SAY not of Beauty she is good,

Or aught but beautiful,

Or sleek to dove's wings of the wood

Her wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word's touch

Consumes her like a curse;

But love her not too much, too much,

For that is even worse.

O, she is neither good nor bad,

But innocent and wild!

Enshrine her and she dies, who had

The hard heart of a child.

The Eagle and the Mole

AVOID the reeking herd,

Shun the polluted flock,

Live like that stoic bird,

The eagle of the rock.

The huddled warmth of crowds

Begets and fosters hate;

He keeps above the clouds

His cliff inviolate.

When flocks are folded warm,

And herds to shelter run,

He sails above the storm,

He stares into the sun.

If in the eagle's track

Your sinews cannot leap,

Avoid the lathered pack,

Turn from the steaming sheep.

If you would keep your soul

From spotted sight or sound,

Live like the velvet mole:

Go burrow underground.

And there hold intercourse

With roots of trees and stones,

With rivers at their source,

And disembodied bones.

Madman's Song

BETTER to see your cheek grown hollow,

Better to see your temple worn,

Than to forget to follow, follow,

After the sound of a silver horn.

Better to bind your brow with willow

And follow, follow until you die,

Than to sleep with your head on a golden pillow,

Nor lift it up when the hunt goes by.

Better to see your cheek grow sallow

And your hair grown gray, so soon, so soon,

Than to forget to hallo, hallo,

After the milk-white hounds of the moon.

The Prinkin' Leddie

"THE Hielan' lassies are a' for spinnin',

The Lowlan' lassies for prinkin' and pinnin';

My daddie w'u'd chide me, an' so w'u'd my minnie

If I s'u'd bring hame sic a prinkin' leddie.

Now haud your tongue, ye haverin' coward,

For whilst I'm young I'll go flounced an' flowered,

In lutestring striped like the strings o' a fiddle,

Wi' gowden* girdles aboot my middle.          [golden]

In your Hielan' glen, where the rain pours steady,

Ye'll be gay an' glad for a prinkin' leddie;

Where the rocks are all bare an' the turf is all sodden,

An' lassies gae sad in their homespun an' hodden.

My silks are stiff wi' patterns o' siller*,          [silver]

I've an ermine hood like the hat o' a miller,

I've chains o' coral like rowan berries,

An' a cramoisie mantle that cam' frae Paris.

Ye'll be glad for the glint o' its scarlet linin'

When the larks are up an' the sun is shinin';

When the winds are up an' ower the heather

Your heart'll be gay wi' my gowden feather.

When the skies are low an' the earth is frozen,

Ye'll be gay an' glad for the leddie ye've chosen,

When ower the snow I go prinkin' an' prancin'

In my wee red slippers were made for dancin'.

It's better a leddie like Solomon's lily

Than one that'll run like a Hielan' gillie

A-linkin' it ower the leas, my laddie,

In a raggedy kilt an' a belted pladdie!

August

WHY should this Negro insolently stride

Down the red noonday on such noiseless feet?

Piled in his barrow, tawnier than wheat,

Lie heaps of smouldering daisies, sombre-eyed,

Their copper petals shriveled up with pride,

Hot with a superfluity of heat,

Like a great brazier borne along the street

By captive leopards, black and burning pied.

Are there no water-lilies, smooth as cream,

With long stems dripping crystal? Are there none

Like those white lilies, luminous and cool,

Plucked from some hemlock-darkened northern stream

By fair-haired swimmers, diving where the sun

Scarce warms the surface of the deepest pool?

The Crooked Stick

First Traveller: WHAT'S that lying in the dust?

Second Traveller: A crooked stick.

First Traveller: What's it worth, if you can trust to arithmetic?

Second Traveller: Isn't this a riddle?

First Traveller:                               No, a trick.

Second Traveller:It's worthless, leave it where it lies.

First Traveller: Wait; count ten;

Rub a little dust upon your eyes;

Now, look again.

Second Traveller: Well, and what the devil is it, then?

First Traveller: It's the sort of crooked stick that shepherds know.

Second Traveller: Someone's loss!

First Traveller: Bend it, and you make of it a bow.

Break it, a cross.

Second Traveller: But it's all grown over with moss!

Atavism

I WAS always afraid of Somes's Pond:

Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,

Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands

In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond.

There, where the frost makes all the birches burn

Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines

Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines,

Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn.

You'll say I dreamed it, being the true daughter

Of those who in old times endured this dread.

Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red

A silent paddle moves below the water,

A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath;

Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.

Wild Peaches

1

WHEN the world turns completely upside down

You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore

Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;

We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,

You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown

Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.

Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,

We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,

The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,

Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;

All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.

The squirrels in their silver fur will fall

Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.

2

The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass

Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.

The misted early mornings will be cold;

The little puddles will be roofed with glass.

The sun, which burns from copper into brass,

Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold

Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold

Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;

A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;

The spring begins before the winter's over.

By February you may find the skins

Of garter snakes and water moccasins

Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.

3

When April pours the colours of a shell

Upon the hills, when every little creek

Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake

In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,

When strawberries go begging, and the sleek

Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,

We shall live well -- we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches

Are brimming cornucopias which spill

Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black;

Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches

We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill

Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.

4

Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones

There's something in this richness that I hate.

I love the look, austere, immaculate,

Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.

There's something in my very blood that owns

Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,

A thread of water, churned to milky spate

Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.

I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,

Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves;

That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,

Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,

Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,

And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

Sanctuary

THIS is the bricklayer; hear the thud

Of his heavy load dumped down on stone.

His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood,

His smoking mortar whiter than bone.

Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick

Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length;

Make my marvelous wall so thick

Dead nor living may shake its strength.

Full as a crystal cup with drink

Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. . . .

Stop, old man! You must leave a chink;

How can I breathe? You can't, you fool!

The Lion and the Lamb

I SAW a Tiger's golden flank,

I saw what food he ate,

By a desert spring he drank;

The Tiger's name was Hate.

Then I saw a placid Lamb

Lying fast asleep;

Like a river from its dam

Flashed the Tiger's leap.

I saw a lion tawny-red,

Terrible and brave;

The Tiger's leap overhead

Broke like a wave.

In sand below or sun above

He faded like a flame.

The Lamb said, "I am Love;

Lion, tell your name."

The Lion's voice thundering

Shook his vaulted breast,

"I am Love. By this spring,

Brother, let us rest."

The Church-Bell

AS I was lying in my bed

I heard the church-bell ring;

Before one solemn word was said

A bird began to sing.

I heard a dog begin to bark

And a bold crowing cock;

The bell, between the cold and dark,

Tolled. It was five o'clock.

The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang,

A clear true voice he had;

The cock crew, and the church-bell rang,

I knew it had gone mad.

A hand reached down from the dark skies,

It took the bell-rope thong,

The bell cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"

The clapper shook to song.

The iron clapper laughed aloud,

Like clashing wind and wave;

The bell cried out "Be strong and proud!"

Then, with a shout, "Be brave!"

The rumbling of the market-carts,

The pounding of men's feet

Were drowned in song; "Lift up your hearts!"

The song was loud and sweet.

Slow and slow the great bell swung,

It hung in the steeple mute;

And people tore its living tongue

Out by the very root.

A Crowded Trolley Car

THE rain's cold grains are silver-gray

Sharp as golden sands,

A bell is clanging, people sway

Hanging by their hands.

Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff,

Snatch and catch and grope;

That face is yellow-pale, as if

The fellow swung from rope.

Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives,

Glances strike and glare,

Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives

Dangle by the hair.

Orchard of the strangest fruits

Hanging from the skies;

Brothers, yet insensate brutes

Who fear each other's eyes.

One man stands as free men stand,

As if his soul might be

Brave, unbroken; see his hand

Nailed to an oaken tree.

Bells in the Rain

SLEEP falls, with limpid drops of rain,

Upon the steep cliffs of the town.

Sleep falls; men are at peace again

While the small drops fall softly down.

The bright drops ring like bells of glass

Thinned by the wind, and lightly blown;

Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass

So softly as it falls on stone.

Peace falls unheeded on the dead

Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink;

Upon a live man's bloody head

It falls most tenderly, I think.

Winter Sleep

WHEN against earth a wooden heel

Clicks as loud as stone on steel,

When stone turns flour instead of flakes,

And frost bakes clay as fire bakes,

When the hard-bitten fields at last

Crack like iron flawed in the cast,

When the world is wicked and cross and old,

I long to be quit of the cruel cold.

Little birds like bubbles of glass

Fly to other Americas,

Birds as bright as sparkles of wine

Fly in the nite to the Argentine,

Birds of azure and flame-birds go

To the tropical Gulf of Mexico:

They chase the sun, they follow the heat,

It is sweet in their bones, O sweet, sweet, sweet!

It's not with them that I'd love to be,

But under the roots of the balsam tree.

Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr

Is lined within with the finest fur,

So the stoney-walled, snow-roofed house

Of every squirrel and mole and mouse

Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather,

Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together

With balsam and juniper, dry and curled,

Sweeter than anything else in the world.

O what a warm and darksome nest

Where the wildest things are hidden to rest!

