|
THE WORLD TRANSFORMED UNWARMED by any sunset light | |
The gray day darkened into night, | |
A night made hoary with the swarm | |
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, | |
As zigzag, wavering to and fro, | 5 |
Crossed and recrossed the wingëd snow: | |
And ere the early bedtime came | |
The white drift piled the window-frame, | |
And through the glass the clothes-line posts | |
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. | 10 |
|
So all night long the storm roared on: | |
The morning broke without a sun; | |
In tiny spherule traced with lines | |
Of Natures geometric signs, | |
In starry flake, and pellicle, | 15 |
All day the hoary meteor fell; | |
And, when the second morning shone, | |
We looked upon a world unknown, | |
On nothing we could call our own. | |
Around the glistening wonder bent | 20 |
The blue walls of the firmament, | |
No cloud above, no earth below, | |
A universe of sky and snow! | |
The old familiar sights of ours | |
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers | 25 |
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, | |
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood; | |
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, | |
A fenceless drift what once was road; | |
The bridle-post an old man sat | 30 |
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; | |
The well-curb had a Chinese roof; | |
And even the long sweep, high aloof, | |
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell | |
Of Pisas loaning miracle. | 35 |
|
FIRELIGHT SHUT in from all the world without, | |
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, | |
Content to let the north-wind roar | |
In baffled rage at pane and door, | |
While the red logs before us beat | 40 |
The frost-line back with tropic heat; | |
And ever, when a louder blast | |
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, | |
The merrier up its roaring draught | |
The great throat of the chimney laughed; | 45 |
The house-dog on his paws outspread | |
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, | |
The cats dark silhouette on the wall | |
A couchant tigers seemed to fall; | |
And, for the winter fireside meet, | 50 |
Between the andirons straddling feet, | |
The mug of cider simmered slow, | |
The apples sputtered in a row, | |
And, close at hand, the basket stood | |
With nuts from brown Octobers wood. | 55 |
|
What matter how the night behaved? | |
What matter how the north-wind raved? | |
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow | |
Could quench our hearth-fires ruddy glow. | |
O Time and Change!with hair as gray | 60 |
As was my sires that winter day, | |
How strange it seems, with so much gone | |
Of life and love, to still live on! | |
Ah, brother! only I and thou | |
Are left of all that circle now, | 65 |
The dear home faces whereupon | |
That fitful firelight paled and shone. | |
Henceforward, listen as we will, | |
The voices of that hearth are still; | |
Look where we may, the wide earth oer, | 70 |
Those lighted faces smile no more. | |
We tread the paths their feet have worn, | |
We sit beneath their orchard-trees, | |
We hear, like them, the hum of bees | |
And rustle of the bladed corn; | 75 |
We turn the pages that they read, | |
Their written words we linger oer, | |
But in the sun they cast no shade, | |
No voice is heard, no sign is made, | |
No step is on the conscious floor! | 80 |
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, | |
(Since He who knows our need is just,) | |
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. | |
Alas for him who never sees | |
The stars shine through his cypress-trees! | 85 |
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, | |
Nor looks to see the breaking day | |
Across the mournful marbles play! | |
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, | |
The truth to flesh and sense unknown, | 90 |
That Life is ever lord of Death, | |
And Love can never lose its own! | |
|
MOTHER Our mother, while she turned her wheel | |
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, | |
Told how the Indian hordes came down | 95 |
At midnight on Cocheco town, | |
And how her own great-uncle bore | |
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. | |
Recalling, in her fitting phrase, | |
So rich and picturesque and free, | 100 |
(The common unrhymed poetry | |
Of simple life and country ways,) | |
The story of her early days, | |
She made us welcome to her home; | |
Old hearths grew wide to give us room; | 105 |
We stole with her a frightened look | |
At the gray wizards conjuring-book, | |
The fame whereof went far and wide | |
Through all the simple country-side; | |
We heard the hawks at twilight play, | 110 |
