Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

II.
INTERLUDES.

INTERLUDES.

HESPERIDES.

IF thy soul, Herrick, dwelt with me, This is what my songs would be: Hints of our sea-breezes, blent With odors from the Orient; Indian vessels deep with spice; Star-showers from the Norland ice; Wine-red jewels that seem to hold Fire, but only burn with cold; Antique goblets, strangely wrought, Filled with the wine of happy thought; Bridal measures, vain regrets, Laburnum buds and violets; Hopeful as the break of day; Clear as crystal; new as May; Musical as brooks that run O'er yellow shallows in the sun; Soft as the satin fringe that shades The eyelids of thy fragrant maids; Brief as thy lyrics, Herrick, are, And polished as the bosom of a star.

BEFORE THE RAIN.

WE knew it would rain, for all the morn, A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens— Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind— and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!

AFTER THE RAIN.

THE rain has ceased, and in my room The sunshine pours an airy flood; And on the church's dizzy vane The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.

From out the dripping ivy-leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and high,

A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye:

And now it glimmers in the sun, A square of gold, a disk, a speck: And in the belfry sits a Dove With purple ripples on her neck.

CASTLES.

THERE is a picture in my brain That only fades to come again— The sunlight, through a veil of rain To leeward, gilding A narrow stretch of brown sea-sand, A lighthouse half a league from land, And two young lovers, hand in hand, A castle-building.

Upon the budded apple-trees The robins sing by twos and threes, And ever, at the faintest breeze, Down-drops a blossom; And ever would that lover be The wind that robs the burgeoned tree, And lifts the soft tress daintily On Beauty's bosom.

Ah, graybeard, what a happy thing It was, when life was in its spring, To peep through love's betrothal ring At fields Elysian, To move and breathe in magic air, To think that all that seems is fair— Ah, ripe young mouth and golden hair, Thou pretty vision!

Well, well, I think not on these two But the old wound breaks out anew, And the old dream, as if 't were true, In my heart nestles; Then tears come welling to my eyes, For yonder, all in saintly guise, As 't were, a sweet dead woman lies Upon the trestles.

INGRATITUDE.

Four bluish eggs all in the moss! Soft-lined home on the cherry-bough! Life is trouble, and love is loss— There's only one robin now.

O robin up in the cherry-tree, Singing your soul away, Great is the grief befallen me, And how can you be so gay?

Long ago when you cried in the nest, The last of the sickly brood, Scarcely a pinfeather warming your breast, Who was it brought you food?

Who said, "Music, come fill his throat, Or ever the May be fled"? Who was it loved the low sweet note And the bosom's sea-shell red?

Who said, "Cherries, grow ripe and big, Black and ripe for this bird of mine"? How little bright-bosom bends the twig, Sipping the black-heart's wine!

Now that my days and nights are woe, Now that I weep for love's dear sake— There you go singing away as though Never a heart could break!

DECEMBER.

ONLY the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.

Darkest of all Decembers Ever my life has known,

Sitting here by the embers,Stunned and helpless, alone—

Dreaming of two graves lying Out in the damp and chill: One where the buzzard, flying, Pauses at Malvern Hill;

The other—alas! the pillows Of that uneasy bed Rise and fall with the billows Over our sailor's head.

Theirs the heroic story — Died, by frigate and town! Theirs the Calm and the Glory, Theirs the Cross and the Crown.

Mine to linger and languish Here by the wintry sea. Ah, faint heart! in thy anguish, What is there left to thee?

Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.

THE FADED VIOLET.

WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves! What tender thought, what speechless pain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, Thou darling of the April rain!

I hold thy faded lips to mine, Though scent and azure tint are fled— O dry, mute lips! ye are the type Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves; Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim; Yet, for the love of those white hands That found thee by a river's brim—

That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine— For love of her who love forgot, I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this, I use my subtlest art, For this, I fold thee in my song.

BALLAD.

THE blackbird sings in the hazel-brake, And the squirrel sits on the tree; And Blanche she walks in the merry greenwood, Down by the summer sea.

The blackbird lies when he sings of love, And the squirrel, a thief is he; And Blanche is an arrant flirt, I swear, And light as light can be.