It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep,

Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep!

Village Mystery

THE woman in the pointed hood

And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon's wing,

Whose orchard climbs to the balsam-wood,

Has done a cruel thing.

To her back door-step came a ghost,

A girl who had been ten years dead,

She stood by the granite hitching-post

And begged for a piece of bread.

Now why should I, who walk alone,

Who am ironical and proud,

Turn, when a woman casts a stone

At a beggar in a shroud?

I saw the dead girl cringe and whine,

And cower in the weeping air--

But, oh, she was no kin of mine,

And so I did not care!

Sunset on the Spire

ALL that I dream

   By day or night

Lives in that stream

   Of lovely light.

Here is the earth,

   And there is the spire;

This is my hearth,

   And that is my fire.

From the sun's dome

   I am shouted proof

That this is my home,

   And that is my roof.

Here is my food,

   And here is my drink,

And I am wooed

   From the moon's brink.

And the days go over,

   And the nights end;

Here is my lover,

   Here is my friend.

All that I

   Can ever ask

Wears that sky

   Like a thin gold mask.

Escape

WHEN foxes eat the last gold grape,

And the last white antelope is killed,

I shall stop fighting and escape

Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,

With a whisper no one understands,

Making blind moons of all your eyes,

And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain

In hollows under the mangrove root,

Or where, in apple-scented rain,

The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

The Fairy Goldsmith

'HERE'S a wonderful thing,

A humming-bird's wing

In hammered gold,

And store well chosen

Of snowflakes frozen

In crystal cold.

Black onyx cherries

And mistletoe berries

Of chrysoprase,

Jade buds, tight shut,

All carven and cut

In intricate ways.

Here, if you please

Are little gilt bees

In amber drops

Which look like honey,

Translucent and sunny,

From clover-tops.

Here's an elfin girl

Of mother-of-pearl

And moonshine made,

With tortise-shell hair

Both dusky and fair

In its light and shade.

Here's lacquer laid thin,

Like a scarlet skin

On an ivory fruit;

And a filigree frost

Of frail notes lost

From a fairy lute.

Here's a turquoise chain

Of sun-shower rain

To wear if you wish;

And glittering green

With aquamarine,

A silvery fish.

Here are pearls all strung

On a thread among

Pretty pink shells;

And bubbles blown

From the opal stone

Which ring like bells.

Touch them and take them,

But do not break them!

Beneath your hand

They will wither like foam

If you carry them home

Out of fairy-lannd.

O, they never can last

Though you hide them fast

From moth and from rust;

In your monstrous day

They will crumble away

Into quicksilver dust.

'Fire and Sleet and Candlelight'

For this you've striven

Daring, to fail:

Your sky is riven

Like a tearing veil.

For this, you've wasted

Wings of your youth;

Divined, and tasted

Bitter springs of truth.

From sand unslakèd

Twisted strong cords,

And wandering naked

Among trysted swords.

There's a word unspoken,

A knot untied.

Whatever is broken

The earth may hide.

The road was jagged

Over sharp stones:

Your body's too ragged

To cover your bones.

The wind scatters

Tears upon dust;

Your soul's in tatters

Where the spears thrust.

Blood Feud

ONCE, when my husband was a child, there came

To his father's table, one who called him kin,

In sunbleached corduroys paler than his skin.

His look was grave and kind; he bore the name

Of the dead singer of Senlac, and his smile.

Shyly and courteously he smiled and spoke;

"I've been in the laurel since the winter broke;

Four months, I reckon; yes, sir, quite a while."

He'd killed a score of foemen in the past,

In some blood feud, a dark and monstrous thing;

To him it seemed his duty. At the last

His enemies found him by a forest spring,

Which, as he died, lay bright beneath his head,

A silver shield that slowly turned to red.

Sea Lullaby

THE old moon is tarnished

With smoke of the flood,

The dead leaves are varnished

With colour like blood,

A treacherous smiler

With teeth white as milk,

A savage beguiler

In sheathings of silk,

The sea creeps to pillage,

She leaps on her prey;

A child of the village

Was murderd today.

She came up to meet him

In a smooth golden cloak,

She choked him and beat him

To death, for a joke.

Her bright locks were tangled,

She shouted for joy,

With one hand she strangled

A strong little boy.

Now in silence she lingers

Beside him all night

To wash her long fingers

In silvery light.

Nancy

YOU are a rose, but set with sharpest spine;

You are a pretty bird that pecks at me;

You are a little squirrel on a tree,

Pelting me with the prickly fruit of the pine;

A diamond, torn from a crystal mine,

Not like that milky treasure of the sea,

A smooth, translucent pearl, but skilfully

Carven to cut, and faceted to shine.

