Wiersze - Josephine Preston Peabody strona 4

The cloud

 
The islands called me far away,
         The valleys called me home.
The rivers with a silver voice
         Drew on my heart to come.

The paths reached tendrils to my hair
         From every vine and tree.
There was no refuge anywhere
         Until I came to thee.

There is a northern cloud I know,
         Along a mountain crest;
And as she folds her wings of mist,
         So I could make my rest.

There is no chain to bind her so
         Unto that purple height;
And she will shine and wander, slow,
         Slow, with a cloud's delight.

Would she begone? She melts away,
         A heavenly joyous thing.
Yet day will find the mountain white,
         White-folded with her wing.

As you may see, but half aware
         If it be late or soon,
Soft breathing on the day-time air,
         The fair forgotten Moon.

And though love cannot bind me, Love,
         -- Ah no! -- yet I could stay
Maybe, with wings forever spread,
         -- Forever, and a day.

The Enchanted Sheepfold

 
The hills far-off were blue, blue,
         The hills at hand were brown;
And all the herd-bells called to me
         As I came by the down.

The briars turned to roses, roses;
         Ever we stayed to pull
A white little rose, and a red little rose,
         And a lock of silver wool.

Nobody heeded, -- none, none;
         And when True Love came by,
They thought him naught but the shepherd-boy.
         Nobody knew but I!

The trees were feathered like birds, birds;
         Birds were in every tree.
Yet nobody heeded, nobody heard,
         Nobody knew, save me.

And he is fairer than all -- all.
         How could a heart go wrong?
For his eyes I knew, and his knew mine,
         Like an old, old song.

The house and the road

The little Road says, Go,
The little House says, Stay:
And O, it's bonny here at home,
But I must go away.

The little Road, like me,
Would seek and turn and know;
And forth I must, to learn the things
The little Road would show!

And go I must, my dears,
And journey while I may,
Though heart be sore for the little House
That had no word but Stay.

Maybe, no other way
Your child could ever know
Why a little House would have you stay,
When a little Road says, Go.

The Nightingale unheard

The Nightingale unheard
 
Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time
         We followed on, from moon to golden moon;
         From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon,
And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.
         All the white way beside the girdling blue,
Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime,
         We listened; -- from the old year to the new.
         Brown bird, and where were you?

You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high
         And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats!
         Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats;
Nor yet -- of all bird-song should glorify --
         Assisi, Little Portion of the blest,
Assisi, in the bosom of the sky,
         Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest,
         That little, heavenliest!

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are,
         That beckon with white looks an endless way;
         Where, through the fair wet silverness of May,
A lamb shines out as sudden as a star,
         Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale,
The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far,
         And the red may-trees wear a shining veil.
         And still, no nightingale!

The one vain longing, -- through all journeyings,
         The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot, --
         All the soft-swarming dark where you were not,
Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings,
         And wonders, that your own must ever make
To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings;
         And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache; --
         Even for Music's sake.

But most, his music whose beloved name
         Forever writ in water of bright tears,
         Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years,
That kindle there the hallowed April flame
         Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine
Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same,
         Violets still! -- When falls, to leave no sign,
         The arch of Constantine.

Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he,
         From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe,
         Your song once shook to surging overflow.
How was it, sovran dweller of the tree,
         His cry, still throbbing in the flooded shell
Of silence with remembered melody,
         Could draw from you no answer to the spell?
         -- O Voice, O Philomel?

Long time we wondered (and we knew not why): --
         Nor dream, nor prayer, of wayside gladness born,
         Nor vineyards waiting, nor reproachful thorn,
Nor yet the nested hill-towns set so high
         All the white way beside the girdling blue, --
Nor olives, gray against a golden sky,
         Could serve to wake that rapturous voice of you!
         But the wise silence knew.

O Nightingale unheard! -- Unheard alone,
         Throughout that woven music of the days
         From the faint sea-rim to the market-place,
And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!
         So be it, better so: that there should fail
For sun-filled ones, one blessed thing unknown.
         To them, be hid forever, -- and all hail!
         Sing never, Nightingale.

Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheek
         Against the window, like a starving flower.
         Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hour
Of journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek.
         Loose, with your singing, captives such as these
In misery and iron, hearts too meek,
         For voyage -- voyage over dreamful seas
         To lost Hesperides.

Sing not for free-men. Ah, but sing for whom
         The walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade,
         The windows take no heed of light nor shade, --
The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom.
         Sing near! So in that golden overflowing
They may forget their wasted human bloom;
         Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing, --
         Reck not of life's bright going!

Sing not for lovers, side by side that hark;
         Nor unto parted lovers, save they be
         Parted indeed by more than makes the Sea,
Where never hope shall meet -- like mounting lark --
         Far Joy's uprising; and no memories
Abide to star the music-haunted dark:
         To them that sit in darkness, such as these,
         Pour down, pour down heart's-ease.

Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt
         The world's forgotten, both of men and birds;
         The alleys of no hope and of no words,
The hidings where men reap not, though they plant;
         But toil and thirst -- so dying and so born; --
And toil and thirst to gather to their want,
         From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn,
         -- To gather grapes of thorn!

. . . . .

And for those two, your pilgrims without tears,
         Who prayed a largess where there was no dearth,
Forgive it to their human-happy ears:
         Forgive it them, brown music of the Earth,
         Unknowing, -- though the wiser silence knew!
Forgive it to the music of the spheres
         That while they walked together so, the Two
         Together, -- heard not you.

The portrait of mrs. W.

  SYMES: Do you think a man could look on you, do you think a man could hear you speak, and learn unmoved of those burdens that threatened to crush your youth?... Could any man of feeling look on the spectacle of Genius rending the spirit of a lovely female, from within; and the thorns of this world thrust in her pathway; and keep humbly to his by-path, with no dream of being a rescuer? -- Yes. I confess to you, I was a trespasser. I tried to find out all I could of your life, your trials, your natural protectors; and finding no help there, I lost my head. And if, in that state of fascinated desperation, I conceived the wild dream--that I might be blessed to lighten your destiny ... I pray you to forgive my youth. I was a dumb thing; an uncouth creature always; timid of myself. I was thinking of taking orders, when I met you. I was an only son; with a few women-folk. It was what they desired. We had always had enough. -- Then, when I saw you, and read what you had written; and understood your great thoughts struggling in this insolent world, -- I knew that it was my duty to follow my conscience only; with one taper in my hand, a little truth that lighted the world newly. -- And I longed to see whatever you should see. And afterwards ... I learned that you were living and thinking over the water, in those terrible days with the French. And I hoped that I might but see you, once again. I am deeply in your debt, that you permit me to tell you the truth. Surely, happiness must be something like this.

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