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Read Ebook: Willow Pollen by Marks Jeannette Augustus
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Ebook has 355 lines and 21828 words, and 8 pages
A THOUSAND YEARS 72
THE BROKEN DOOR 73
ONLY YOUR NAME 74
REPETENDS 75
TOO LATE 76
THE TIDE 77
DUST AND DREAMS 78
THE NEST 79
LOST LOVE 80
"WHEN SPRING" 81
TWO CANDLES 82
ROSY MILLER 84
HIS NAME 85
MIST 86
LAST DAWN 87
EVEN AS HERE 88
AGAIN? 90
WILLOW POLLEN
PROEM
WILLOW POLLEN
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms, At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes; A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips, Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves. In the willow pollen the bees hum; In the apple bloom the bees hum; Fluttering up like a begging hand The ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf, The thrush its song.
O beautiful world, what are you? And who made you? Are you no more than a fragrant dream, A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon, A swaying mirror, Willow pollen, A twirling song, A crumbling leaf?
YOU
You are the sunshine, I am the sod: Flame to my leaf-mould, And goldenrod.
You are the shadow, I am the rock: Coolness of sheep bells, Stilling the flock.
You are the starlight, I am the stream: Trees dripping lustre Into our dream.
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
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!
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!
TO SOME FLOWERS
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!
STARS
When joys were vivid I did sit Within a golden field, And there I pulled the whitest stars Green earth can yield.
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