Unto one who lies at rest

UNTO one who lies at rest

'Neath the sunset, in the West,

Clover-blossoms on her breast.

Lover of each gracious thing

Which makes glad the summer-tide,

From the daisies clustering

And the violets purple-eyed,

To those shy and hidden blooms

Which in forest coverts stay,

Sending wandering perfumes

Out as guide to show the way,

All she knew, to all was kind;

None so humble or so small

That she did not seek and find

Silent friendship from them all.

Moss-cups, tiarella leaves,

Dappld like the adder's skin,

Fungus huts with ivory eaves

Which the fairies harbor in,

Regiments of fronded ferns,

Golden-rod and asters frail,

Every flaming leaf that burns

Red against the autumn pale,

Every pink-cupped wayside rose,--

All to her were dear and known;

But above them all she chose

Clover-blossoms for her own.

So they laid her to her rest

In the sun-warmed, bounteous West,

Clover-blossoms on her breast.

Helen Hunt Jackson

A Dream

I DREAMED that I ws dead and crossed the heavens,--

Heavens after heavens with burning feet and swift,--

And cried: "O God, where art Thou?" I left one

On earth, whose burden I would pray Thee lift."

I was so dead I wondered at no thing,--

Not even that the angels slowly turned

Their faces, speechless, as I hurried by

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned);

Nor, at the first, that I could not find God,

Because the heavens stretched endlessly like space.

At last a terror siezed my very soul;

I seemed alone in all the crowded place.

Then, sudden, one compassionate cried out,

Though like the rest his face from me he turned,

As I were one no angel might regard

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned):

"No moew in heaven than earth will he find God

Who does not know his loving mercy swift

But waits the moment consummate and ripe,

Each burden, from each human soul to lift."

Though I was dead, I died again for shame;

Lonely, to flee from heaven again I turned;

The ranks of angels looked away from me

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned).

Helen Hunt Jackson

Danger

WITH what a childish and short-sighted sense

Fear seeks for safety; recons up the days

Of danger and escape, the hours and ways

Of death; it breathless flies the pestilence;

It walls itself in towers of defence;

By land, by sea, against the storm it lays

Down barriers; then, comforted, it says:

"This spot, this hour is safe." Oh, vain pretence!

Man born of man knows nothing when he goes;

The winds blow where they list, and will disclose

To no man which brings safety, which brings risk.

The mighty are brought low by many a thing

Too small to name. Beneath the daisy's disk

Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling.

Helen Hunt Jackson

Freedom

WHAT freeman knoweth freedom? Never he

Whose father's father through long lives have reigned

O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.

Though from his youth to age he roam as free

As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.

But he whose birth was in a nation chained

For centuries; where every breath was drained

From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be

Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light

Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight

He knows the joy. Fools laugh because he reels

And weilds confusedly his infant will;

The wise man watching with a heart that feels

Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still."

Helen Hunt Jackson

October's Bright Blue Weather

O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,

And flowers of June together,

Ye cannot rival for one hour

October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumblebee makes haste,

Belated, thriftless vagrant,

And goldenrod is dying fast,

And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fingers tight

To save them for the morning,

And chestnuts fall from satin burrs

Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie

In piles like jewels shining,

And redder still on old stone walls

Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things

Their white-winged seeds are sowing,

And in the fields still green and fair,

Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,

In idle golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush

Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,

By twos and twos together,

And count like misers, hour by hour,

October's bright blue weather.

O sun and skies and flowers of June,

Count all your boasts together,

Love loveth best of all the year

October's bright blue weather.

Helen Hunt Jackson

To an Absent Lover

THAT so much change should come when thou dost go,

Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite.

The very house seems dark as when the light

Of lamps goes out. Each wonted thing doth grow

So altered, that I wander to and fro

Bewildered by the most familiar sight,

And feel like one who rouses in the night

From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know

At first if he be sleeping or awake.

My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake

Hath grown, dear one!


                                     Teach me to be more wise.

I blush for all my foolishness doth lack;

I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.

Teach me, dear one,--but first thou must come back!

Helen Hunt Jackson

Crossed Threads

THE silken threads by viewless spinners spun,

Which float so idly on the summer air,

And help to make each summer morning fair,

Shining like silver in the summer sun,

Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one,

Are blown to east and west and fastened there,

Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare.

No sign which road doth safest, freest run,

The wingèd insects know, that soar so gay

To meet their death upon each summer day.

How dare we any human deed arraign;

Attempt to recon any moment's cost;

Or any pathway trust as safe and plain

Because we see not where the threads have crossed?

Helen Hunt Jackson

The Victory of Patience

ARMED of the gods! Divinest conqueror!

What soundless hosts are thine! Nor pomp, nor state,

Nor token, to betray where thou dost wait.

