Rose Terry Cooke: Verses about Nature

When I am a sea-flower
Under the cool green tide,
Where the sunshine slants and quivers,
And the quaint, gray fishes glide,
I'll shut and sleep at noonday,
At night on the waves I'll ride,
And see the surf in moonshine
Rush on the black rocks' side.

When I am a sea-bird,
Under the clouds I'll fly,
And 'light on a rocking billow
Tossing low and high.
Safe from the lee-shore's thunder,
Mocking the mariner's cry,
Drifting away on the tempest,
A speck on the sullen sky!

When I am a sea-wind,
I'll watch for a ship I know,
Through the sails and rigging
Merrily I will blow.
The crew shall be like dead men
White with horror and woe;
Then I'll sing like a spirit,
And let the good ship go.

There's a bluebird sits on the apple-tree bough,
Singing merrily and gay.
Come, little blossoms, the Spring's here now,
And the sun shines warm all day.

Fast asleep in the leaves and grass,
Don't you hear the quick rain?
And the winds that whisper as they pass,
'The dear Spring's here again.'

Push your soft leaves out of the ground
Open your mist-blue eyes,
Hear the brook with its singing sound,
Look at the sunny skies.

All the drifts of the winter snow
Were frightened and fled away.
They left their place for the grass to grow,
And the merry moths to play.

Red buds shine on the maple-tree,
The trailing May-blooms fair
Under their green leaves peep at me,
For the Spring has kissed them there.

Come, little blossoms, you sleep too long!
Purple and white and blue,
Open your buds to hear my song,
The honey-bee waits for you.

Singer of priceless melody,
Underguerdoned chorister of air,
Who from the lithe top of the tree
Pourest at will thy music rare,
As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there.

The purple-blossomed fields of grass,
Waved sea-like to the idle wind,
Thick daisies that the stars surpass,
Being as fair and far more kind;
All sweet uncultured things thy wild notes bring to mind.

When that enraptured overflow
Of singing into silence dies,
Thy rapid fleeting pinions show
Where all thy spell of sweetness lies
Gathered in one small nest from the wide earth and skies.

Unconscious of thine audience,
Careless of praises as of blame,
In simpleness and innocence,
Thy gentle life pursues its aim,
So tender and serene, that we might blush for shame.

The patience of thy brooding wings
That droop in silence day by day,
The little crowd of callow things
That joy for weariness repay,
These are the living spring, thy song the fountain's spray.

Darlings of the forest!
Blossoming alone
When Earth's grief is sorest
For her jewels gone
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,
Like the morning sky,
Or more pale and saintly,
Wrapped in leaves ye lie,
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin
Hymns your solitude,
And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.

Were your pure lips fashioned
Out of air and dew:
Starlight unimpassioned,
Dawn's most tender hue
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,
From the world apart,
Made for beauty only,
Veiled from Nature's heart,
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow
An immortal shade,
Then would I tomorrow
Such a flower be made,
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.

The river flows and flows away,
A lonely stream through forests gray,
No rippled rapids o'er it play;
Forever and forever.
As silent as a winter's night,
With purple heavens all alight,
And planets shining strangely bright;
So quiet is the river.

No found nor fall the vision finds,
And in no devious course it winds,
But straight from where the sunset shines,
Forever and forever.
A mystery of shade and gleam,
O'er hidden rocks glides on the stream,
Like sleep above a fearful dream;
So quiet is the river.

In streams pure silver in the sun,
Slow, sullen lead, with storms begun,
And golden green when day is done,
Forever and forever.
A flow of pearl in moonlight cold,
With moonless midnight onward rolled,
Blacker than lethe streamed of old.
So quiet is the river.

Oh, water! by the waves serene,
As tranquil hours a life hath seen,
No more to be as they have been
Forever and forever.
For underneath its restless flow,
Too black for light's full noon to show,
Lie broken rocks no mortals know.
So quiet is the river.

There comes a time of rest to thee,
Whose laden boughs droop heavily
Toward earth, thou golden-fruited tree!

A time when wind and tempest cease
To spoil and stain thy fair increase:
After fruition deepest peace.

The tender bloom that decked thee, bride,
The jewels of thy matron pride,
And purple robes,-all laid aside.

The slow, red sunshine, o'er thee cast,
In sweet, sad kisses for thy last,
And shadow-haunted from the past.

Green, leafy, quiet, freed from care,
No heavier weight thy lithe limbs bear
Than dripping rain and sunny air.

But unto man's diviner sense
The strenuous rest of penitence
Remaineth only for defense.

His fruit drops slowly from his hands,
But only with the dropping sands
That fall on Time's slow-gathering strands.

The sower in this mortal field
Shall reap no harvest's gracious yield,
The warrior conquers-on his shield.

But after life and fruit and rest,
Thou, tree! by dust shalt be possessed;
To him remains a day more blest,

A newer hope, a summer-time
Renewed forever in its prime,
Where God, his harvest, sits sublime.

In a gleam of sunshine a gentian stood,
Dreaming her life away,
While the leaves danced merrily through the wood,
And rode on the wind for play.

She stood in the light and looked at the sky,
Till her leaves were as fair a blue;
But she shut her heart from the butterfly
And the coaxing drops of dew.

Dreaming and sunning that autumn noon,
She stayed the idlest bee
That ever lingered to hear the tune
Of the wind in a rustling tree.

He had a golden cuirass on,
And a surcoat black as night,
And he wandered ever from shade to sun,
Seeking his own delight.

