Read Ebook: When All the Woods Are Green: A Novel by Mitchell S Weir Silas Weir

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Ebook has 193 lines and 9278 words, and 4 pages

PROEM LAUS MARIAE RECOLLECTION NIGHTFALL A BALLAD OF LOVE AND DEATH BIRDS OF PASSAGE WASTE THE WATCHER IN THE SKY HOUSEMATES POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE THE HIDDEN WEAVER VANITAS SPENSER'S "FA?RIE QUEENE" MORNING ROAD SONG EVENING ROAD SONG WINDY MORNING THE GRAVE OF THOREAU EARTH-BORN "WHENCE COMETH MY HELP" UNITY VISTAS A NUN LOVE AMONG THE CLOVER CERTAIN AMERICAN POETS THE SINGER'S QUEST DEAD MAGDALEN THE ADVENTURER THE GOLDFINCH ORIOLES BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM APRIL A CHAPEL BY THE SEA EPHEMEROS WANDERLUST THE IDEAL THE FIRST CHRISTIAN

A LONELY FLUTE

PROEM

Beyond the pearly portal, Beyond the last dim star, Pale, perfect, and immortal, The eternal visions are, That never any rapture Of sorrow or of mirth Of any song shall capture To dwell with men on earth.

Many a strange and tragic Old sorrow still is mute And melodies of magic Still slumber in the flute, Many a mighty vision Has caught my yearning eye And swept with calm derision In robes of splendor by.

The rushing susurration Of some eternal wing Beats mighty variation Through all the song I sing; The vague, deep-mouthed commotion From its ancestral home Booms like the shout of ocean Across the crumbling foam; And these low lyric whispers Make answer wistfully As sea-shells ... dreaming lispers Beside the eternal sea.

LAUS MARIAE

There is a name like some deep melody Hallowed by sundown, delicate as the plash Of lonely waves on solitary lakes And rounded as the sudden-bursting bloom Of bold, deep-throated notes in a midnight cloud When shadowy belfries far away roll out Across the dark their avalanche of sound.

It is a wild voice lost in the wail of the wind; The silvery-twinkling plectrum of the rain Plays in the poplar tree no other tune And pines intone it softly as a prayer In leafy litanies. The name is raised Even to God's ear from ancient arches dim With caverned twilight and dull altar smoke Where tapers weave athwart the azure haze Innumerable pageantries of dusk.

Low-voiced and soft-eyed women must they live Who bear that holy name. And now for one Time has no other honor than to be The meaning of an unremembered rhyme, The breath of a forgotten singer's song.

RECOLLECTION

I must forget awhile the mellow flutes And all the lyric wizardry of strings; The fragile clarinet, Tremulous over meadows rich with dawn, Must knock against my vagrant heart And throb and cry no more.

For I am shaken by the loveliness And lights and laughter and beguiling song Of all this siren world; The regal beauty of women, round on round, The swift, lithe slenderness of girls, And children's loyal eyes,

Hill rivers and the lilac fringe of seas Lazily plunging, glow of city nights And faces in the glow-- These things have stolen my heart away, I lie Parcelled abroad in sound and hue, Dispersed through all I love.

I must go far away to a still place And draw the shadows down across my eyes And wait and listen there For wings vibrating from beyond the stars, Wide-ranging, swiftly winnowing wings Bearing me back mine own.

So soon, now, I shall lie deep hidden away From sound or sight, with hearing strangely dull And heavy-lidded eyes,-- 'T is time, O passionate soul, for me to go Some far, hill-folded road apart And learn the ways of peace.

NIGHTFALL

In a crumbling glory sets The unhastening sun; The fishers draw their shining nets; The day is done.

Across the ruddy wine That brims the sea Black boats drag shoreward through the brine Dreamily,

Beneath the gradual host Of heaven, pale And glimmering, rides a dim sea-ghost, A large slow sail.

Slowly she cometh on Day's last faint breath, Drifting across the water, wan And gray as death.

From what far-lying land Swimmeth thy keel, Dim ship? And what mysterious hand Is at thy wheel?

What far-borne news for me? What vast release? Quiet is in my heart, and on the sea Peace.

A BALLAD OF LOVE AND DEATH

She winded on the castle horn, She clamored long and bold, For she was way-spent and forlorn And she was sore a-cold.

And she stood lonely in the snow. Vague quiet filled the air.... From heaven's roof looked down aloof The stars, with steady stare.

She heard the droning drift of snow And the wolf-wind on the hill.... No other sound.... For leagues around The night was very still.

She cried aloud in sudden fright, "Open! Warder ho! Here is a pilgrim guest to-night Who can no farther go."

The steady beat of mailed feet In angry answer rang Along the floor. The castle door Gave in with iron clang

And the warder strode into his tower And saw her standing there Weary, like a storm-tossed flower, And, like an angel, fair.

"Here is no lodging for the night, No bread and wine for thee, No ingle bright, no warm firelight, No cheerful company.

"Here is no inn nor any kin Of thine to harbor guest, Nor thee to house will any rouse Out of his ancient rest."

Unearthly, dark, nocturnal things With faint and furtive stir Hovered on feather-muffled wings Round the fair face of her

As she made answer wearily: "Ah! open now the gate. Though I was fleet with willing feet, I have come very late.

"Yea, though I came through flood and flame, Through tempest, flood, and fire, And left the wind to trail behind The wings of my desire,

"And though I prayed the stars for aid And seas for wind and tide, And though God gave me goodly pave And ran, Himself, beside...

"Aye, though my feet have been thus fleet, Unto one heart, I know, Whose sleep is still beneath the hill, My coming has been slow."

And he bent gently down above, A soft light in his eye... "Is not the holy name of Love The name men call thee by?

"Ah, Love, I know thee, for thy face Is other-worldly fair; A great light of some heavenly place Is on thy shining hair.

"But thou, Love, who canst tread the stars, Whose seat is by God's throne, Why wilt thou bend thee to the dust And walk the dark alone?

"Thy ways are not our mortal ways. Hast thou nought else to do Than wander with thy dream-lit face Our glimmering darkness through?"

But Love made answer, and her voice Was as God's voice to him; As tall and fair she towered there As heavenly seraphim...

"Open the gate! for Love shall dwell Even among the dead And in the darkest deeps of hell! Open! For God hath said!"

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Dropping round and clear across the still miles, Ringing down the midnight's marble stair, A bird's cry is falling through the darkness, Falling from the fields of upper air.

Through the rainy fragrance of the April night Slow it falls, circling in the fall, And all the sheeted lake of sleeping silences Is troubled by the solitary call.

Each human heart awake knows the loneliness Of that strange voice clear and far, That lost voice searching through the midnight, That lonely star calling to a star.

Old memories are thronging through the darkness... Slow tears are blinding sleepless eyes... O lonely hearts remembering in the midnight! O dark and empty skies!

WASTE

Reluctant, groping fog crept gray and cold Up from the fields where now the guns were still; Far off the thundering surge of battle rolled And darkness brooded on the quiet hill; Clearly, across the listening night, the shrill And rhythmic cry of a lonely cricket fell On ears long deafened by the scream of shot and shell.

And there were two who listened wistfully To that glad voice, that sad last voice of all, Who on the morrow after reveille Would make no answer to the muster call; Others would eat their mess, others would fall When the lines formed again into their places, And soon their marching comrades would forget their faces.

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