The House of the Trees & Other Poems 7

The House of the Trees & Other Poems 7

The Big Moon

 

 

The big moon came to the edge of the sky,

And pierced me with its dart;

I strove to put its brightness by

Before it burned my heart.

 

I wrapped the windows thick and well,

I closely barred the door,

The light of my penny candles fell

On low-built wall and floor.

 

The little room and the little light

Began to comfort me;

But I heard--I heard the golden night

Call like a sounding sea.

 

I knew the moon swam in the sky,

And the earth swam in the moon;

I went outside in the grass to lie,

To yield to the deadly swoon.

 

My soul was filled with white moon rain

Till it ran o’er and o’er,

My soul was thrilled with bright moon pain

Till it could bear no more;

I stole back through the curtained gloom

Up stairs unlit and steep,

And in a low-ceiled darkened room

My hurt was healed with sleep.

 

 

 

 

The Twins

 

 

I

 

The old man and his apple-tree

Are verging close on eighty-three;

’Twas planted there when he was two,

And almost side by side they grew.

How strong and straight they were at eight,

One leafy, one with curly pate.

How fine at twenty, how alive

And prosperous at twenty-five.

What health and grace in every limb,

Was said of it--was said of him.

 

 

II

 

Then when he blushed, a marriage groom,

The tree outvied the bride in bloom;

And in the after years there played

Within its ample sweep of shade

A little child, with cheeks as red

As had the apples overhead.

Her father called the tree his twin,

And surely it was next of kin.

 

 

 

III

 

The best of life came to the twain,

The beauty of the stars, the rain,

Soft stepping, and the liquid notes

That overflow from feathered throats.

Unto the soul that selfish strives

Was borne the fragrance of their lives,

And anxious folk with brow down bent

Bathed in their dewy cool content.

They held their heads up in the storm,

And gloried when the winds were warm;

Their shadows lay but at their feet,

And all of life above was sweet.

 

 

IV

 

And now that they are eighty-three

They’re almost as they used to be.

The blossoms are as pink and white,

The old man’s heart as pure and light.

The apples--fragrant balls of flame--

Are looking, tasting, just the same.

And just the same his uttered thought

Of mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought.

Through all their years they kept their truth,

Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.

 

 

 

 

Autumn Fire

 

 

The fires of Autumn are burning high;

Bright the trees in the woods are blazing--

A wall of flame from the brilliant sky

Down to the fields where the cattle are grazing.

O the warm, warm end of the year!

Even the shrubs their red hearts render;

All the bushes are bright with cheer

And the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.

 

The fires of Autumn are burning low;

Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing!

Blow the flames to a ruddier show,

Heap the coals to a hotter glowing.

Ah, the chill, chill end of the year!

Naught is left but a few leaf flashes;

White is the death stone, white and drear,

Over a desolate world of ashes.

 

 

 

 

In the Grass

 

 

Face downward on the grass in reverie,

I found how cool and sweet

Are the green glooms that often thoughtlessly

I tread beneath my feet.

 

In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean--

Elf trees untouched of bark--

I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheen

Of sunlight framing dark,

 

And felt with thoughts I cannot understand,

And know not how to speak,

A daisy reaching up its little hand

To lay it on my cheek.

 

 

 

 

The Fields of Dark

 

 

The wreathing vine within the porch

Is in the heart of me,

The roses that the noondays scorch

Shall burn in memory;

Alone at night I quench the light,

And without star or spark

The grass and trees press to my knees,

And flowers throng the dark.

 

The leaves that loose their hold at noon

Drop on my face like rain,

And in the watches of the moon

I feel them fall again.

By day I stray how far away

To stream and wood and steep,

But on my track they all come back

To haunt the vale of sleep.

 

The fields of light are clover-brimmed,

Or grassed or daisy-starred,

The fields of dark are softly dimmed,

And safely twilight-barred;

But in the gloom that fills my room

I cannot fail to mark

The grass and trees about my knees,

The flowers in the dark.

 

 

 

 

Children in the City

 

 

Thousands of childish ears, rough chidden,

Never a sweet bird-note have heard,

Deep in the leafy woodland hidden

Dies, unlistened to, many a bird.