Читать книгу Willow Pollen - Jeannette Augustus Marks - Страница 3
ОглавлениеII
You are the shadow,
I am the rock:
Coolness of sheep bells,
Stilling the flock.
CROSS ROADS
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,—
All the festivals of spring your name has lain
Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip
In the rain?
I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,—
Every step a song, every song a flight home to you
While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day
And I pray?
I wonder if the heavens know I love you,—
Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate
Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I
Say goodbye?
CALENDAR
Of a Little Garden on Lake Champlain
Sometimes the sun, like a big bee
Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,
Dreams over my garden,
So still the dust shines on his burning wings.
And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star
To fill his basket claws with night.
Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,
Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—
And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose
And blood-red columbine,—
It’s July then.
Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,
Scours it with pollen from his back
And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—
Then it’s June.
At times he scoops the white crest off a wave
Into the basket of his claws—
I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—
Then zi-ig! He’s back again
Spreading some lilies by the sandy path,
White with gold dashed on their lips
Where he clings—the big bee—sucking.
I know he’s there because the bells ring so:
Seven lilies, then five, then four,
I count them on their stems,
An octave’s length of melody,
A little running song of happiness,—
It’s August then.
But now he’s quiet.
Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,
And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters
Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.
For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold
With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.
Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,
Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—
It is September then,—October, too.
The bee, the big bee, the burning bee
Begins and ends in gold.
In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,
He climbs the sky with fagots on his back
To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;
And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,
Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—
It’s May then, and April, too.
Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.
Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.
What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes
Or a saffron butterfly
Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk!
I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly
About my little garden’s pool,
But not for long.
He has his mysteries.
His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.
Who would not like the change?...
I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,
I know!
WILD GRAPE VINE
I will be like a wild grape vine,
I will climb the sun gathering color;
Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,
Cupped in brown-gold,
Dusted with silver.
I will cling with my dry stem
Until my stem is strong as brown cedar.
Then will I swing from tree to tree,
Twisting, turning, blowing,
Binding all trees with my tendrils,
Embracing them, leaping with them,
Woven in and out of them,
One!
And the wild bee shall love me,
And the wild bee shall follow me
With song!
And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk
And sweet odor at dawn.
And then!—And then
Among all beloved trees which can resist me!
They will yield themselves to me
And I shall swing over the whole world,—
Every forest of earth,
Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,
Every wilderness,—
Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,
Beating upon the stars with my gold,
Kissing the dawn with my silver,
Resting in my brown upon earth,
My roots in her, my fruit her being!
Wind, Wind, Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,— The wild bee clinging! Wind, Wind, Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,— The wild bee following! Wind, Wind, Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,— The wild bee singing!
TO SOME FLOWERS
Growing Near a Wall of Portland Harbor
What will you bring today?
Nod once if it be grave,
Nod thrice if it be gay!
Primrose with eyes for night,
Sweet-peas with wings for flight,
Poppies with cups for dew,
Love in the midst of rue:
Which nods to me?
No, you turn your faces all one way
Against the wall,
Because a wind from off the sea
Draws its chill fingers down your cups
And bids your petals fall.
You do not nod,
You beckon neither once nor thrice
To me, but to the earth
There slips a cover manifold
Of every hue.
And from the wall beside the sea
Curl mist and myriad broken wings.
Such gift you give to me!
I
When joys were vivid I did sit
Within a golden field,
And there I pulled the whitest stars
Green earth can yield.
II
For Bethlehem those stars were named,
The Lord Christ sat with me;
And I was little and I leaned
Upon His knee.
III
Now I am old and joys are gone,
Christ in this room I find
Who brings from distant Bethlehem
Stars for His blind.
GREEN GOLDEN DOOR
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
Fanning the life a man must live,
Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,
Love and hope that he calleth his,
Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin
Casting them forth and sucking them in,
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
Show me the youth that will not die,
Tell me the dream that has not waked,
Seek me the heart that never ached,
Speak me the truth men will not doubt!
Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing out!
Long is the wailing of man’s breath,
Short is the wail of death.