O blackbird, die in the hazel-brake!And squirrel, starve on the tree! And Blanche—you may walk in the merry greenwood. You are nothing more to me.

THE LUNCH.

A GOTHIC window, where a damask curtain Made the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain: A slab of agate on four eagle-talons Held trimly up and neatly taught to balance: A porcelain dish, o'er which in many a cluster Black grapes hung down, dead-ripe and without lustre:

A melon cut in thin, delicious slices: A cake that seemed mosaic-work in spices: Two China cups with golden tulips sunny, And rich inside with chocolate like honey: And she and I the banquet-scene completing With dreamy words—and very pleasant eating!

THE ONE WHITE ROSE.

A SORROWFUL woman said to me, "Come in and look on our child." I saw an Angel at shut of day, And it never spoke—but smiled.

I think of it in the city's streets, I dream of it when I rest— The violet eyes, the waxen hands, And the one white rose on the breast!

NAMELESS PAIN.

IN my nostrils the summer wind Blows the exquisite scent of the rose: O for the golden, golden wind, Breaking the buds as it goes!

Breaking the buds and bending the grass, And spilling the scent of the rose.

O wind of the summer morn,Tearing the petals in twain, Wafting the fragrant soul Of the rose through valley and plain, I would you could tear my heart to-day And scatter its nameless pain!

AT TWO-AND-TWENTY.

MARIAN, May, and Maud Have not passed me by— Archéd foot, and rosy mouth, And bronze-brown eye!

When my hair is gray, Then I shall be wise; Then, thank Heaven! I shall not care For bronze-brown eyes.

Then let Maud and May And Marian pass me by: So they do not scorn me now, What care I?

SONG-TIME.

FROM out the blossomed cherry-tops Sing, blithesome robin, chant and sing; With chirp, and trill, and magic-stops Win thou the listening ear of Spring!

For while thou lingerest in delight, An idle poet, with thy rhyme, The summer hours will take their flight And leave thee in a barren clime.

Not all the autumn's rustling gold, Nor sun, nor moon, nor star shall bring The jocund spirit which of old Made it an easy joy to sing!

So said a poet—having lost The precious time when he was young— Now wandering by the wintry coast With empty heart and silent tongue.

THE DÆMON LOVER.

UNDER the night, In the white moonshine,

Sit thou with me,By the graveyard tree, Imogene.

The fire-flies swarm In the white moonshine, Each with its light For our bridal night, Imogene.

Blushing with love, In the white moonshine, Lie in my arms, So, safe from alarms, Imogene.

Paler art thou Than the white moonshine. Ho! thou art lost— Thou lovest a Ghost, Imogene.

PALABRAS CARIÑOSAS.

(SPANISH AIR.)

GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night To such a host of peerless things!

Good-night unto the fragile hand All queenly with its weight of rings; Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, Good-night unto the perfect mouth, And all the sweetness nestled there— The snowy hand detains me, then I'll have to say Good-night again!

But there will come a time, my love, When, if I read our stars aright, I shall not linger by this porch With my adieus. Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blushed yourself to death To own so much a year ago— What, both these snowy hands! ah, then I'll have to say Good-night again!

MAY.

HEBE's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey.

See the knots of buttercups, And the purple pansies—

Thick as these, within my brain,Grow the wildest fancies.

Let me write my songs to-day. Rhymes with dulcet closes— Four-line epics one might hide In the hearts of roses.

THE BLUEBELLS OF NEW ENGLAND.

THE roses are a regal troop, And modest folk the daisies; But, Bluebells of New England, To you I give my praises—

To you, fair phantoms in the sun, Whom merry Spring discovers, With bluebirds for your laureates, And honey-bees for lovers.

The south-wind breathes, and lo! you throng This rugged land of ours: I think the pale blue clouds of May Drop down, and turn to flowers!

By cottage doors along the roads You show your winsome faces, And, like the spectre lady, haunt The lonely woodland places.

All night your eyes are closed in sleep, Kept fresh for day's adorning: Such simple faith as yours can see God's coming in the morning!

You lead me by your holiness To pleasant ways of duty; You set my thoughts to melody, You fill me with your beauty.

Long may the heavens give you rain, The sunshine its caresses, Long may the woman that I love Entwine you in her tresses!

