Willow Pollen 7

Willow Pollen 7

Gray like a moth

Dawn slips away,

Bright in apocalypse of light.

Rose and gold and green of the world,

Wind and bird and the great sea’s lay

Possess the day!

 

 

 

 

GRAY WATERS

 

_At Isle au Haut_

 

 

Take me to some isle upon the sea!

Bear me on wing of bird or keel of ship

Out where gray waters slip

About some isle upon the sea,--

Upon the sea!

 

Lay me within some caverned rock

Whose bosom, hard from all the years,

Knows nothing of men’s tears,--

Gray peaceful rest beside the sea,

Beside the sea!

 

Take me to some isle upon the sea!

Bear me on wing of bird or keel of ship

Out where gray waters slip

About some isle upon the sea!

Upon the sea!

 

 

 

 

JOURNEY’S END

 

 

I shall not hear the thrushes sing,

Though sing they will that day;

For me will be an unknown sod

And an undreamed-of May!

 

 

 

 

WHITE PATHS

 

 

Here are white paths that gleam

In the twilight space of dream;

Here the winds turn in their sleep

With the rocking of the deep;

Here the golden song of thrush

Is music’s sunlight, evening’s hush;

Here the rustle of our prayer

Climbs the forest altar stair;

And here the stars burn in the sod--

Peaceful candlelight for God.

 

 

 

 

EBONY

 

_On watching a beautiful black arm opening a

Venetian Lantern at Fleur de Lys_

 

 

Ebony, Ebony,

Dreaming of a rose,

Flame in the flower-heart,

Dusk in repose;

 

Jeweled eyes glistening,

Dew on the leaf,

Sweet to Africa

Is the thought of her grief.

 

 

 

 

TO SOME PHILADELPHIA SPARROWS

 

 

Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds!

And I? I praise you for your saucy joy

On dusty streets; I love you for your twitter

In vines that cling to heated city walls;

Your noisy congregations on the trees;

Unchurchly ways of saying this and that

About your brother men; your gaieties

In parks nearby a fountain’s dripping brim.

 

Men say your manners are not fine. And, too,

They call you scavengers, they call you thief

And enemy to other prettier birds.

Perhaps we are one feather, you and I!

I would not hold it any grief to be

Your brother bird upon the city street.

 

I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heard

The lark in other lands, the thrush in this.

Dull many a day had been without your din,

Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways.

 

Men say unfriendly words of you. Of me

They speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gay

We are! Ah, well, we are one feather, you

And I! We have the city streets for plunder,

The eaves for wonder, and above there is

The sky!

 

 

 

 

ORIOLE’S NEST

 

AT FLEUR DE LYS

 

 

Night in an oriole’s hanging nest

Is rocking a basket world to sleep.

The wind blows soft

And the wind blows far,

Star, creep, star!

 

Pack me tight in my basket world,

Tread me and turn me with feet of your love!

O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!

O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!

Down in the marshes the little fish gleam,

Down in the marshes the little fish stir

Rushes in sleep,

Rushes that keep

Wrinkling the light of a drowsy star.

 

Here in my basket world hung on the wind

Over me rustles an ebony bough,

Over me hovers a silvery beak;

And clear and soft

And near and far

Lustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest,

Eyes that are gentle,

Eyes that are meek.

O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!

O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!

 

 

 

 

LITTLE MISS HILLY

 

 

Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-town

Goes walking the valleys and meadows adown;

She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moon

And she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune.

Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,--

Is dear unto me!

 

Her arms are so eager but tiny are they,

And her fingers are agile as waters at play.

Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope,

Must go without laughter and live without hope:

Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain,

Must shiver and quiver and ache with the pain

Of climbing for stars and wanting the moon

As she puts an old chanty once more into tune,

Ere the stars will come down or the moon will reply

Except by a wink through a chink in the sky

Oh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me,

So dear unto me!

 

 

 

 

ROSE TOADA

 

_A Sleep Song_

 

 

I

 

Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!

Jewelled red eyes for you.