MAY
The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance —
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the wood-paths lead,
The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May's own utterance.
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
That sprinkle the woodland's trance —
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May's own glance.
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild-bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
Like a little maid to town.
THE WIND OF SPRING
The wind that breathes of columbines
And bleeding-hearts that crowd the rocks;
That shakes the balsam of the pines
With music from his flashing locks,
Stops at my city door and knocks.
He calls me far a-forest; where
The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;
And, circled by the amber air,
Life sits with beauty and perfume
Weaving the new web of her loom.
He calls me where the waters run
Through fronding ferns where haunts the hern;
And, sparkling in the equal sun,
Song leans beside her brimming urn,
And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.
The wind has summoned, and I go, —
To con God's meaning in each line
The flowers write, and, walking slow,
God's purpose, of which song is sign, —
The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.
INTERPRETED
What magic shall solve us the secret
Of beauty that's born for an hour?
That gleams like the flight of an egret,
Or burns like the scent of a flower,
With death for a dower?
What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?
What pipes on the wind but a faun?
Or laughs in the waters that scatter,
But limbs of a nymph who is gone,
When we walk in the dawn?
What sings on the hills but a fairy?
Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?
What breathes through the leaves but the airy
Soft spirits of shadow and light,
When we walk in the night?
Behold how the world-heart is eager
To draw us and hold us and claim!
Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer
Her soul she makes ours the same,
And death but a name.
THE WILLOW BOTTOM
Lush green the grass that grows between
The willows of the bottom-land;
Verged by the careless water, tall and green,
The brown-topped cat-tails stand.
The cows come gently here to browse,
Slow through the great-leafed sycamores;
You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house
With cedars round its doors.
Then all is quiet as the wings
Of the high buzzard floating there;
Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings
An old camp-meeting air.
A flapping cock that crows; and then —
Heard drowsy through the