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And the face of earth darkens; but now Of that long cloud-bar in the West, the strips
Whose nether edge, erelong, you see Of western vapor, straight and thin, | The silvery chrism in turn anoint, From which the horizon's swervings win And then the tiniest rosy point A grace of contrast, take fire and burn Touched doubtfully and timidly Like splinters of touchwood, whose Into the dark blue's chilly strip, edges a mould
As some mute, wondering thing below, Of ashes o'erfeathers ; northward turn Awakened by the thrilling glow, For an instant, and let your eye grow Might, looking up, see Dian dip cold
One lucent foot's delaying tip On Agamenticus, and when once more In Latnian fountains long ago. You look, 't is as if the land-breeze,
growing, From the smouldering brands the film
Knew you what silence was before? were blowing,
Here is no startle of dreaming bird And brightening them down to the very
That sings in his sleep, or strives to
sing; core ;
Here is no sough of branches stirred, Yet they momently cool and dampen and deaden,
Nor noise of any living thing, The crimson turns golden, the gold turns
Such as one hears by night on shore; leaden,
Only, now and then, a sigh,
With fickle intervals between,
| Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh, Shoots a splinter of light like diamond,
Such as Andromeda might have heard, Half seen, half fancied; by and by
And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen Beyond whatever is most beyond
Turning in sleep; it is the sea
That welters and wavers uneasily
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.
I TREASURE in secret some long, fine No frail illusion; this were true,
hair Rather, to call it the canoe
Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly Hollowed out of a single pearl, That floats us from the Present's whirl
in I half used to fancy the sunshine there, Back to those beings which were ours,
So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, When wishes were winged things like
Was only caught for the moment and
holden powers! Call it not light, that mystery tender,
While I could say Dearest ! and kiss it, Which broods upon the brooding ocean,
and then That flush of ecstasied surrender
In pity let go to the summer again. To indefinable emotion, That glory, mellower than a mist I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Of pearl dissolved with amethyst,
Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow ; Which rims Square Rock, like what Then called to the idle breeze that they paint
swings Of mitigated heavenly splendor All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and Round the stern forehead of a Saint !
Mid the musical leaves, and said, “O, No more a vision, reddened, largened,
follow The moon dips toward hermountain nest, The will of those tears that deepen my And, fringing it with palest argent,
words, Slow sheathes herself behind the mar- And fly to my window to waken these gent
So they trembled to life, and, doubt- Soft as the dews that fell that night, fully
She said, — “ Auf wiedersehen /" Feeling their way to my sense, sang, "Say whether
The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; They sit all day by the greenwood tree, I linger in delicious pain; The lover and loved, as it wont to Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air be,
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, When we — ” But grief conquered, Thinks she, -" Auf wiedersehen/"?
and all together They swelled such weird murmur as 'T is thirteen years ; once more I press haunts a shore
The turf that silences the lane; Of some planet dispeopled, — “Never- I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes,
I hear “ Auf wiedersehen? Then from deep in the past, as seemed to me,
Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The strings gathered sorrow and sang The English words had seemed too forsaken,
fain, "One lover still waits 'neath the green. But these — they drew us heart to heart, wood tree,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
“ where lieth she
PALINODE. But I groaned, “O harp of all ruth
AUTUMN. bereft, This Scripture is sadder, - 'the other STILL thirteen years : 't is autumn now left'!"
On field and hill, in heart and brain ;
The naked trees at evening sough ; There murmured, as if one strove to The leaf to the forsaken bough speak,
Sighs not, -" Auf wiedersehen!” And tears came instead; then the sad tones wandered
Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, And faltered among the uncertain chords That now is void, and dank with rain, In a troubled doubt between sorrow and And one, -0, hope more frail than words:
foam ! At last with themselves they ques- TI
The bird to his deserted home tioned and pondered,
Sings not, —“Auf wiedersehen!” “Hereafter ? — who knoweth ?” and so they sighed
The loath gate swings with rusty creak; Down the long steps that lead to silence Once, parting there, we played at and died.