All Nature stands, for thee, ambassador;

Her forces all thy serfs, for peace or war.

greatest and least alike, thou rul'st their fate,--

The avalanch chained until its century's date,

The mulberry leaf made robe for emperor!

Shall man alone thy law deny? --refuse

Thy healing for his blunders and his sins?

Oh, make us thine! Teach us who waits best sues;

Who longest waits of all most surely wins.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

To doubt, to chafe, to haste, doth God accuse.

Helen Hunt Jackson

Refrain

OF all the songs which poets sing

   The ones which are most sweet

Are those which at close intervals

   A low refrain repeat;

Some tender word, some syllable,

   Over and over, ever and ever,

While the song lasts,

   Altering never,

Music if sung, music if said,

Subtle like some golden thread

   A shuttle casts,

In and out on a fabric red,

   Till it glows all through

   With the golden hue.

Oh! of all the songs sung,

   No songs are so sweet

As the songs with refrains,

   Which repeat and repeat.

Of all the lives lived,

   No life is so sweet,

As the life where one thought,

   In refrain doth repeat,

Over and over, ever and ever,

   Till the life ends,

   Altering never,

Joy which is felt, but is not said,

Subtler than any golden thread

   Which the shuttle sends

In and out in a fabric red,

   Till it glows all through

   With a golden hue.

Oh! of all the lives lived,

   Can be no life so sweet,

As the life where one thought

   In refrain doth repeat,

"Now name for me a thought

   To make life so sweet,

A thought of such joy

   Its refrain to repeat."

Oh! foolish to ask me. Ever, ever

   Who loveth believes,

   But telleth never.

It might be a name, just a name not said,

But in every thought; like a golden thread

   Which the shuttle weaves

In and out on a fabric red,

   Till it glows all through

   With a golden hue.

Oh! of all sweet lives,

   Who can tell how sweet

Is the life which one name

   In refrain doth repeat?

Helen Hunt Jackson

Chance

THESE things wondering I saw beneath the sun:

That never yet the race was to the swift,

The fight unto the mightiest to lift,

Nor favors unto men whose skill had done

Great works, nor riches ever unto one

Wise man of understanding. All is drift

Of time and chance, and none may stay or sift

Or know the end of that which is begun.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep,

Will never find the ready hour to sow.

Who watcheth clouds will have no time to reap.

At daydawn plant thy seed, and be not slow

At night. God doth not slumber take nor sleep:

Which seed shall prosper thou shalt never know.

Helen Hunt Jackson

September

THE golden-rod is yellow;

The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bearing down.

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun;

In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,

In every meadow nook;

And asters by the brook-side

Make asters in the brook.

From dewey lanes at morning

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter

With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here,

With summer's best of weather,

And autumn's best of cheer.

But none of all this beauty

Which floods the earth and air

Is unto me the secret

Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember;

To name it thrills me yet:

One day of one September

I never can forget.

Helen Hunt Jackson

The Poet's Forge

HE lies on his back, the idling smith,

A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;

The sky is blue, or the sky is gray,

He lies on his back the livelong day,

Not a tool in sight, say what they may,

A curious sort of smith is he.

The powers of the air are in league with him;

The country around believes it well;

The wondering folk draw spying near;

Never sight nor sound do they see or hear;

No wonder they feel a little fear;

When is it his work is done so well?

Never sight nor sound to see or hear;

The powers of the air are in league with him;

High over his head his metals swing,

Fine gold and silver to shame the king;

We might distinguish their glittering,

If once we could get in league with him.

High over his head his metals swing;

He hammers them idly year by year,

Hammers and chuckles a low refrain:

"A bench and a book are a ball and a chain,

The adze is a better tool than the plane;

What's the odds between now and next year?"

Hammers and chuckles his low refrain,

A lazy, dreaming fellow is he:

When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,

And men, at the sound, for gladness shout;

He laughs and asks what it's all about;

Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.

Helen Hunt Jackson

Morn

IN what a strange bewilderment do we

Awake each morn from out the brief night's sleep.

Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep

Its slow way back, as if it could not free

Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory,

Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep

The joy or grief which it had last to keep

For us; and by the joy or grief we see

The new day dawneth like the yesterday;

We are unchanged; our life the same we knew

Before. I wonder if this is the way

We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through

A brief bewilderment, and in dismay

Behold our life unto our old life true.

Helen Hunt Jackson

Songs of Battle

OLD as the world--no other things so old;

Nay, older than the world, else, how had sprung

Such lusty strength in them when earth was young?--

Stand valor and its passion hot and bold,

Insatiate of battle. How, else, told

Blind men, born blind, that red was fitting tongue

Mute, eloquent, to show how trumpets rung

When armies charged adn battle-flags unfurled?

Who sings of valor speaks for life, for death,

Beyond all death, and long as life is life,

in rippled waves the eternal air hs breath

Eternal bears to stir all noble strife.

