Stirs of the satin stillness of her dress; Sounds strange-silvery ; So soft a silence sheathes her silken stress,— The songster, she ! Pale, with the purple passion in his eyes— Pansies and violets : — Long love-loops melting dewy diamond dreams Like amulets ! Melts the mute marble! O the musical, The mad maturities ! — Pure pallid poem of a maiden muse Of mysteries ! Smiles and the shadows sweeten in her eyes, Smiling and fading far ; Shining with smiles into the shadowy, Lo, like a star! Panting no more for all the purple pools Lit with the lily's gold ; — Lost lilac of old lovely Lebanon, O night of old ! A LOTUS JEWEL This serene scope's an emerald malachite Hidden for ages in the dark domain, — Thecloudy realm sealed and curtained tight The black and marble vaults sunk deep amain Beneath the bases of the pyramids, — Where sable slumber did its dreams entomb Until they swooned through her ivory lids. And upward swam from gold and gloom to gloom. Or could it be some dusky priest had found, — Delving in olden Egypt in the sand At the behests his pallid Isis frowned For dread enchantments to inform a wand, — An amber jewel in the golden ground, Merging to magic night at his command SONG The faded fields forlorn . The sere and silver corn, Wherein the weird winds mourn ; Their sighing; shadow strays, — The wan and wistful days. The gold and saffron fields. Wherein the yellow yields Unto the sober grays : The woodlands that were red Flare dim ; strange leaves are shed- The sweet and serious grays — Wild songs of woodland ways. Haply we may not spare One hope from one despair, Sweet soul ! My spring ! Though the young year yields 'he gold and saffron fields Unto the stranger there, I'll hear thee sing! SONG Sing, though the stranger sad Is gray, and all the glad Gold of thy music then Will gild the leaves with green And sweeten the strange sheen Of Autumn sober-clad ! The gray wood green again The greenwood glad ! However we dream it here, Nor yield to the yellow year, Some distant day, my dear, We'll find the golden leaf ; — We'll And the silver sheaf. Some day, dear! A DAY OF AUTUMN The world is wan and the wind, Ah, the wind is strange and shrill With the tones of the golden grass- Fallen gray and still ! And the grey hath grown in the sky ; And the golden greenwood ways, So glad and green have withered The gold to the gray of the days. And the days are deep with the death, And dark with a dream of doom ; Strange with sober shadows That come with the gleam and gloom. The fields are faint with the flare Of the wan and wistful year — Flaring and fading the fields of life Faint in the frail and sere. A DAY OF AUTUMN And the songs that seemed so sweet, Sung in the glad green spring, Are shrill in the sound of the leaves And sigh in the sheels that sing : And the song that seemed so sweet, The later,— the sweeter song,— Of the golden leaf and the silver sheaf Far-off and the long love, long ;— Ay, the dream with the death is dark, And the song as the leaves are sere ; For a shadowy stranger came With the shade and the silence, dear. Ay, this is the golden leaf, And the life and the leaf are gray ; We have found the silver sheaf, Ah, dear, and the "distant day." THE SHADOW SPRING Glosses of gold hair Whitest temples tease ; Lo, and limbs of lavendar Bloom the breeze! From her dewy feet In gray grass, the lark, Sends long liquids shrill and sweet, Hark, Ohark! Tis the shadow, she, Singing sweetest spring ; Breezy, beautiful blue bee, Sweet ! O sing ! FALL In the green wood dark, By the purple pool, THE SHADOIV What wild whiteness streaketh stark, Kissed and cool? In the golden wood, In the greenwood's gold ; — Softest swan-styles, brownly brood,— Blush to bold. 'Tis the shadow, she, Lovely as the lark ; Sweetest singing silently, Hark, Ohark! UNDER THE GRASS Under the golden grass, Sweet ; — and who would save A soul from the sleep: ah me! A goodly thing is the grave. Good as the gold of life; True as the tested tin; Full as the fame is frail, And worthier win. Away from the winds of the world A leaf of life let pass; For the grave is a goodly thing Under the golden grass. Fair as the flowers are; Sweet as the sleep is dear, Long as the love-lost love: Ah, who would hope him here. THE WIZARD Stepped soberly as any maiden strays, All silent-sweet in garments strange and sere, Skeining a silvery stillness for the days And paling in the purple of the year ; The land was still ; but soon her dreaming dear Sighed into songs and wreathed with yellow bays The old musician with an anthem drear — The wierd wind haunted all the gilded ways. So magically, and with music mild She charmed the golden world unto the gray, — Unto the death, with dreams as deep and dear ; THE WIZARD And sad it seemed that the enchanted child, Should be so sweet a demon, darling gay, Tempting our love to trick us with a tear. A WINTER LYRIC Hoar Winter neareth now and treadeth like a stone On world, on star, in stormy works of sky; He broodeth like the dream, he waileth like the moan Of some gnarled oak of age that pines to die. Oh thou, with shrill strings wild and hoary, Stern strength of clouds and storm and sea, Roll to the stars thy marble story ; And as thou singest, I'll sing to thee. SONG The storm is shrill, O wailing wind ; The stars are chill, A WINTER LYRIC But Rosalind Laughs sweetly like a sweet blue rill, Though star and wind Are strange and chill. The frost-teeth gnash among the trees ; They scare the flocks and feathers wide; The chilly herds bleat in the breeze, Like buds and birds that May ward ride. Dieth the gale On feeble ears ; The stars are frail Through feeble tears, And olden chords of passion fail The ailing years With foot-steps frail. Strings sad and old, The frosty strings, Hoar ages mold And winter rings In hearts and urns of withered gold, Where gray moss clings And tones blow old. A WINTER LYRIC ■Stern seer, torn times with hoary rage, He treadeth now in storm and scar; Bleak symbol of impassioned age, Of bearded Lear and bursting star ! Howl, haggard storm, Shriek, song of age: Thou canst not harm With barren rage, Nor choke my lamp with cold, nor warm The stone of age, Thou haggard storm ! Thy frosts may seem The hoar of years, The feathery stream Of foam that clears From June's blue bowl of cloudy cream ; Or pallid tears Thy gray frosts seem. Dark, silvery Druid ! Priest of Tears ! Bite in my heart thy barbarous breath ; Thou musing ghost of all the years, Pine on thy harp a dream of deat A IVIhlTER LYRIC The storm is shrill, And drear and old ; The stars are chill, And clouds are cold, Like ghostly wood-bards, gray and still,. When morn is tolled By tempests shrill. Thou whitest bard ! thou art not old ; Young Winter ! stranger of the skies ! Know Rosalind laughs through the cold With the sweet summer in her eyes. Burst, storm and star ! Roar, winter wind ! Thou canst but mar Where looks are thinned ! Ay, withered Lear, at storm and scar Laughs Rosalind — Thou aged spar! The frozen chill is on the trees, And haggard Lear broods in the storm ; But Lear or Death ! who cares for these? Sweet Rosalind, thy heart is warm! A WINTER LYRIC Hoar winter, ay; thou treadest like a stone, Scarring the trunks and gnarled boughs, thou art A frosty scythe, I think ; but lamp or tone Thou canst not chill or sever in my heart. THE END LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ffilllllliUIIIUlflttlllillVIIDIIIIIIUI 016 115 717 A