Willow Pollen 2

Willow Pollen 2

YOU

 

 

I

 

You are the sunshine,

I am the sod:

Flame to my leaf-mould,

And goldenrod.

 

 

II

 

You are the shadow,

I am the rock:

Coolness of sheep bells,

Stilling the flock.

 

 

III

 

You are the starlight,

I am the stream:

Trees dripping lustre

Into our dream.

 

 

 

 

CROSS ROADS

 

 

I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,--

All the festivals of spring your name has lain

Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip

In the rain?

 

I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,--

Every step a song, every song a flight home to you

While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day

And I pray?

 

I wonder if the heavens know I love you,--

Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate

Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I

Say goodbye?

 

 

 

 

CALENDAR

 

_Of a Little Garden on Lake Champlain_

 

 

Sometimes the sun, like a big bee

Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,

Dreams over my garden,

So still the dust shines on his burning wings.

And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star

To fill his basket claws with night.

Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,

Rubs legs together--I saw him do it--

And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose

And blood-red columbine,--

It’s July then.

Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,

Scours it with pollen from his back

And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,--

Then it’s June.

 

At times he scoops the white crest off a wave

Into the basket of his claws--

I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy--

Then zi-ig! He’s back again

Spreading some lilies by the sandy path,

White with gold dashed on their lips

Where he clings--the big bee--sucking.

I know he’s there because the bells ring so:

Seven lilies, then five, then four,

I count them on their stems,

An octave’s length of melody,

A little running song of happiness,--

It’s August then.

 

But now he’s quiet.

Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,

And gold upon the lake--pale leaf of drifting waters

Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight--frets him.

For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold

With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.

Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,

Spreading it in marigolds and frost,--

It is September then,--October, too.

 

The bee, the big bee, the burning bee

Begins and ends in gold.

In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,

He climbs the sky with fagots on his back

To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;

And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,

Flings daffodils along an evening sky,--

It’s May then, and April, too.

 

Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.

Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,

And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.

What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes

Or a saffron butterfly

Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk!

 

I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly

About my little garden’s pool,

But not for long.

He has his mysteries.

His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.

Who would not like the change?...

I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,

I _know_!

 

 

 

 

WILD GRAPE VINE

 

 

I will be like a wild grape vine,

I will climb the sun gathering color;

Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,

Cupped in brown-gold,

Dusted with silver.

I will cling with my dry stem

Until my stem is strong as brown cedar.

Then will I swing from tree to tree,

Twisting, turning, blowing,

Binding all trees with my tendrils,

Embracing them, leaping with them,

Woven in and out of them,

One!

 

And the wild bee shall love me,

And the wild bee shall follow me

With song!

And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk

And sweet odor at dawn.

And then!--And then

Among all beloved trees which can resist me!

They will yield themselves to me

And I shall swing over the whole world,--

Every forest of earth,

Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,

Every wilderness,--

Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,

Beating upon the stars with my gold,

Kissing the dawn with my silver,

Resting in my brown upon earth,

My roots in her, my fruit her being!

 

_Wind, Wind,_

_Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,--_

_The wild bee clinging!_

_Wind, Wind,_

_Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,--_

_The wild bee following!_

_Wind, Wind,_

_Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,--_

_The wild bee singing!_

 

 

 

 

TO SOME FLOWERS

 

_Growing Near a Wall of Portland Harbor_

 

 

What will you bring today?

Nod once if it be grave,

Nod thrice if it be gay!

 

Primrose with eyes for night,

Sweet-peas with wings for flight,

Poppies with cups for dew,

Love in the midst of rue:

Which nods to me?

 

No, you turn your faces all one way

Against the wall,

Because a wind from off the sea

Draws its chill fingers down your cups

And bids your petals fall.

 

You do not nod,

You beckon neither once nor thrice

To me, but to the earth

There slips a cover manifold

Of every hue.

 

And from the wall beside the sea

Curl mist and myriad broken wings.

 

Such gift you give to me!