That too I remember...
And the tenderly rocking mountain
And beating stars...
Lay like a waxen hand upon the world,
And folded hills
Broke into a sudden wonder of peaks, stemming clear and cold,
Till the Tall One bloomed like a lily,
Flecked with sun,
Fine as a golden pollen—
It seemed a wind might blow it from the snow.
I smelled the raw sweet essences of things,
And heard spiders in the leaves
And ticking of little feet,
As tiny creatures came out of their doors
To see God pouring light into his star...
... It seemed life held No future and no past but this...
And I too got up stiffly from the earth,
And held my heart up like a cup...
I look along the years
And see the flowers you threw...
And sprigs of gray
Sparse heather of the rocks,
Or a wild violet
Or daisy of a daisied field...
But each your best.
I might have worn them on my breast
To wilt in the long day...
I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase
And watched each petal sallowing...
I might have held them so—mechanically—
Till the wind winnowed all the leaves
And left upon my hands
A little smear of dust.
I hid them in the soft warm loam
Of a dim shadowed place...
In a still cool grotto,
Lit only by the memories of stars
And the wide and luminous eyes
Of dead poets
That love me and that I love...
Where none may see—not even ye who gave—
About my soul your garden beautiful.
There is music in the strong
Whisperings of song
Heard in the leaves’ hush—
Ballads of the trees
In tongues unknown—
A reminiscent tone
On minor keys...
Boughs swaying to and fro
Though no winds pass...
Faint odors in the grass
Where no flowers grow,
And flutterings of wings
And faint first notes,
Once babbled on the boughs
Of faded springs.
Is it music from the graves
Of all things fair
Trembling on the staves
Of spacious air—
Fluted by the winds
Songs with no words—
Sonatas from the throats
Of master birds?
One peering through the husk
Of darkness thrown
May hear it in the dusk—
That ancient tone,
Silvery as the light
Of long dead stars
Yet falling through the night
In trembling bars.
Where to-day would a dainty buyer
Imbibe your scented juice,
Pale ruin with a heart of fire;
Drain your succulence with her lips,
Grown sapless from much use...
Make minister of her desire
A chalice cup where no bee sips—
Where no wasp wanders in?