Poems of Philip Henry Savage / Philip Henry Savage [electronic text]

POSTHUMOUS POEMS

A.D. MDCCCCI

I

NOT all the world can banish from my eyes The simple glories of the day's sunrise; Not circumstance nor fate e'er drive away The clear perfection of one summer day, Nor blot quite wholly from my sight The singing tumult of the mystic night.

II

FOR MARCH 20

NOW colored lights of morning rise And paint the skies With warmer dyes, A thousand times More bright, more rare As summer climbs The northern stair; To where, Expecting them with joy and song, (Though winter still be on the hill), Sits March, his verdant vale along, And pipes for Summer with a will.

Bright jets of flame, the crocus buds Out of their beds Lift up their heads;

Then with a spring Above the mold, Each purple wing, Each wing of gold, Unfold; Bright correspondents in the grass Of that high incandescent sun, Whose bending angels, as they pass, Light up the flowers one by one.

III

THE faithful mullein, day by day, Is up and out beside the way, Or on the upland pasture blows Beside the rockrose and the rose.

Would heaven had granted me a grace One half so perfect as thy face, Compounded of so pure a metal As thy five-foliate golden petal.

IV

A MARCH FLAW

THE fickle wind, by ebb and flaw, Wavers uncertain as a girl: The fire delays and will not draw: The smoke creeps out in lip and curl;

Will not adventure in the skies, But level on the pasture lies, As if it sought and could not find A purpose equal to its mind.

V

HERE by the brimming April streams, Here is the valley of my dreams.

Every garden place is seen Starting up in flames of green;

Breaking forth in yellow gold Through the blanket of the mold.

Slow unfolded, one by one, Lantern leaves hang in the sun,

Like the butterflies of June Weak and wet from the cocoon.

VI

THE bobolink that sweetly sings Although the rain is on his wings; The light in darkness of the moon That builds by night another noon;

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Mine, mine, mine, all mine! The golden light in the sunset pine; The flush green heart of the maple spray When the sap comes up in the month of May; The multitudinous, close advance Of the singing grass and the little plants; The deep, resilient, lusty feel Of the turfy carpet under heel; And a wakened heart, that lifts and fills Like meadows in the April hills, Or when the bottom and the plain Are filled with the autumnal rain.

VII

APPLE-BLOSSOMS

LET men remember, when they pray, The rose and silver dawns of May, Most palely, spiritually gray;

The sky above the blossomed trees, Pale as December Arctic seas, Pure as the white anemones.

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On such a morning, lightly swung By the chance song a bluebird sung, The silence like an incense hung.

A rod away, you'd scarcely know If these were apple-blooms ablow Or a reverted April snow;

But over all the sentient earth Young lantern-leaves, for joy of birth, Hung out the saffron hues of mirth.

The honeysucker wove his loom Of busy noise from plume to plume Of rosy-clustered apple-bloom.

Went by the bee; the butterfly On soft and papery wings went by, Beneath his low, sufficient sky.

And on a sudden flaw and swell, If 't were a petal white that fell, Or a blown moth, you 'd hardly tell,

So soft the air, so hung with scents That fell from these whites flowery tents On odorous beds of innocents.

The church bells, by the distance drowned, Came to me like the ghost of sound, Soft-choired with birds that sang around;

And dim as distance were the blue Slopes, and the hills I thought I knew, Behind the mist, and shining through.

VIII

ROLL down, roll down, thou darkling earth, To the eastern shores of light, Where the plashing waves of the morning's birth Sweep up the coasts of night.

IX

HOT days like this will wound or bless, At home as in the wilderness. The wind, with burning feet, Lingers along the wheat;

The honeysuckle droops; The scarlet poppy stoops, And on the garden-bed Lays down her silken head.

So in the mountain walk Of untrod Moosilauke The purple orchis turns Black, and the cornel burns. Through the dead banks of haze The tongues of heaven blaze; And life draws down from flower and shoot, To lie in secret at the root.

X

WORN with the city, out I go, Where the cool green plantations grow; With curious eye observe the shine Of silver on the stalwart pine, The beech and oak; on the granite fells See the sharp cedar-sentinels Advance, each one a shafted thyrse, Cone-capped, among the javelin firs. Involved by barriers, and perplexed, By mere unyielding pavement vexed, In spirit from the town I run To meet the gracious horizon,

Which patient round my centre lies With axle pointed in the skies; In th' unblockaded blue to find A clean refreshment for the mind.