The boat-horn on Piscataqua, | |
The loons weird laughter far away; | |
We fished her little trout-brook, knew | |
What flowers in wood and meadow grew, | |
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown | 115 |
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, | |
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay | |
The ducks black squadron anchored lay, | |
And heard the wild geese calling loud | |
Beneath the gray November cloud. | 120 |
|
SISTER AS one who held herself a part | |
Of all she saw, and let her heart | |
Against the household bosom lean, | |
Upon the motley-braided mat | |
Our youngest and our dearest sat, | 125 |
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, | |
Now bathed in the unfading green | |
And holy peace of Paradise. | |
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, | |
Or from the shade of saintly palms, | 130 |
Or silver reach of river calms, | |
Do those large eyes behold me still? | |
With me one little year ago: | |
The chill weight of the winter snow | |
For months upon her grave has lain; | 135 |
And now, when summer south-winds blow | |
And brier and harebell bloom again, | |
I tread the pleasant paths we trod, | |
I see the violet-sprinkled sod | |
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak | 140 |
The hillside flowers she loved to seek, | |
Yet following me whereer I went | |
With dark eyes full of loves content. | |
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills | |
The air with sweetness; all the hills | 145 |
Stretch green to Junes unclouded sky; | |
But still I wait with ear and eye | |
For something gone which should be nigh, | |
A loss all familiar things, | |
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. | 150 |
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, | |
Am I not richer than of old? | |
Safe in thy immortality, | |
What change can reach the wealth I hold? | |
What chance can mar the pearl and gold | 155 |
Thy love hath left in trust with me? | |
And while in lifes late afternoon, | |
Where cool and long the shadows grow, | |
I walk to meet the night that soon | |
Shall shape and shadow overflow, | 160 |
I cannot feel that thou art far, | |
Since near at need the angels are; | |
And when the sunset gates unbar, | |
Shall I not see thee waiting stand, | |
And, white against the evening star, | 165 |
The welcome of thy beckoning hand? | |
|
PROPHETESS ANOTHER guest that winter night | |
Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. | |
Unmarked by time, and yet not young, | |
The honeyed music of her tongue | 170 |
And words of meekness scarcely told | |
A nature passionate and bold, | |
Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, | |
Its milder features dwarfed beside | |
Her unbent wills majestic pride. | 175 |
She sat among us, at the best, | |
A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, | |
Rebuking with her cultured phrase | |
Our homeliness of words and ways. | |
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace | 180 |
Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash, | |
Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash; | |
And under low brows, black with night, | |
Rayed out at times a dangerous light; | |
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face | 185 |
Presaging ill to him whom Fate | |
Condemned to share her love or hate. | |
A woman tropical, intense | |
In thought and act, in soul and sense, | |
She blended in a like degree | 190 |
The vixen and the devotee, | |
Revealing with each freak or feint | |
The temper of Petruchios Kate, | |
The raptures of Sienas saint. | |
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist | 195 |
Had facile power to form a fist; | |
The warm, dark languish of her eyes | |
Was never safe from wraths surprise. | |
Brows saintly calm and lips devout | |
Knew every change of scowl and pout; | 200 |
And the sweet voice had notes more high | |
And shrill for social battle-cry. | |
|
Since then what old cathedral town | |
Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, | |
What convent-gate has held its lock | 205 |
Against the challenge of her knock! | |
Through Smyrnas plague-hushed thorough-fares, | |
Up sea-set Maltas rocky stairs, | |
Gray olive slopes of hills that hem | |
Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, | 210 |
Or startling on her desert throne | |
The crazy Queen of Lebanon | |
With claims fantastic as her own, | |
Her tireless feet have held their way; | |
And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, | 215 |
She watches under Eastern skies, | |
With hope each day renewed and fresh, | |
The Lords quick coming in the flesh, | |
Whereof she dreams and prophesies! | |
|