WEDDED.

(PROVENÇAL AIR.)

THE happy bells shall ring, Marguerite; The summer birds shall sing, Marguerite— You smile, but you shall wear Orange-blossoms in your hair, Marguerite.

Ah me! the bells have rung, Marguerite;

The summer birds have sung,Marguerite— But cypress leaf and rue Make a sorry wreath for you, Marguerite.

ROMANCE.

I.

I HAVE placed a golden Ring upon the hand Of the blithest little Lady in the land!

When the early roses Scent the sunny air, She shall gather white ones To tremble in her hair!

Hasten, happy roses, Come to me by May— In your folded petals Lies my wedding-day.

II.

The chestnuts shine through the cloven rind, And the woodland leaves are red, my dear; The scarlet fuchsias burn in the wind— Funeral plumes for the Year!

The Year which has brought me so much woe That if it were not for you, my dear, I could wish the fuchsias' fire might glow For me as well as the Year.

III.

OUT from the depths of my heart Had arisen this single cry, Let me behold my belovéd, Let me behold her, and die.

At last, like a sinful soul At the portals of Heaven I lie, Never to walk with the blest, Ah, never!... only to die.

DESTINY.

THREE roses, wan as moonlight and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown, Drooped in a florist's window in a town.

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.

The second rose, as virginal and fair, Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

UNSUNG.

As sweet as the breath that goes From the lips of the white rose, As weird as the elfin lights That glimmer of frosty nights, As wild as the winds that tear The curled red leaf in the air, Is the song I have never sung.

In slumber, a hundred times I have said the mystic rhymes, But ere I open my eyes This ghost of a poem flies; Of the interfluent strains Not even a note remains: I know by my pulses' beat It was something wild and sweet, And my heart is strangely stirred By an unremembered word!

I strive, but I strive in vain, To recall the lost refrain. On some miraculous day Perhaps it will come and stay;

In some unimagined Spring I may find my voice, and sing The song I have never sung.

FROST-WORK.

THESE winter nights, against my window-pane Nature with busy pencil draws designs Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines, Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines, Which she will make when summer comes again— Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold, Like curious Chinese etchings....By and by, I in my leafy garden as of old, These frosty fantasies shall charm my eye In azure, damask, emerald, and gold.

LANDSCAPE.

TWILIGHT.

GAUNT shadows stretch along the hill; Cold clouds drift slowly west; Soft flocks of vagrant snow-flakes fill The redwing's empty nest.

By sunken reefs the hoarse sea roars;Above the shelving sands, Like skeletons the sycamores Uplift their wasted hands.

The air is full of hints of grief, Strange voices touched with pain— The pathos of the falling leaf And rustling of the rain.

In yonder cottage shines a light, Far-gleaming like a gem— Not fairer to the Rabbins' sight Was star of Bethlehem!

ROCOCO.

BY studying my lady's eyes I've grown so learnéd day by day, So Machiavelian in this wise, That when I send her flowers, I say

To each small flower (no matter what, Geranium, pink, or tuberose, Syringa, or forget-me-not, Or violet) before it goes:

"Be not triumphant, little flower, When on her haughty heart you lie, But modestly enjoy your hour: She'll weary of you by and by."

HAUNTED.

A NOISOME mildewed vine Crawls to the rotting eaves; The gate has dropped from the rusty hinge, And the walks are stamped with leaves.

Close by the shattered fence The red-clay road runs by To a haunted wood, where the hemlocks groan And the willows sob and sigh.

Among the dank lush flowers The spiteful fire-fly glows, And a woman steals by the stagnant pond Wrapt in her burial clothes.

There's a dark blue scar on her throat, And ever she makes a moan, And the humid lizards gleam in the grass, And the lichens weep on the stone;

And the Moon shrinks in a cloud, And the traveller shakes with fear,

And an Owl on the skirts of the woodHoots, and says, Do you hear?

Go not there at night, For a spell hangs over all— The palsied elms, and the dismal road, And the broken garden-wall.

O, go not there at night, For a curse is on the place; Go not there, for fear you meet The Murdered face to face!

FABLE.

ROME, 1875.

"FABLE." Page 56.