XI

OCTOBER 10

SUCH days as this I've but to look And add a page more to my book. A bramble, winding o'er the wall, A scarlet torrent in the Fall; Sere, yellow leaves, whirled by the train, To scatter in a golden rain; A crumpled fern; — it is enough, For all the world is poet's stuff, And shall contribute to his book, So 't gives the joy the poet took.

XII

ON THE TENTH OF OCTOBER

YOU'LL not believe the aspen leaf (Whose season you would say was brief)

Hangs long and greener on the tree Than sycamore, than hickory.

The elm-leaf crumbles brown; the oak Is even sooner gray and broke.

The maple reddens, and the ash Leaps up and falls at Autumn's lash;

The aspen leaf will longest stay, Be sure; I saw them green to-day.

XIII

UP from hill and meadow burning, Fumes of Autumn in the air; Birds in dusty blue returning, Passing on their southern fare.

Color, color, scent and savor, How they penetrate the heart, Wake the old delicious quaver; — That is Nature, that is Art.

XIV

THREE camping grounds I passed to-day, Where, in the months gone by, We sat to watch the kettle boil, And watch the bacon fry.

To-day the needles on the place Have fallen thick and sere. Ah! we are growing old apace, Year falling after year.

Where we were born, and where we die, Or where we sat at pot, Oblivion, like the leaves, shall lie, And cover up the spot.

XV

PRAYER FOR GRACE

THE eager frost through all the night The oak and walnut leaves did bite. To-day the sun, across the dell, Shone on them warmly, and they fell. Each leaf, the scarlet and the yellow, Lay quietly beside his fellow.

Pray when the frost shall find in place Me, I may fall with such a grace, And come as quickly to my place.

XVI

IN NOVEMBER

JUNIPER gentle and rosemarie! There 's neat brown cones on the yellow larch, With scarlet haws on the gray thorn-tree. Ah, the year is long since the first of March!

A leaf is welcome along the lane, Periwinkle and wintergreen. But they sleep asleep in the icy rain, And the wreck of summer is gray between.

Shafted bennets above the mat Of the sodden grass, in the steady wind Whistle a warning caveat, As the hoarse gray month comes on behind.

A hungry gull, blown in from sea, Comes swift and fierce like a sudden Sin. The cold rain creeps on the leafless tree. Ah well! let beautiful death begin.

XVII

WHAT is this stones unless some cry Shall echo back and give it life? 'T is not enough that it be rife With history, with history.

XVIII

A BEETLE bug has bit my coat And ta'en a crescent moon, Whether to muffle round his throat Or felt a pair of shoon. God knows I do not want the part. He 's welcome to 't with all my heart!

Only, poor bug, I bid him 'ware November fierce and free! The biting frost will soon be here To bite more sharp than he. If he 'll return, he shall have wool To round the crescent moon to full.

XIX

WHAT hard, bright Spirit sits beyond the stars, On what high seat beyond the round of space? With what benignant, what pernicious face Views he the bloods the laughter, and the scars?

We may not reach beyond our prison bars. He will not bend to touch us in our place. We can but lift our heads and strive to trace His handiwork in what he makes or mars.

Nay, imperturbable, with other wars Engaged than ours, "I set you in your ways Of old," he says; "prate to me not nor praise, But build what joy you may behind your bars."

In the cold light of evening, or of thought, Basalt and adamant he seems with aught More hard, more cold, than ice or emerald; Who says, "I have not heard of heaven or hell"; Benign, pernicious, imperturbable, "I Am" alike by Greek and Hebrew called.

XX

DAVID AND JONATHAN

'T IS man with man in the bitter end Whatever the love and the heart of woman; Iron with iron, friend with friend, The tearless eye and the handclasp human.

XXI

THE MYSTIC

"And so," I said, much after having striven, "We mount close upward to the bar of heaven; But all our strength is spent upon the road, And cannot take the gift when it is given.

Doubt is our attitude of mind from birth; We cannot see, for memories of earth; We cannot breathe the rich and rarer air, To know the beauty and account the worth."

"And yet," one said, "you will not dare to say A man is free to turn his face away, Heedless of all the other friends of God, And selfishly pursue a silent way!

Surely the earth must ever find a place; Surely the human claim is no disgrace." — "But he must free himself who dares to mount The highest heaven and ask to see God's face."

XXII

WHEN the last candle is put out, And darkness gray falls round about, Shall we lie placid as to-night In a blank void of sound and sight? Or in the darkness shall we die, Screaming, and all the heart a lie?

XXIII

WHAT are the limitations hard, Importunate, of time and space, But fences of the prison-yard Of earth, to keep us in our place?

Like snares they catch us at the gate. I beat my eager wings in vain. Like some caged bird I learn to wait Till death shall set me free again;

Content to live awhile with these, The wards that keep me from the air, So at the end I reach the trees Of God, and find my freedom there.

