Francis Joseph Sherman: Verses about Wind

High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,
There’s a wide cloud, ominous and slow;
And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover
And the wavering shadow fade along the snow.
Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)


That’s first, fitful dropp of scanty rain;
And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn
rivers
Come to make our Northland glad and free again.

O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!
Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?


All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of your
returning
But I waited all those hours that you were gone.
For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes
that fell
Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew
(When our pathways lay together how we reveled in such


weather!)
That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.

Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs
And remember many winters overpast;
All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,
Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.


Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift;
A rock, there, behind a covered spring;
And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor
ending,—
Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?

And remember how we followed down the woodman’s winding


trail!
By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,
Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the
clearing,—
O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!
But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;
And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,


Beckoned us beyond the shadows—down the hill—across the
meadows
Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.

And that night, too—remember?—outside our quiet house,
Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind;
Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created


And it hid the very things it came to find.
In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,
(Hark the branches! how they shatter overhear!)
Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide
world was keeping
All the silence of the Houses of the Dead?



Ah, but that was long ago! And tonight the wind foretells
(Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)
Earth’s forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break
tomorrow
And lead me to the bases of the hills:
To the low southern hills where of old we used to go—


(Hark the rumor of ten thousand ancient Springs!)
O my love, to thy dark quiet—far beyond our North’s mad riot—
Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?

I wonder why my love for him
Should grow so much these last three days,
While he but stares as if some whim
Had been discovered to his gaze;

Some foolish whim that brings but shame


Whatever time he thinks thereof,—
To him my name is now the name
Of some old half-forgotten love.

And yet I starve for his least kiss
And faint because my love is great;


I, who am now no more than this,—
An unseen beggar at his gate. . . .

She watched the moon and spake aloud.
The moon seemed not to rise, but hung
Just underneath the long straight cloud


That low across the heavens swung,

As if to press the old moon back
Into its place behind the trees.
The trees stood where the hill was black;
They were not vexed by any breeze.



The moon was not as it had been
Before, when she had watched it rise;
It was misshapen now, and thin,
As if some trouble in the skies

Had happened more than it could bear.


Its color, too, was no more red;
Nor was it like her yellow hair;―
It looked as if its soul were dead.

I, who was once well-loved of him,
Am as a beggar by his gate


Whereon black carvèd things look grim
At one who thinks to penetrate.

I do not ask if I may stray
Once more in those desirèd lands;
Another night, yet one more day,


For these I do not make demands;

For when the ripened hour is past
Things such as these are asked in vain:
His first day’s love,—were that the last
I were repaid for this new pain.



Out of his love great joy I had
For many days; and even now
I do not dare to be but glad
When I remember, often, how

He said he had great joy of me.


The while he loved, no man, I think,
Exceeded him in constancy;
My passion, even, seemed to shrink

Almost to nothing, when he came
And told me all of love’s strange things:


The paths love trod, loves eyes of flame,
Its silent hours, its rapid wings. . . .

The moon still waited, watching her
(The cloud still stretched there, close above;
The trees beneath): it could not stir,


And yet it seemed the shape thereof,

Since she looked first, some change had known.
In places it had burned away,
And one side had much thinner grown;
—What light that came from it was gray.



It was not curved from east to west,
But lay upon its back; life one
Wounded, or weary of some quest,
Or by strong enemies undone.

Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;


She knew they were burned out and dead
Because no clouds went, drifting by,
Across the light the strange moon shed.

Now I can hope for naught but death.
I would not stay to give him pain,


Or say the words a woman saith
When love hath called aloud in vain

And got no answer anywhere.
It were far better I should die,
And have rough strangers come to bear


My body far away, where I

Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
That they should leave me, with no tears,
To think and think within the gloom
For many years, for many years.


The thought of that strange, narrow place
Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
I do not fear cold Death’s embrace,
And where black worms draw nigh to feed

On my white body, then, I know


That I shall make no mournful cry:
But that I should be hidden so
Where I no more may see the sky,―

The wide sky filled with many a star,
Or all around the yellow sun,


Or even the sky where great clouds are
That wait until the rain be done,

―That is an evil thing for me. . . .
Across the sky the cloud swung still
And pressed the moon down heavily


Where leafless trees grew on the hill.

The pale moon now was very thin.
There was no water near the place,
Else would the moon that slept therein
Have frightened her with its gray face.



How shall I wish to see the sky!
For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
I care not where they make me lie,
Nor if my grave be diggèd deep,

So they leave loose my coffin’s lid


And throw on me no mouldy clay,
That the white stars may not be hid:
This little thing is all I pray.

Then I shall move me wearily,
And clasp each bone that was my wrist,


Around each slender bony knee;
And wind my hair, that once he kissed,

Around my body wasted think,
To keep me from the grave’s cold breath;
And on my knees rest my poor chin,


And think of what I lose by death.

I shall be happy, being dead. . . .
The moon, by now, had nearly gone,
As if it knew its time was sped
And feared the coming of the dawn.



It had not risen; one could see
The cloud was strong to keep it back;
It merely faded utterly,
And where it was the sky grew black.

