Among the Millet and Other Poems — Reading Notes

Secure were we, content to dream with you, That change and pain are shadows faint and fleet, And dreams are real, and life is only sweet.

I heard the city time-bells call Far off in hollow towers, And one by one with measured fall Count out the old dead hours;

I felt the march, the silent press Of time, and held my breath; I saw the haggard dreadfulness Of dim old age and death.

O sun, shine hot on the river; For the ice is turning an ashen hue, And the still bright water is looking through, And the myriad streams are greeting you With a ballad of life to the giver, From forest and field and sunny town, Meeting and running and tripping down, With laughter and song to the river.

Oh! the din on the boats by the river; The barges are ringing while day avails, With sound of hewing and hammering nails, Planing and painting and swinging pails, All day in their shrill endeavour; For the waters brim over their wintry cup, And the grinding ice is breaking up, And we must away down the river.

Oh! the hum and the toil of the river; The ridge of the rapid sprays and skips: Loud and low by the water's lips, Tearing the wet pines into strips, The saw mill is moaning ever. The little grey sparrow skips and calls On the rocks in the rain of the water falls, And the logs are adrift in the river.

Oh! restlessly whirls the river; The rivulets run and the cataract drones: The spiders are flitting over the stones: Summer winds float and the cedar moans; And the eddies gleam and quiver. O sun, shine hot, shine long and abide In the glory and power of thy summer tide On the swift longing face of the river.

WHY DO YE CALL THE POET LONELY.

Why do ye call the poet lonely, Because he dreams in lonely places? He is not desolate, but only Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.

From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by me white and bare; Up the steep hill it seems to swim Beyond, and melt into the glare. Upward half way, or it may be Nearer the summit, slowly steals A hay-cart, moving dustily With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart's side the wagoner Is slouching slowly at his ease, Half-hidden in the windless blur Of white dust puffing to his knees. This wagon on the height above, From sky to sky on either hand, Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun Soaks in the grass and hath his will; I count the marguerites one by one; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath The cool gloom of the bridge.

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, Lie waiting for the heat to pass. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dreams I hear The cricket from the droughty ground; The grass-hoppers spin into mine ear A small innumerable sound. I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze: The burning sky-line blinds my sight: The woods far off are blue with haze; The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that Is always sharp or always sweet; In the sloped shadow of my hat I lean at rest, and drain the heat; Nay more, I think some blessèd power Hath brought me wandering idly here: In the full furnace of this hour My thoughts grow keen and clear.

Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe, Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew, A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew Far round among the clover, ripe for hay, A circle clean and grey; And here among the scented swathes that gleam, Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky, Nor think but only dream.

For when the noon was turning, and the heat Fell down most heavily on field and wood, I too came hither, borne on restless feet, Seeking some comfort for an aching mood. Ah, I was weary of the drifting hours, The echoing city towers, The blind grey streets, the jingle of the throng, Weary of hope that like a shape of stone Sat near at hand without a smile or moan, And weary most of song.

And those high moods of mine that sometime made My heart a heaven, opening like a flower, A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed, Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime With changing breaths of rhyme, Were all gone lifeless now like those white leaves, That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind Among the sinewy beeches in the wind, That vainly calls and grieves.

Ah! I will set no more mine overtaskèd brain To barren search and toil that beareth nought, Forever following with sorefooted pain The crossing pathways of unbournèd thought; But let it go, as one that hath no skill, To take what shape it will, An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom, A spider bathing in the dew at morn, Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne From hidden bloom to bloom.

Hither and thither o'er the rocking grass The little breezes, blithe as they are blind, Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass, Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind, To taste of every purple-fringèd head Before the bloom is dead; And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare Like children in a crowd.

Not far to fieldward in the central heat, Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat Together like innumerable small hands, And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray, Hang wan and silver-grey; Like sleepy mænads, who in pale surprise, Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept Out of the hidden covert, where they slept, At noon with languid eyes.

The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow, That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year, The dry cicada plies his wiry bow In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere: From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din Spreads soft and silvery thin: And ever and anon a murmur steals Into mine ears of toil that moves alway, The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay And lazy jerk of wheels.

As so I lie and feel the soft hours wane, To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare, That aching dim discomfort of the brain Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care Into some hidden corner creeps at last To slumber deep and fast; And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget, From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass To brood, but no more fret.

And hour by hour among all shapes that grow Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold In sweet unrest my visions come and go; I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold; And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun, In gold and shadow spun, Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down, Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown, And I are soaked with him.