XXIV

TO G.S.

[ON A POSTAL CARD]

IF one lack a new coat. One may still have a sister! Like an oar to a boat, Which without it would float, Yet not be a good boat — Ah, I ought to have kissed her! If one lack a new coat One may still have a sister.

November 4, 1890

XXV

THE CHICKADEE'S SONG

TO G.S.

GLIMPSED now and again in his pine-tree tower, A chickadee sang the soft hours away. And I could not hear what he had to say, For I was sad, And he was gay. For he was glad, And I had no power To hear in my heart what he had to say.

As he sang to the sun and the bright-eyed flowers And the golden air, all the world was gray. To me all was dead in the dreary day For I was sad And he was gay. And he was glad, As the dull-eyed hours Rolled on to the close of the dreary day.

For the eyes of the one alone with the power To brighten and lighten the black-cap's play Passed me by and were turned away.

So I was sad, Though the bird was gay; Though he was glad In his pine-tree tower; For her eyes passed me by and were turned away.

August 15, 1890

XXVI

TO G. S.

WHAT shall I speak, what phrases here compose, To tell the love that gathers close, and flows Up to the very lips, but cannot pass?

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I love you, and it is for more than this That you have suffered. Where no fruitage is, And naught there seems put forth, the very tree Itself, entire, a noble fruit may be.

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Life is but life, and who the secret finds Of living as you live, in silence binds (For God and those of us who understand) About her brows a halo from the hand Of Christ himself, and bears a lily wand.

1891

XXVII

TO G.S.

PRAY God to give me power to keep Life's cureless evils out of sight; Nor wander o'er the world and weep The things I cannot do aright.

Let Manfred's load be bitter-borne, And Werther cowardly outpour His sorrows on the world … I scorn To add one weight to weakness more.

October, 1892.

XXVIII

TO H.L.S.

I WANDERED on a lonely quest; And deep within a dark forést That lightened upward to the sky A maiden, with her head borne high, Went lightly by.

A bending shape, a glancing eye, Long slender limbs borne maidenly, Bound golden hair, — she trembled lest She fright the butterfly at rest On either breast.

So she went on into the west Beyond the dark-green, dim forést That fell to blackness — all the sky Closed down, — when on my lips felt I A butterfly!

XXIX

THERE are women in London and Paris and Rome With the light of the sun in their hair, With the color of joy in their eyes and their lips, — But the one that I love is n't there.

The one that I love — ah well! … I know by the heart's reminder, By the leap in the throat and the spring in the blood The way I must follow to find her.

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'Tis bitter to gallop in Rotten Row With the prettiest English girl When your heart's afloat on the western sea Where Atlantic breakers curl.

Then out of a hundred thousand ways One way lies shining and bright, One way out under the western stars To the feet of my heart's delight.

XXX

DAY by day along the street Many a girl I see is sweet; But the lips that should be ripe, Pallid like the Indian-pipe.

These, devoted and forlorn, Brave to work and brave to mourn, When the world is full of guile Think to conquer with a smile.

Every day I meet some maid Born, it seems, to be betrayed; All the substance of desire Burning with a paltry fire.

These for brief and bitter passion, Like the poppy, God will fashion; And the first rough wind that blows Lays them broken down in rows.

Phyllis, when you see the frail Fall, and courage not avail, Is your true heart not dismayed At the fortune of a maid?

XXXI

THE world is crossed at sixes and at sevens, Athwart with love. Behind their crystal bars The silver stars Ache in their separate heavens, And only these Dear human hands on earth have ease. To-night indeed I pity the poor trees Even in the grove; For though their branches mingle, Inwoven and crossed a moment by the breezes Each is forever single.

XXXII

LOVE is a life you cannot trace Nor find by gazing in the face. You cannot sum it, pence by pence, Nor find it in its elements.

XXXIII

[From the French.]

THE spring has not so many flowers, The yellow shore so many sands, So many silver drops the showers As I have sorrows at your hands.

XXXIV

DEAR heart, that in this world must live and die, And love, and fix your faith on one to love you, How should I live, to think it were not I, To stand beside, and touch and hold and prove you.

XXXV

THE hollow chambers of the moon, The purple barrens of the deep, Do not so cruel silence keep As you who put your heart to sleep.

Believe me, gold is not more pure, The oak more steadfast in the wind, The sun a flame more strong and sure Than is the purpose of his mind Who steels his heart to find you so unkind.