A CERTAIN bird in a certain wood, Feeling the spring-time warm and good, Sang to it, in melodious mood. On other neighboring branches stood Other birds who heard his song: Loudly he sang, and clear and strong; Sweetly he sang, and it stirred their gall There should be a voice so musical. They said to themselves: "We must stop that bird, He's the sweetest voice was ever heard.

That rich, deep chest-note, crystal-clear, Is a mortifying thing to hear. We have sharper beaks and hardier wings, Yet we but croak: this fellow sings!" So they planned and planned, and killed the bird With the sweetest voice was ever heard.

Passing his grave one happy May, I brought this English daisy away.

A SNOW-FLAKE.

ONCE he sang of summer, Nothing but the summer; Now he sings of winter, Of winter bleak and drear: Just because there's fallen A snow-flake on his forehead. He must go and fancy 'T is winter all the year!

ACROSS THE STREET.

WITH lash on cheek, she comes and goes; I watch her when she little knows: I wonder if she dreams of it.

Sitting and working at my rhymes,I weave into my verse at times Her sunny hair, or gleams of it.

Upon her window-ledge is set A box of flowering mignonette; Morning and eve she tends to them — The senseless flowers, that do not care About that loosened strand of hair, As prettily she bends to them.

If I could once contrive to get Into that box of mignonette Some morning when she tends to them— She comes! I see the rich blood rise From throat to cheek!—down go the eyes, Demurely, as she bends to them!

IDENTITY.

SOMEWHERE—in desolate wind-swept space— In Twilight-land—in No-man's-land— Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" cried one a-gape, Shuddering in the gloaming light. "I know not," said the second Shape, "I only died last night!"

NOCTURNE.

BELLAGGIO.

UP to her chamber window A slight wire trellis goes, And up this Romeo's ladder Clambers a bold white rose.

I lounge in the ilex shadows, I see the lady lean, Unclasping her silken girdle, The curtain's folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover, She reaches out her hand And helps him in at the window— I see it where I stand!

To her scarlet lip she holds him, And kisses him many a time— Ah, me! it was he that won her Because he dared to climb!

AN UNTIMELY THOUGHT.

I WONDER what day of the week— I wonder what month of the year— Will it be midnight, or morning, And who will bend over my bier?

—What a hideous fancy to come As I wait, at the foot of the stair, While Lilian gives the last touch To her robe, or the rose in her hair.

Do I like your new dress— pompadour? And do I like you? On my life, You are eighteen, and not a day more, And have not been six years my wife.

Those two rosy boys in the crib Up-stairs are not ours, to be sure!— You are just a sweet bride in her bloom, All sunshine, and snowy, and pure.

As the carriage rolls down the dark street The little wife laughs and makes cheer— But... I wonder what day of the week, I wonder what month of the year.

RENCONTRE.

TOILING across the Mer de Glace, I thought of, longed for thee; What miles between us stretched, alas!— What miles of land and sea!

My foe, undreamed of, at my side Stood suddenly, like Fate. For those who love, the world is wide, But not for those who hate.

A WINTER PIECE.

Sous le voile qui vous protége, Défiant les regards jaloux, Si vous sortez par cette neige, Redoutez vos pieds andalous.

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

BENEATH the heavy veil you wear, Shielded from jealous eyes you go; But of your pretty feet have care If you should venture through the snow.

Howe'er you tread, a dainty mould Betrays that light foot all the same; Upon this glistening, snowy fold At every step it signs your name,

Thus guided, one might come too close Upon the slyly-hidden nest Where Psyche, with her cheek's cold rose, On Love's warm bosom lies at rest.

LOVE'S CALENDAR.

THE Summer comes and the Summer goes; Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, The swallows go darting through fragrant rains, Then, all of a sudden—it snows.

Dear Heart, our lives so happily flow, So lightly we heed the flying hours, We only know Winter is gone—by the flowers, We only know Winter is come—by the snow.

PALINODE.

I.

WHEN I was young and light of heart I made sad songs with easy art: Now I am sad, and no more young, My sorrow cannot find a tongue.

II.

Pray, Muses, since I may not sing Of Death or any grievous thing, Teach me some joyous strain, that I May mock my youth's hypocrisy!