Out of the heart of the city begotten Of the labour of men and their manifold hands, Whose souls, that were sprung from the earth in her morning, No longer regard or remember her warning, Whose hearts in the furnace of care have forgotten Forever the scent and the hue of her lands;

Out of the heat of the usurer's hold, From the horrible crash of the strong man's feet; Out of the shadow where pity is dying; Out of the clamour where beauty is lying, Dead in the depth of the struggle for gold; Out of the din and the glare of the street;

Into the arms of our mother we come, Our broad strong mother, the innocent earth, Mother of all things beautiful, blameless, Mother of hopes that her strength makes tameless, Where the voices of grief and of battle are dumb, And the whole world laughs with the light of her mirth.

Over the fields, where the cool winds sweep, Black with the mould and brown with the loam, Where the thin green spears of the wheat are appearing, And the high-ho shouts from the smoky clearing; Over the widths where the cloud shadows creep; Over the fields and the fallows we come;

Over the swamps with their pensive noises, Where the burnished cup of the marigold gleams; Skirting the reeds, where the quick winds shiver On the swelling breast of the dimpled river, And the blue of the king-fisher hangs and poises, Watching a spot by the edge of the streams;

By the miles of the fences warped and dyed With the white-hot noons and their withering fires, Where the rough bees trample the creamy bosoms Of the hanging tufts of the elder blossoms, And the spiders weave, and the grey snakes hide, In the crannied gloom of the stones and the briers;

Over the meadow lands sprouting with thistle, Where the humming wings of the blackbirds pass, Where the hollows are banked with the violets flowering, And the long-limbed pendulous elms are towering, Where the robins are loud with their voluble whistle, And the ground sparrow scurries away through the grass,

Where the restless bobolink loiters and woos Down in the hollows and over the swells, Dropping in and out of the shadows, Sprinkling his music about the meadows, Whistles and little checks and coos, And the tinkle of glassy bells;

Into the dim woods full of the tombs Of the dead trees soft in their sepulchres, Where the pensive throats of the shy birds hidden, Pipe to us strangely entering unbidden, And tenderly still in the tremulous glooms The trilliums scatter their white-winged stars;

Up to the hills where our tired hearts rest, Loosen, and halt, and regather their dreams; Up to the hills, where the winds restore us, Clearing our eyes to the beauty before us, Earth with the glory of life on her breast, Earth with the gleam of her cities and streams.

Here we shall commune with her and no other; Care and the battle of life shall cease; Men her degenerate children behind us, Only the might of her beauty shall bind us, Full of rest, as we gaze on the face of our mother, Earth in the health and the strength of her peace.

MORNING ON THE LIÈVRES.

Far above us where a jay Screams his matins to the day, Capped with gold and amethyst, Like a vapour from the forge Of a giant somewhere hid, Out of hearing of the clang Of his hammer, skirts of mist Slowly up the woody gorge Lift and hang.

Softly as a cloud we go, Sky above and sky below, Down the river, and the dip Of the paddles scarcely breaks, With the little silvery drip Of the water as it shakes From the blades, the crystal deep Of the silence of the morn, Of the forest yet asleep, And the river reaches borne In a mirror, purple grey, Sheer away To the misty line of light, Where the forest and the stream In the shadow meet and plight, Like a dream.

From amid a stretch of reeds, Where the lazy river sucks All the water as it bleeds From a little curling creek, And the muskrats peer and sneak In around the sunken wrecks Of a tree that swept the skies Long ago, On a sudden seven ducks With a splashy rustle rise, Stretching out their seven necks, One before, and two behind, And the others all arow, And as steady as the wind With a swivelling whistle go, Through the purple shadow led, Till we only hear their whir In behind a rocky spur, Just ahead.

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines, Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar The low long strip of dolorous red that lines The under west, where wet winds moan afar. The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows With the blown leaves' wind-heapèd traceries, And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows, And bear no bloom for bees.

As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips, The sad trees rustle in chill misery, A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips, That move and murmur incoherently; As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing, With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door, So many low soft masses for the dying Sweet leaves that live no more.

Here I will sit upon this naked stone, Draw my coat closer with my numbèd hands, And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan, And send my heart out to the ashen lands; And I will ask myself what golden madness, What balmèd breaths of dreamland spicery, What visions of soft laughter and light sadness Were sweet last month to me.

The dry dead leaves flit by with thin wierd tunes, Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed, Graven in mystic markings with strange runes, That none but stars and biting winds may read; Here I will wait a little; I am weary, Not torn with pain of any lurid hue, But only still and very gray and dreary, Sweet sombre lands, like you.

