The clouds no more are flocking
After the flushing sun;
Bees end their long droning,
The bat's hunt is begun;
And the tired wind that went flittering
Up and down the hill
Lies like a shadow still,
Like a shadow still.
Who is it that's calling
Out of the deepening dark,
Calling, calling, calling?--
No!--yet hark!
The sleepy wind wakes, carrying
Up and down the hill
A voice how small and still,
How sweet and still!
Music comes
Sweetly from the trembling string
When wizard fingers sweep
Dreamily, half asleep;
When through remembering reeds
Ancient airs and murmurs creep,
Oboe oboe following,
Flute answering clear high flute,
Voices, voices--falling mute,
And the jarring drums.
At night I heard
First a waking bird
Out of the quiet darkness sing....
Music comes
Strangely to the brain asleep!
And I heard
The moon gave no light.
The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white,
From the soft south west.
The wind, that cannot rest,
Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yew
Until the tree was restless too.
Of all the winds I knew
I thought, and how they muttered in the yew,
Or raved under the eaves,
Or nosed the fallen dry leaves,
Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round,
With snapped limbs littering the ground.
And I thought how the yew
Between the window and the west his shadow threw,
Grave and immense,
Darkening the dark past thought and sense,
The angry wind
That cursed at me
Was nothing but an evil sprite
Vexed with any man's delight.
And strange it seemed
That a dark wind
Should run down from a mountain steep
And shout as though the world were asleep.
But when he ceased
And silence was--
Who could but fear what evil sprite
Crept through the tunnels of the night?
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.
The hill was low, but stretched away
A straggling mile or so to where
The sea was stamping, tossing spray
Beyond its bulwarks black and bare :
A sullen sea of gray.
Ah me, it was so desolate,
And sadder for the sea-bird's cry
Thrillingly thin. There seemed a weight
Brooding, as if the leaden sky
Hung heavier for hate.
The grasses jerked as they were stung
By vicious winds. A daisy's head
Crouched in a tuft till it was flung
From its uneasy, troubled bed
And tost the waves among.
A bent, old man was climbing slow
And then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear
And listened well,
And straightway like a bell
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
And in the hush of waters was the sound
The tossing poplar in the wind
Shows underleaf of silver-white;
The roughness of the wind unkind
Torments her out of all delight.
But O that he were here
Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear!
The great oak to the tearing blast
Stands steady with strong arms held wide,
So over him my anger passed,
When his rough usage hurt my pride.
But O that once again
I might arouse that passion, endure that pain!
Dreams are eyes fixed on closed doors
And on threshold-lights lighting cold floors.
Dreams are doors swung strangely back
On the wonder of a ribbony track.
Dreams are voices, echoed and thinned,
Calling . . . drowned out in the wind.
Dreams are feet on the edge of lands
Feeling the suck of hidden sands.
Discomfort sweeps my quiet as a wind
Leaps at trees and leaves them cold and thinned.
Not that I fear again the mastery
Of winds, for holding my indifference dear
I do not feel illusions stripped from me.
And yet this is a fear —
A fear of old discarded fears, of days
That cried out at irrevocable ways.
I cower for my own old cowardice.
For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breast
With hands as impotent as leaves are; this
Robs my new hour of rest.
I thought my pride had covered long ago
All the old scars, like broken twigs in snow.
I thought to luxuriate in rich decay,
As some far-seeing tree upon a hill;
A child with unmanageable feet
Skips on the street below;
The wind has invited her to race,
The sun is a kiss upon her face
And the world a great applauding place.
I know . . .
She dances now with timid step,
Light as new leaves blow.
Her skirts are wings of butterflies,
And with every feathery grace she tries
Her feet cry out life's glad surprise .
I know . . .
A footstep sounded from the street .
Listening, I knew of you!
With the good singing of your feet
You came in, too.
Companioned by the sun and rain.
Mingling with the winds at will.
You passed, but in your step's refrain
I have you still.