. . read through a blur of tears
Quick pardon for the selfish years.
This time, this time, I would not wait
For that brief wire that said,
Too late!--
If I could only find the way
Into the Land of Yesterday.
I wonder if her roses yet
Lift up their heads and laugh with pride,
And if her phlox and mignonette
Have heart to blossom by their side;
I wonder if the dear old lane
Still chirps with robins after rain,
And if the birds and banded bees
Still rob her early cherry-trees. . . .
I wonder, if I went there now,
How everything would seem, and how--
But no! not now; there is no way
Back to the Land of Yesterday.
OCTOBER
CEASE to call him sad and sober,
Merriest of months, October!
Patron of the bursting bins,
Reveler in wayside inns,
I can nowhere find a trace
Of the pensive in his face;
There is mingled wit and folly,
But the madcap lacks the grace
Of a thoughtful melancholy.
Spendthrift of the seasons' gold,
How he flings and scatters out
Treasure filched from summer-time!--
Never ruffling squire of old
Better loved a tavern bout
When Prince Hal was in his prime.
Doublet slashed with gold and green;
Cloak of crimson; changeful sheen,
Of the dews that gem his breast;
Frosty lace about his throat;
Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float
Backward in a gay unrest--
Where's another gallant drest
With such tricksy gaiety,
Such unlessoned vanity?
With his amber afternoons
And his pendant poets' moons--
With his twilights dashed with rose
From the red-lipped afterglows--
With his vocal airs at dawn
Breathing hints of Helicon--
Bacchanalian bees that sip
Where his cider-presses drip--
With the winding of the horn
Where his huntsmen meet the morn--
With his every piping breeze
Shaking from familiar trees
Apples of Hesperides--
With the chuckle, chirp, and trill
Of his jolly brooks that spill
Mirth in tangled madrigals
Down pebble-dappled waterfalls--
(Brooks that laugh and make escape
Through wild arbors where the grape
Purples with a promise of
Racy vintage rare as love)--
With his merry, wanton air,
Mirth and vanity and folly
Why should he be made to bear
Burden of some melancholy
Song that swoons and sinks with care?
Cease to call him sad or sober,--
He's a jolly dog, October!
CHANT OF THE CHANGING HOURS
THE Hours passed by, a fleet, confused crowd;
With wafture of blown garments bright as fire,
Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed,
And where they trod the jonquil and the briar
Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells
Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells;--
They danced! they danced! to piping such as
flings
The garnered music of a million Springs
Into one single, keener ecstasy;--
One paused and shouted to my questionings:
"Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by; they paced, great lords and
proud,
Crowned on with sunlight, robed in rich attire;
Before their conquering word the brute deed
bowed,
And Ariel fancies served their large desire;
They spake, and roused the mused soul that dwells
In dust, or, smiling, shaped new heavens and
hells,
Dethroned old gods and made blind beggars kings:
"And what art thou," I cried to one, "that brings
His mistress, for a brooch, the Galaxy?"--
"I am the plumed Thought that soars and sings:
Lo, I am Song; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, with veiled eyes endowed
Of dream, and parted lips that scarce suspire,
To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight vowed,
South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring
lyre;--
Swaying they moved, as drows'd of wizard spells
Or tranc'd with sight of recent miracles,
And yet they trembled, down their folded wings
Quivered the hint of sweet withholden things,
Ah, bitter-sweet in their intensity!
One paused and said unto my wonderings:
"Lo, I am Love; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, through huddled cities loud
With witless hate and stale with stinking mire:
So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud
Down streets plague-spotted toward some cleans-
ing pyre;--
Yet, lo! strange lilies bloomed in lightless cells,
And passionate spirits burst their clayey shells
And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and
clings:
Earth's bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings,
And joy still struggled through the threnody!
One stern Hour said unto my marvelings:
"Lo, I am Life; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, the stumbling hours and
cowed,
Uncertain, prone to tears and childish ire,--
The wavering hours that drift like any cloud
At whim of winds or fortunate or dire,--
The feeble shapes that any chance expells;
Their wisdom useless, lacking the blood that swells
The tensed vein: the hot, swift tide that stings
With life.
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