We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sitting, By the forest, near the mould, Heard the summer calling, calling, Through the dead leaves falling, falling, That her life grew faint and old.

And we took her up, and bore her, With the leaves that moaned before her, To the holy forest bowers, Where the trees were dense and serried, And her corpse we buried, buried, In the graveyard of the flowers.

Now the leaves, as death grows vaster, Yellowing deeper, dropping faster, All the grave wherein she lies With their bodies cover, cover, With their hearts that love her, love her, For they live not when she dies:

And we left her so, but stay not Of our tears, and yet we may not, Though they coldly thickly fall, Give the dead leaves any, any, For they lie so many, many, That we cannot weep for all.

BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP.

Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away-- The last sad hours that were touched with her grace-- In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play; The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space Let not a sight or a sound erase Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands: Gather ye, dreams, to her sunny face, Shadow her head with your golden hands.

The woods that are golden and red for a day Girdle the hills in a jewelled case, Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay The beautiful life that he hath in chase. Darker and darker the shadows pace Out of the north to the southern sands, Ushers bearing the winter's mace: Keep them away with your woven hands.

The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray, More bitter and cold than the winds that race, From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away, This way and that way, the woodland lace. In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace; Behind her the ghost of the winter stands; Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place: Mantle her head with your glowing hands.

Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands, Let her heart not gather a dream that is base: Shadow her head with your golden hands.

The long days came and went; the riotous bees Tore the warm grapes in many a dusty-vine, And men grew faint and thin with too much ease, And Winter gave no sign: But all the while beyond the northmost woods He sat and smiled and watched his spirits play In elfish dance and eery roundelay, Tripping in many moods With snowy curve and fairy crystal shine.

But now the time is come: with southward speed The elfin spirits pass: a secret sting Hath fallen and smitten flower and fruit and weed, And every leafy thing. The wet woods moan: the dead leaves break and fall; In still night-watches wakeful men have heard The muffled pipe of many a passing bird, High over hut and hall, Straining to southward with unresting wing.

And then they come with colder feet, and fret The winds with snow, and tuck the streams to sleep With icy sheet and gleaming coverlet, And fill the valleys deep With curvèd drifts, and a strange music raves Among the pines, sometimes in wails, and then In whistled laughter, till affrighted men Draw close, and into caves And earthy holes the blind beasts curl and creep.

And so all day above the toiling heads Of men's poor chimneys, full of impish freaks, Tearing and twisting in tight-curlèd shreds The vain unnumbered reeks, The Winter speeds his fairies forth and mocks Poor bitten men with laughter icy cold, Turning the brown of youth to white and old With hoary-woven locks, And grey men young with roses in their cheeks.

And after thaws, when liberal water swells The bursting eaves, he biddeth drip and grow The curly horns of ribbèd icicles In many a beard-like row. In secret moods of mercy and soft dole, Old warpèd wrecks and things of mouldering death That summer scorns and man abandoneth His careful hands console With lawny robes and draperies of snow.

And when night comes, his spirits with chill feet, Winged with white mirth and noiseless mockery, Across men's pallid windows peer and fleet, And smiling silverly Draw with mute fingers on the frosted glass Quaint fairy shapes of icèd witcheries, Pale flowers and glinting ferns and frigid trees And meads of mystic grass, Graven in many an austere phantasy.

But far away the Winter dreams alone, Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan In dusky-skirted lines Strange answers of an ancient runic call; Or somewhere watches with his antique eyes, Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries, The silvery moonshine fall In misty wedges through his girth of pines.

Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon Into your icy beds: the embers die; And on your frosted panes the pallid moon Is glimmering brokenly. Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhile, Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights The shining majesty of him that smites And slays you with a smile Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery.

WINTER HUES RECALLED.

Life is not all for effort: there are hours, When fancy breaks from the exacting will, And rebel thought takes schoolboy's holiday, Rejoicing in its idle strength. 'Tis then, And only at such moments, that we know The treasure of hours gone--scenes once beheld, Sweet voices and words bright and beautiful, Impetuous deeds that woke the God within us, The loveliness of forms and thoughts and colors, A moment marked and then as soon forgotten. These things are ever near us, laid away, Hidden and waiting the appropriate times, In the quiet garner-house of memory. There in the silent unaccounted depth, Beneath the heated strainage and the rush That teem the noisy surface of the hours, All things that ever touched us are stored up, Growing more mellow like sealed wine with age; We thought them dead, and they are but asleep. In moments when the heart is most at rest And least expectant, from the luminous doors, And sacred dwelling place of things unfeared, They issue forth, and we who never knew Till then how potent and how real they were, Take them, and wonder, and so bless the hour.