The poppy grows on the roof-top,
The iris flowers on the grave ;
Hope in the heart of a lover.
And fear in the heart of a slave.
The opal lies in the river.
The pearl in the ocean's breast ;
Doubt in a grieving bosom,
And faith in a heart at rest.
Fireflies dance in the moon-light.
Peach-leaves dance in the wind ;
Dreams and delicate fancies
Dance thro' a poet's mind.
Sweetness dwells in the beehive,
And lives in a maiden's breath ;
Joy in the eyes of children
And peace in the hands of Death.
See the leaves upon the tree !
That is where they ought to be :
Whether they be foul or fair.
Papa did not put them there.
I have found happiness who looked not for it.
There was a green fresh hedge,
And willows by the river side,
And whistling sedge.
The heaviness I felt was all around.
No joy sang in the wind.
Only dull slow life everywhere,
And in my mind.
Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed.
Heaviness turned to mirth:
The willows the stream's cheek caressed,
The sun the earth.
What was it in the bird's song worked such change?
The grass was wonderful.
I did not dream such beauty was
In things so dull.
I PAUSE beside the stream and hear
The waters talking all the way ;
If I had a proper ear
I could tell you what they say.
The lovely tree against the sky,
Which the first sun rests upon,
Has a message for my eye,
If I had a proper one.
On the heath I met a wind,
It whispered to me as I stood ;
If I had a proper mind
I could answer, so I could.
I am deaf and dumb and blind,
No reply can I invent
When a stream, a tree, a wind
Asks am I intelligent.
I VISITED the palaces of kings,
And marvelled at the storied treasure brought
With vast expenditure of time and thought
To play upon the heart's imaginings;
All cunningly devised and priceless things —
Fine sculptured forms, rare, costly gems that caught
The sun, great canvases, and fabrics wrought
With wondrous skill to give the fancy wings.
But, coming forth, there crowded round my way
Such opulence of nature's tapestries,
That I reflected how the humblest may
Inherit all those lavish treasuries
Beside which human art is children's play,
And kings' possessions merest travesties.
Sap stirs near me, roots stretch and seize,
Sundering stones.
And rivers waken, start in monotones
Their later tunes.
Oaks bend their knotted knees
In labor, and the full earth groans
Like women big with their increase;
While underground my body lies,
With open eyes,
In this stiff pose of peace.
My mother earth I shall forget
When I am sick and like to die;
There, in a breathless chamber set,
My mother earth I shall forget,
These hedges starred with flowers wet,
These muddy roads beneath the sky.
My mother earth I shall forget,
When I am sick and like to die.
He said his legs were stiff and sore
For he had gone some twenty-eight miles,
And he'd walked through by watergaps
And fences and gates and stiles.
He said he'd been by Logan's woods,
And up by Walton's branch and Simms,
And there were sticktights on his clothes
And little dusts of seeds and stems.
And then he sat down on the steps,
And he said the miles were on his feet.
For some of that land was tangled brush,
And some was plowed for wheat.
The rabbits were thick where he had been,
And he said he'd found some ripe papaws.
He'd rested under a white oak tree,
And for his dinner he ate red haws.
When I can count the numbers far,
And know all the figures that there are,
Then I'll know everything, and I
Can know about the ground and sky,
And all the little bugs I see,
And I'll count the leaves on the silver-leaf tree,
And all the days that ever can be.
I'll know all the cows and sheep that pass,
And I'll know all the grass,
And all the places far away,
And I'll know everything some day.
Not in that wasted garden
Where bodies are drawn into grass
That feeds no flocks, and into evergreens
That bear no fruit—
There where along the shaded walks
Vain sighs are heard,
And vainer dreams are dreamed
Of close communion with departed souls—
But here under the apple tree
I loved and watched and pruned
With gnarled hands
In the long, long years;
Here under the roots of this northern-spy
To move in the chemic change and circle of life,
Into the soil and into the flesh of the tree,
And into the living epitaphs
From her many-colored bow Nature
Has hurled her silver arrows of rain
And slain the hosts of Dark.
Jeweled with a single star, the Moon
Walks the garden of Night;
Higher and higher
Through the star-enflowered pathways of sapphire
She draws her train of silver.
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering
rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is
tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.