Dead Homer from his lost and vanished grave

Keeps battle glorious still and soldiers brave.

Helen Hunt Jackson

Where?

MY snowy eupatorium has dropped

Its silver threads of petals in the night;

No signal told its blossoming had stopped;

Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white:

No answer stirs the shining air,

As I ask, "Where?"

Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green

Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place

A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen,

Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace:

No answer stirs the shining air,

As I ask, "Where?"

This morning's sunrise does not show to me

Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday;

Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see

Its moments floated silently away:

No answer stirs the shining air,

As I ask, "Where?"

Helen Hunt Jackson

My Tenants

I NEVER had a title-deed

To my estate. But little heed

Eyes give to me, when I walk by

My fields, to see who occupy.

Some clumsy men who lease and hire

And cut my trees to feed their fire,

Own all the land that I possess,

And tax my tenants to distress.

And if I say I had been first,

And, reaping, left for them the worst,

That they were beggars at the hands

Of dwellers on my royal lands,

With idle laugh of passing scorn

As unto words of madness born,

They would reply

                           I do not care;

They cannot crowd the charméd air;

They cannot touch the bonds I hold

On all that they have bought and sold.

They can waylay my faithful bees,

Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease,

Are robbe. Is one day's honey sweet

Thus snatched? All summer round my feet

In golden drifts from plumy wings,

In shining drops on fragrant things

Free gift, it came to me. My corn,

With burnished banners, morn by morn,

Comes out to meet and honor me;

The glittering ranks spread royally

Far as I walk. When hasty greed

Tramples it down for food and seed,

I, with a certain veiled delight,

Hear half the crop is lost by blight.

     

Letter of the law these may fulfil,

Plant where they like, slay what they will,

Count up their gains and make them great;

Nevertheless, the whole estate

Always belongs to me and mine.

We are the only royal line.

And though I have no title-deed

My tenants pay me royal heed

When our sweet fields I wander by

To see what strangers occupy.

Helen Hunt Jackson

New Year's Morning

ONLY a night from old to new!

Only a night, and so much wrought!

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,

But said: The New Year rest has brought."

The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,

As in a grave; but trusting, said:

"The blossoms of the New Year's crown

Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

The Old Year's heart was full of greed;

With selfishness it longed and ached,

And cried: "I have not half I need.

My thirst is bitter and unslaked.

But to the New Year's generous hand

All gifts in plenty shall return;

True love it shall understand;

By all y failures it shall learn.

I have been reckless; it shall be

Quiet and calm and pure of life.

I was a slave; it shall go free,

And find sweet pace where I leave strife."

Only a night from old to new!

Never a night such changes brought.

The Old Year had its work to do;

No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!

Night and the healing balm of sleep!

Each morn is New Year's morn come true,

Morn of a festival to keep.

All nights are sacred nights to make

Confession and resolve and prayer;

All days are sacred days to wake

New gladness in the sunny air.

Only a night from old to new;

Only a sleep from night to morn.

The new is but the old coem true;

Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Helen Hunt Jackson

The Fir-Tree and the Brook

THE Fir-Tree looked on stars, but loved the Brook!

"O silver-voiced! if thou wouldst wait,

My love can bravely woo." All smiles forsook

The brook's white face. "Too late!

Too late! I go to wed the sea.

I know not if my love would curse or bless thee.

I may not, dare not, tarry to caress thee,

Oh, do not follow me!

The Fir-Tree moaned and moaned till spring;

Then laughed in manic joy to feel

Early one day, the woodsmen of the King

Sign him with a sign of burning steel,

The first to fall. "Now flee

Thy swiftest, Brook! Thy love may curse or bless me,

I care not, if but once thou dost caress me,

O Brook, I follow thee!

All torn and bruised with mark of adze and chain,

Hurled down the dizzy slide of sand,

Tossed by great waves in ecstsy of pain,

And rudely thrown at last to land,

The Fir-Tree heard: "Oh, see

With what fierce love it is I must caress thee!

I warned thee I might curse, and never bless thee,

Why didst thou follow me?

All stately set with spar and brace and rope,

The Fir-Tree stood and sailed and sailed.

In wildest storm when all the ship lost hope,

The Fir-Tree never shook nor quailed,

Nor ceased from saying, "Free

Art thou, O Brook! But once thou hast caressed me;

For life, for death, thy love has cursed or blessed me;

Behold, I follow thee!"

Lost in a night, and no man left to tell,

Crushed in the giant iceberg's play,

The ship went down without a song, a knell.

Still drifts the Fir-Tree night and day,

Still moans along the sea

A voice: "O Fir-Tree! thus must I possess thee;

Eternally, brave love, will I caress thee,

Dead for the love of me!"

Helen Hunt Jackson