Till suddenly the east turned gray,


Although no stars were overhead;
And though the moon had died away,
There came faint glimmerings of red;

Then larger waves of golden light
Heralded that the day was born,


And on the furthest eastern height
With swift feet came the waited morn.

With swift feet came the morn, but lo!
Just as its triumph was begun,
The fist wild onset of the snow


Strangled the glad imperial sun!

O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;
Ye who find nothing worthy of your love
But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;
Who, when the day is done,
Are all uncomforted

Unless the night be crowned with many a star,
Or mellow light be shed
From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,
With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;
O ye to whom the skies

Must be forever fair to free your eyes
From mortal pain; ―
Have ye not known the great exceeding worth
Of that soft peace which cometh with Rain?

Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing

That hath such title to man's worshipping
As the first sudden day [page 40]
The slumberous Earth is wakened into Spring;
When heavy clouds and gray
Come up the southern way,

And their bold challenge throw
In the face of the frightened snow
That covereth the ground.
What need they now the armies of the Sun
Whose trumpets now do sound?

25
Alas, the powerless Sun!
Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,
Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast
And leading them with slow and even paces
To assault once more the impenetrable places,

Where, crystal-bound,
The river moveth on with silent sound?
O puny, powerless Sun!
On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces
Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done?

35
On these large spaces
No footsteps are imprinted anywhere;
Still the white glare
Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still
On plain and hill;


And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.

Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face
This day beneath the cloud's gray covering;
Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace
In which thy name is holden of the Spring.


She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,
And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;
Knowing that with the clouds will come apace
The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.
A king? —Nay, queen! [page 41]

For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne
When first she cometh in the young Spring-season;
Gentle and mild,
Yet with no dread of any revolution,
And fearing not a land unreconciled,


And unafraid of treason.
In her dark hair
Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution;
And in her glance is known
The freeing of the rivers from their chainings;


And in her bosom's strainings
Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.

Behold her coming surely, calmly down,
Where late the clear skies were,
With gray clouds for a gown;


Her fragile draperies
Caught by the little breeze
Which loveth her!
She weareth yet no crown,
Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;

70
Yea, in all lands,
Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well
That it is right and good for her to come;
And that her least commands
Must be fulfilled, however wearisome;


And that they all must guard the citadel
Wherein she deigns to dwell!

And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over
The impressionable snow
That vanisheth as woe


Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,
Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know
His lady loves him so! [page 42]
(Yet not like him
Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!


It is all gray in places, and looks worn
With some most bitter pain;
As he shall look, perchance,
Some early morn
While yet the dawn is dim,


When he awakens from the enraptured trance
In which he, blind, hath lain,
And knows also that he hath loved in vain
The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.
And though her utter worthlessness is plain


He hath no joy of his deliverance,
But only asketh God to let him die,―
And getteth no reply.)
Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!

And while the rain is unabated,


Well-heads are born and streams created
On the hillsides, and set a-flowing
Across the fields. The river, knowing
That there hath surely come at last
Its freedom, and that frost is past,


Gathereth force to break its chains;
The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!
See where the shores even now were firmly bound
The slowly widening water showeth black,
As from the fields and meadows all around


Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground
The foaming streams!
Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide
Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack
Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,


Glad to be free.
And now the uneven rift is growing wide;
The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;
It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,
And moveth on its way.


Surely at last the work of the rain is done!
Surely the Spring at last is well begun,
O unavailing Sun!

O ye who worship only at the noon,
When will ye learn the glory of the rain?


Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass
Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky,
And all in vain?
Even in June
Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon


Along the roadside, where the dust, alas,
Is hard to pass?
Have ye not heard
The song cease in the throat of every bird
And know the thing all these were stricken by?



Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,
O pitiless and uncompassionate!
Yet should the weeping
Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping
Be felt of you to-night,


And all your hair
Know the soft stirring of an alien breath
From out the mouth of Death,
Would ye not then have memory of these
And how their pain was great?


Would ye not wish to hear among the trees
The wind in his great night,
And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?

For when could death be more desired by us
(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)


Than when the night
Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?
When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass
Is not yet tall,
Or when all living things are harvested

155
And with bright gold the hills are glorious,
Or when all colors have faded from our sight
And all is gray that late was gold and red?
Have ye not lain awake the long night through
And listened to the falling of the rain


On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?
Have none of you,
Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted
And made forgetful of the day's live pain?
Even Thou, who wept because the dark was great


Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,
Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing
And night a thing not wholly desolate
And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?
Did not thy hearing strain


To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,
Where great tides be,
And swift, white rain?
Did not its far exulting teach thy soul
That of all things the sea alone is free


And under no control?
Its liberty,―
Was it not most desired by thy soul?
I say,
The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea


Is glad alway
When the rain cometh; either tranquilly [page 45]
As at the first dawn of a Summer day
Or in late Autumn wildly passionate,
Or when all things are all disconsolate


Because that Winter has been long their king,
Or in the Spring.
―Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving
Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!
While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?


Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?
Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;
Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;
Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,
Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,


When ye seek out your homes because the night―
The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,
And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,
Will ye not cry aloud with that new might
One dying with great things unfinished hath,


"O God! If Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain! "