If you are flame, it dances and burns blue;

If you are light, it pierces like a star

Intenser than a needlepoint of ice.

The dextrous touch that shaped the soul of you,

Mingled, to mix, and make you what you are,

Magic between the sugar and the spice.

A Proud Lady

HATE in the world's hand

Can carve and set its seal

Like the strong blast of sand

Which cuts into steel.

I have seen how the finger of hate

Can mar and mould

Faces burned passionate

And frozen cold.

Sorrowful faces worn

As stone with rain,

Faces writhing with scorn

And sullen with pain.

But you have a proud face

Which the world cannot harm,

You have turned the pain to a grace

And the scorn to a charm.

You have taken the arrows and slings

Which prick and bruise

And fashioned them into wings

For the heels of your shoes.

From the world's hand which tries

To tear you apart

You have stolen the falcon's eyes

And the lion's heart.

What has it done, this world,

With hard finger-tips,

But sweetly chiseled and curled

Your inscrutable lips?

The Tortise in Eternity

WITHIN my house of patterned horn

I sleep in such a bed

As men may keep before they're born

And after when they're dead.

Sticks and stones may break their bones,

And words may make them bleed;

There is not one of them who owns

An armour to his need.

Tougher than hide or lozenged bark,

Snow-storm and thunder proof,

And quick with sun, and thick with dark,

Is this my darling roof.

Men's troubled dreams of death and birth

Puls mother-o'-pearl to black;

I bear the rainbow bubble Earth

Square on my scornful back.

Incantation

A WHITE well

In a black cave;

A bright shell

In a dark wave.

A white rose

Black brambles hood;

Smooth bright snows

In a dark wood.

A flung white glove

In a dark fight;

A white dove

On a wild black night.

A white door

In a dark lane;

A bright core

To bitter black pain.

A white hand

Waved from dark walls;

In a burnt black land

Bright waterfalls.

A bright spark

Where black ashes are;

In the smothering dark

One white star.

Silver Filigree

THE icicles wreathing

On trees in festoon

Swing, swayed to our breathing:

They're made of the moon.

She's a pale, waxen taper;

And these seem to drip

Transparent as paper

From the flame of her tip.

Molten, smoking a little,

Into crystal they pass;

Falling, freezing, to brittle

And delicate glass.

Each a sharp-pointed flower,

Each a brief stalactite

Which hangs for an hour

In the blue cave of night.

The Falcon

WHY should my sleepy heart be taught

To whistle mocking-bird replies?

This is another bird you've caught,

Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.

The bird Imagination,

That flies so far, that dies so soon;

Her wings are coloured like the sun,

Her breast is coloured like the moon.

Weave her a chain of silver twist,

And a little hood of scarlet wool,

And let her perch upon your wrist,

And tell her she is beautiful.

Bronze Trumpets and Sea Water--On Turning Latin into English

ALEMBICS turn to stranger things

Strange things, but never while we live

Shall magic turn this bronze that sings

To singing water in a sieve.

The trumpets of Cæsar's guard

Salute his rigorous bastions

With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard

Though there is silver in the bronze.

Our mutable tongue is like the sea,

Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit;

Dangle in strings of sand shall he

Who smoothes the ripples out of it.

Spring Pastoral

LIZA, go steep your long white hands

In the cool waters of that spring

Which bubbles up through shiny sands

The colour of a wild-dove's wing.

Dabble your hands, and steep them well

Until those nails are pearly white

Now rosier than a laurel bell;

Then come to me at candlelight.

Lay your cold hands across my brows,

And I shall sleep, and I shall dream

Of silver-pointed willow boughs

Dipping their fingers in a stream.

Velvet Shoes

LET us walk in the white snow

In a soundless space;

With footsteps quiet snd slow,

At a tranquil pace,

Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,

And you in wool,

White as white cow's milk,

More beautiful

Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town

In a windless peace;

We shall step upon white down,

Upon silver fleece,

Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:

Wherever we go

Silence will fall like dews

On white silence below.

We shall walk in the snow.

Valentine

TOO high, too high to pluck

My heart shall swing.

A fruit no bee shall suck,

No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold

It falls to ground

In apple-leaves of gold

I'll wrap it round.

And I shall seal it up

With spice and salt,

In a carven silver cup,

In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind

And my lips mute,

I must eat core and rind

Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust

By the end of all,

Eat it I must, I must

Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet

By some strange art;

Wild honey I shall eat

When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste

As clover's breath!

Sweet Heaven I shall taste

Before my death.