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The Garden of Dreams



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A FALLEN BEECH Nevermore at doorways that are barkenShall the madcap wind knock and the noonlight;Nor the circle, which thou once didst darken,Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight,Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken. Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces,Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter,Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places;Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor,Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces. And no more, between the savage wonderOf the sunset and the moon's up-coming,Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, underThy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the hummingOf the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder. Oft the satyr spirit, beauty-drunken,Of the Spring called; and the music-measureOf thy sap made answer; and thy sunkenVeins grew vehement with youth, whose pressureSwelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken. And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted,Bubbled green from all thy million oilets,Where the spirits, rain-and-sunbeam-suited,Of the April made their whispering toilets,Or within thy stately shadow footed. Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkledAt the windows of thy twigs, and found theeBird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkledLissom feet of naked flowers around thee,Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled. And the Autumn with his gipsy-coatedTroop of days beneath thy branches rested,Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throatedSongs of hunting; or with red hand testedEvery nut-bur that above him floated. Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich inShaggy followers of frost and freezing,Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen,Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easingLimbs snow-furred and moccasoned with lichen. Now, alas! no more do these invest theeWith the dignity of whilom gladness!They—unto whose hearts thou once confessed theeOf thy dreams—now know thee not! and sadnessSits beside thee where forgot dost rest thee.

THE HAUNTED WOODLAND Here in the golden darknessAnd green night of the woods,A flitting form I follow,A shadow that eludes—Or is it but the phantomOf former forest moods? The phantom of some fancyI knew when I was young,And in my dreaming boyhood,The wildwood flow'rs among,Young face to face with FaerySpoke in no unknown tongue. Blue were her eyes, and goldenThe nimbus of her hair;And crimson as a flowerHer mouth that kissed me there;That kissed and bade me follow,And smiled away my care. A magic and a marvelLived in her word and look,As down among the blossomsShe sate me by the brook,And read me wonder-legendsIn Nature's Story Book. Loved fairy-tales forgotten,She never reads again,Of beautiful enchantmentsThat haunt the sun and rain,And, in the wind and water,Chant a mysterious strain. And so I search the forest,Wherein my spirit feels,In tree or stream or flowerHerself she still conceals—But now she flies who followed,Whom Earth no more reveals.
DISCOVERY What is it now that I shall seek,Where woods dip downward, in the hills?—A mossy nook, a ferny creek,And May among the daffodils. Or in the valley's vistaed glow,Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines,Shall I behold her coming slow,Sweet May, among the columbines? With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes,Big eyes, the homes of happiness,To meet me with the old surprise,Her hoiden hair all bonnetless. Who waits for me, where, note for note,The birds make glad the forest-trees?A dogwood blossom at her throat,My May among the anemones. As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,And dewdrops drink the moonlight's gleams,My soul shall kiss her lips' perfumes,And drink the magic of her dreams.
COMRADERY With eyes hand-arched he looks intoThe morning's face, then turns awayWith schoolboy feet, all wet with dew,Out for a holiday....