XXXVI

THE shad-bush, sweetheart, is in flower, And tells her secret hour by hour. A silent secret she imparts, The fragrance of her heart of hearts, Unguessed save by the initiate bee And you, as yours, sweetheart, by me.

XXXVII

WRECK of the winter upcast into April. Buds? — no buds on the bough as yet. Only a hope and a promise of summer To spring through the wet.

Just last night, as the air like water Hung, and softened the rigid close, Came December down out of the mountains, And the lilacs froze.

Ice, like glass, was on all the forest; Shut like a lid on the steaming brook. Blood, that sprang from the heart-roots under, The willows forsook.

So, once more, dear heart, but only Once, is the blossom of life betrayed. Heart, dear heart, as I love you, tell me You are not afraid.

XXXVIII

MY sisters have their loves, but I Am all alone, she said. And oh! the weary wonder Why. And oh! that I were dead. Ai me for life and love! she saith. She says, I am in love with death.

Ai me! for love is very sweet, And hearts are warm to wed; But burn to ashes in defeat And loneliness, she said.

Ai me! And with her wasting breath She says, I am in love with death.

And when my couch they shall prepare, And come for me, she said, They 'll bring white roses for my hair, And not the roses red. Ai me, for life and love! she saith. She says, I am in love with death.

XXXIX

RED ROSE AND WHITE

A RED rose climbed to the casement; Cried, "Open to me! My cry is the call of the passing years, I ask for love and the dew of tears Withheld by thee."

I broke the rose at the casement; Cried, "Welcome to thee." Ah, red rose dead! but I could not know That only the pale white rose would blow On earth for me.

XL

I MARK you coming the accustomed way, As light as grace, your head uplift and high, Gray subtlety of flame in either eye, Your hair blown golden by the windy spray; And bright about you, darting with the play Of beams of tint most delicate and shy, A light such as above the eastern sky Heralds the dayspring and adorns the day;

Such crown as, when the gates of June unclose, Plays like the veil of rose about the rose; A snare, of grain so delicate, so mighty, Not Ares, not Adonis might prevail. Thou art the goddess of the golden veil, Mistress of men, the woman Aphrodite.

XLI

THE extreme beauty and the dear delight, Wherewith the world accosts me as I go, Catch up the heart, and like a flake of snow Ethereal, it dances in the light. The music-voices of the day and night Charm utterly. In truth, I never know Another wish, before the various show And concert of the hearing and the sight!

Yet were I most unhappy if alone Beauty without I courted and adored. O tyrant Love, peace, then; the world is dumb! I hear my lady calling and I come. For love within o'er love without is lord, And calls us with a look, a touch, a tone.

XLII

I LAUGH for the long days I see ahead Stretching in yellow light where we shall walk, And pluck the full-blown roses from the stalk, And mallows pale, and poppies deep and red. I strive no more. Why, love, my feet are led. I have forgot the fears and haste that balk, And like a child that 's newly learned to talk Tell the new joy whereby I 'm comforted.

For, dear, you taught me, by your graciousness, My highest skill was to be most myself, No turn-coat Ghibelline but the true Guelf, Filling his faults and virtues to the brim; No more than faithful to himself, no less Than true to her who will be true to him.

XLIII

[Fragment of a Sonnet, found in a note-book.]

IN company … with vital hands. You shape the stuff which is our life, and measure With equal pulse our golden warp of pleasure, Our scarlet woof of pain, in scarlet strands. As if, o'erwearied in a hundred lands, Young Aphrodite's self, undone with leisure, Should wield the distaff and the silken treasure Which Clotho only … understands. Then, Aphrodite, sister-star and wife, Incomprehensible, enact the god. Favor at least one mortal with your nod. He only has enough who has to spare. Bless me with the sweet torment of your life, Your love, and the dear wonder of your hair.

XLIV

WHEN Love dies, and the funeral plumes are set, And mourners come to take you by the hand, Regard them not; they do not understand Who bid you bless your sorrow and forget. When Love has died (if Love should die!) regret

Will bind you broken in the former land, And warp your life with one supreme command To tend the dead in love's dark oubliette.

For you have loved, and all your life is altered. And you have lost, and appetite unfed Will drive you seeking solace with the dead. Be there your life; and know that, having faltered, You seek among the living folk in vain. For love is dead. You shall not meet again.

XLV

SWAMPSCOTT over the eastern sea, And the western wall of the sea is Lynn; And stroke by stroke on the shingle The waves come pounding in; Bitter waves of the bitter sea, With a music all their own, With the awful charm of the Gorgon In the look of them and the tone. And every wave gave up its soul, That passed in a gusty breath, — A pulse in the air, that stirred my hair, And whispered "Death."