Vainly, — " Auf wiedersehen!”
Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
Though thou in outer dark remain; The little gate was reached at last, One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane; And still, for eighteen centuries saith She pushed it wide, and, as she past, Softly, “ Auf wiedersehen!” A wistful look she backward cast, And said, — “ Auf wiedersehen /”. If earth another grave must bear,
| Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, With hand on latch, a vision white And something whispers my despair, Lingered reluctant, and again
That, from an orient chamber there, Half doubting if she did aright,
Floats down, “ Auf wiedersehen!”
AFTER THE BURIAL. | Communion in spirit! Forgive me,
| But I, who am earthy and weak, Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ;
Would give all my incomes from dreamWhen skies are sweet as a psalm,
land At the bows it lolls so stalwart,
For a touch of her hand on my cheek. In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.
That little shoe in the corner,
With its emptiness confutes you,
And argues your wisdom down.
THE DEAD HOUSE
HERE once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door, When the helpless feet stretch out And welcome thrilled from the threshAnd find in the deeps of darkness
old No footing so solid as doubt,
To the foot it had known before.
From the flame that laughed in the That our human heart may cling to,
grate, Though hopeless of shore at last !
And shadows adance on the ceiling,
Danced blither with mine for a mate. To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the flesh its sweet despair,
“I claim you, old friend,” yawned the Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket
arm-chair, With its anguish of deathless hair ! “This corner, you know, is your
seat"; Immortal ? I feel it and know it,
“Rest your slippers on me,” beamed the Who doubts it of such as she?
fender, But that is the pang's very secret, - “I brighten at touch of your feet." Immortal away from me.
“We know the practised finger," There's a narrow ridge in the grave
Said the books, “that seems like Would scarce stay a child in his race,
| And the shy page rustled the secret But to me and my thought it is wider
It had kept till I came again.
Sang the pillow, “My down once quiv.
On nightingales' throats that flew coffin,
Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz I keep hearing that, and not you.
To gather quaint dreams for you." Console if you will, I can bear it; Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's"T is a well-meant alms of breath;
ease, But not all the preaching since Adam The Present plucks rue for us men ! Has made Death other than Death. I come back : that scar unhealing
Was not in the churchyard then. It is pagan ; but wait till you feel it, That jar of our earth, that dull shock | But, I think, the house is unaltered, When the ploughshare of deeper pas- I will go and beg to look sion
At the rooms that were once familiar Tears down to our primitive rock. To my life as its bed to a brook.
Unaltered! Alas for the sameness
That makes the change but more! 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors,
'Tis his tread that chills the floor!
Thou only aspirest the more,
To learn such a simple lesson,
Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household,
But only one the home?
'T was just a womanly presence,
To me 't is not cheer thou art singing: An influence unexprest,
There's a sound of the sea, But a rose she had worn, on my grave O mournful tree, sod
In thy boughs forever clinging, Were more than long life with the rest! And the far-off roar
Of waves on the shore 'T was a smile, 't was a garment's rustle, A shattered vessel flinging.
'T was nothing that I can phrase, But the whole dumb dwelling grew As thou musest still of the ocean conscious,
| On which thou must float at last, And put on her looks and ways. And seem'st to foreknow
The shipwreck's woe Were it mine I would close the shutters,
And the sailor wrenched from the broken Like lids when the life is fled,
inast, And the funeral fire should wind it,
Do I, in this vague emotion, This corpse of a home that is dead.
This sadness that will not pass,
Though the air throb with wings, For it died that autumn morning And the field laughs and sings,
When she, its soul, was borne Do I forebode, alas! To lie all dark on the hillside
The ship-building longer and wearier, That looks over woodland and corn.
The voyage's struggle and strife,
Wreck of a broken life?
THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND.
I go to the ridge in the forest
Pine in the distance,
1. BIORN'S BECKONERS. Now Biörn, the son of Heriulf, had ill
limbs, But, while they slept, still hammered
like a Troll, Building all night a bridge of solid
dream Between him and some purpose of his