I Blue Squills
How many million Aprils came
Before I ever knew How white a cherry bough could be,
A bed of squills, how blue!
And many a dancing April
When life is done with me, Will lift the blue flame of the flower
And the white flame of the tree.
Oh burn me with your beauty, then,
Oh hurt me, tree and flower, Lest in the end death try to take
Even this glistening hour.
O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
O sunlit white and blue, Wound me, that I, through endless sleep,
May bear the scar of you.
Stars
Alone in the night
On a dark hill With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head, White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill, I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be Witness
Of so much majesty.
"What Do I Care?"
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all? For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by, For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
Meadowlarks
In the silver light after a storm,
Under dripping boughs of bright new green, I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks
Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.
What have I to fear in life or death
Who have known three things: the kiss in the night, The white flying joy when a song is born,
And meadowlarks whistling in silver light.
Driftwood
My forefathers gave me
My spirit’s shaken flame, The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires, Who gave the flame its changeful
And iridescent fires;
As the driftwood burning
Learned its jewelled blaze From the sea’s blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.
"I Have Loved Hours at Sea"
I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower, Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour;
First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise, And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.
I have loved much and been loved deeply —
Oh when my spirit’s fire burns low, Leave me the darkness and the stillness,
I shall be tired and glad to go.
August Moonrise
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming Over the blue Connecticut hills; The west was rosy, the east was flushed, And over my head the swallows rushed This way and that, with changeful wills. I heard them twitter and watched them dart Now together and now apart Like dark petals blown from a tree; The maples stamped against the west Were black and stately and full of rest, And the hazy orange moon grew up And slowly changed to yellow gold While the hills were darkened, fold on fold To a deeper blue than a flower could hold. Down the hill I went, and then I forgot the ways of men, For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool Wakened ecstasy in me On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup You have made me drunk and wild Ever since I was a child, But when have I been sure as now That no bitterness can bend And no sorrow wholly bow One who loves you to the end? And though I must give my breath And my laughter all to death, And my eyes through which joy came, And my heart, a wavering flame; If all must leave me and go back Along a blind and fearful track So that you can make anew, Fusing with intenser fire, Something nearer your desire; If my soul must go alone Through a cold infinity, Or even if it vanish, too, Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone For the theft of all of me.
Memories