Poet, sing me a song to-day !
But the world grows old and my hair is gray.
Ah no ! there are birds on the lilac bushes
And a snow-drop out of the wet earth pushes.
Two chattering robins are planning a marriage,
And see ! there's a baby all pink in its carriage !
And the sun is wiping the clouds from his brow,
And who can look back when it's always now?
Oh, what is the use of a poet, say,
If he will not sing me a song to-day?
What I saw was just one eye
In the dawn as I was going :
A bird can carry all the sky
In that little button glowing.
Never in my life I went
So deep into the firmament.
He was standing on a tree,
All in blossom overflowing ;
And he purposely looked hard at me,
At first, as if to question merrily :
" Where are you going ? "
But next some far more serious thing to say
I could not answer, could not look away.
Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye
Little mirror of all sky !-
And then the after-song another tree
When first you sang a song to me
With laughter shining from your eyes,
You trolled your music liltingly
With cadences of glad surprise.
In after years I heard you croon
In measures delicately slow
Of trees turned silver by the moon
And nocturnes sprites and lovers know.
And now I cannot hear you sing,
But love still holds your melody
For silence is a sounding thing
To one who listens hungrily.
I shall make a song like your hair ...
Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged,
And I shall play with my song
As my fingers might play with your hair.
Deep in my heart
I shall play with my song of you,
Gently....
I shall laugh
At its sensitive lustre ...
I shall wrap my song in a blanket,
Blue like your eyes are blue
With tiny shots of silver.
I shall wrap it caressingly,
Tenderly....
I shall sing a lullaby
To the song I have made
I breathe the lyric of my love
Across the twilit way,
The gentle echoes bear it on
Beyond the edge of day:
All vibrant is the melody
The silences repeat,
My song is but my longing heart
Pulsated with its beat.
It winds amid the dusky ways
Where far mysteries shine,
To find amid God's trackless space,
One answering song to mine.
Come, brothers all!
Shall we not wend
The blind-way of our prison-world
By sympathy entwined?
Shall we not make
The bleak way for each other's sake
Less rugged and unkind?
O let each throbbing heart repeat
The faint note of another's beat
To lift a chanson for the feet
That stumble down life's checkered street.
These were his songs. Now he has broken them.
All he has made, that has he also slain :
Seeing my beauty budding, broke the stem ;
Finding his likeness here, where he has lain,
Finding the flame of his hurt spirit here
In this small pool that motioned with his shade,
Seeing himself, he smote me with his fear —
He only lives to break what he has made.
All, all he fathered, all that lived by him,
Shut from his face with banging of loud doors.
The sun, losing his spirit, now is gone dim ;
Only the sea that roared before, still roars.
Now it is time to go, softly away ;
We will grow fragile, songs, soon we will fade.
He has no place for us, we cannot stay —
He cannot bear the beauty he has made.
There was a time when Mother Nature made
My soul's sun, and my soul's shade.
A cloud in the sky could take away
The song in my heart for all day,
And a little lark in a willow-tree
Would mean happiness to me.
My moods would mirror all her whims ;
Trees were my strength : their limbs, my limbs.
But, oh, my mother tortured me,
Blowing with wind, and sighing with sea.
I flamed, I withered, I blossomed, I sang,
With her I suffered pang for pang,
Until I said: "I will grow my own tree
Where no natural wind will bother me."
And I grew me a willow of my own heart's strength,
With my will for its width, and my wish for its length :
I made a little song to-day,
And then I wandered down Broadway,
And saw the strange mad people run
And dance about me in the sun,
Or dive into the Underground
Like rabbits frightened by the sound
Of their own scampering through the grass;
I watched a thousand people pass,
But not a one did I hear say--
I made a little song to-day.
I made a little song to-day,
It sang beside me all the way
Until I reached the lower town,
Where crowds went surging up and down.
Their eyes were hard and faces white,
But some of them looked glad and bright,
Little ships of whitest pearl
With sailors who were ancient kings,
Come over the sea when my little girl
Sings.
And if my little girl should weep,
Little ships with torn sails
Go headlong down among the deep
Whales.
When I leave down this pipe my friend
And sleep with flowers I loved, apart,
My songs shall rise in wilding things
Whose roots are in my heart.
And here where that sweet poet sleeps
I hear the songs he left unsung,
When winds are fluttering the flowers
And summer-bells are rung.
For hills and woods and streams unsung
I pipe above a rippled cove.
And here the weaver autumn hung
Between the hills a wind she wove
From sounds the hills remember yet
Of purple days and violet.
The hills stand up to trip the sky,
Sea-misted, and along the tops
Wing after wing goes summer by,
And many a little roadway stops
And starts, and struggles to the sea,
Cutting them up in filigree.
Twixt wind and silence Faughan flows,
In music broken over rocks,
Like mingled bells the poet knows
Ring in the fields of Eastern flocks.