Now were the blossoms of Summer fled,
And the bumble-bee felt the frost;
He knew that the asters all lay dead,
And the honey-vine cups were lost.

So he poised and fluttered above the flower,
And tried his tenderest arts,
With whispers and kisses, a weary hour,
Till he opened its heart of hearts.

Not for love of the gentian blue,
But for his own wild will;
All he wanted was honey-dew,
And there he drank his fill.

No more dreaming in sun or shade!
It never could close again!
The gentian withered, alone, dismayed;
The bee flew over the plain.

The curving beach and shining bay,
Stretch from the cliff-foot far away,
Where sailing dreams of ships go by
And trace their spars against the sky.
A belt of woodland, dense and dark,
The distant beacon's flashing spark,
The moth-white sails that wing-and-wing
Up from the purple ocean sprean;
One and all, in the perfect hour,
Open to life its perfect flower;
Though the ardent rose is dim and dead,
Though the cool Spring-daisies all are fled,
The lily unfolds its tintless calm
And the goblin anthers are spiced with balm.

Come, my soul, from thy silent cell!
Know the healing of Nature's spell.
The soft wild waves that rush and leap,
Sing one song from the hoary deep;
The south wind knows its own refrain
As it speeds the cloud o'er heaven's blue main.
'Lose thyself, thyself to win:
Grow from without thee, not within.'

Leave thy thought and care alone,
Let the dead for the dead make moan;
Gather from earth and air and sea
The pulseless peace they keep for thee.
Ring on ring of sight and sound
Shall hide thy heart in a calm profound,
Where the works of men and the ways of earth
Shall never enter with tears or mirth,
And the love of kind shall kinder be
From nature than humanity.

Over the river, on the hill,
Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest-trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river-shore;
And in the roads no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill
Never is sound of smithy or mill;
The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;
Never a clock to toll the hours;
The marble doors are always shut,
You cannot enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep;
Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh;
Silent and idle and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home from this below;
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall:
'Patience! that village shall hold ye all!'

Oh, Love divine, ineffable!
Help the weak heart that strays from thee!
And battling with the hosts of hell,
Doubts or despairs of victory:
For Thou hast died upon the tree,
Thine anguish poured in bloody sweat,
And can thy yearning heart forget
The first-fruits of that agony?
O Lord, in glory, think on me!

Thy tenderness no mother knows,
Not she who sees her darling pine,
And weeps that dying shadows close
Above the lamb she knows is thine;
But Thou, my God, art all divine!
Thy banished shall return again;
Thy life poured out like summer rain
Those dying pangs exchanged for mine
Are not an alien's birth-right sign.

I know that from the depths of sin,
The uttermost abyss of woe,
Thine arm my trembling soul shall win,
Thy piercing eyes thy child shall know.
Though mortal love forget to flow
Though mortal faith grow cold and die
Thy love is called eternity,
Thy truth is morning's orient glow,
And wide as space shall ever grow.

Come, prince of darkness, with thy bands!
Their leaguered host a child defies,
For He who holds me in his hands
Shall like a stern avenger rise,
And turn on thee those heavenly eyes
That tears of pity shed for me;
But burn with judgment over thee
And those who dare his love despise,
Then stoop and bear me to the skies.

PUT every tiny robe away!
The stitches all were set with tears,
Slow, tender drops of joys; to-day
Their rain would wither hopes or fears:
Bitter enough to daunt the moth
That longs to fret this dainty cloth.

The filmy lace, the ribbons blue,
The tracery deft of flower and leaf,
The fairy shapes that bloomed and grew
Through happy moments all too brief.
The warm, soft wraps. O God! how cold
It must be in that wintry mould!

Fold carefully the broidered wool:
Its silken wreaths will ne’er grow old,
And lay the linen soft and cool
Above it gently, fold on fold.
So lie the snows on that soft breast,
Where mortal garb will never rest.

How many days in dreamed delight,
With listless fingers, working slow,
I fashioned them from morn till night
And smiled to see them slowly grow.
I thought the task too late begun;
Alas! how soon it all was done!

Go lock them in a cedar chest,
And never bring me back the key!
Will hiding lay this ghost to rest,
Or the turned lock give peace to me?
No matter!—only that I dread
Lest other eyes behold my dead.

I would have laid them in that grave
To perish too, like any weed;
But legends tell that they who save
Such garments, ne’er the like will need:
But give or burn them,—need will be;
I want but one such memory!

A silent, odor-laden air,
From heavy branches dropping balm;
A crowd of daisies milky fair,
That sunward turn their faces calm.
So rapt, a bird alone may dare
To stir their rapture with his psalm.

So falls the perfect day of June
To moonlit eve, from dewy dawn,
With light winds rustling through the noon,
And conscious roses half withdrawn,
In blushing buds that wake too soon,
To flaunt their hearts on every lawn.

The wide content of summer's bloom,
The peaceful glory of its prime;
Yet over all a brooding gloom,
A desolation born of time;
As distant storm-caps tower and loom,
And shroud the sun with heights sublime.

For they are vanished from the trees,
And vanished from the thronging flowers,
Whose tender tones thrilled every breeze
And sped with mirth the flying hours.
No form nor shape my sad eye sees;
No faithful spirit haunts these bowers.

Alone, alone, in sun or dew!
One fled to heaven, of earth afraid;
And one to earth, with eyes untrue
And lips of faltering passion strayed.
Nor shall the strenuous years renew
On any bough these leaves that fade.

Long summer-days shall come and go
No Summer brings the dead again.
I listen for that voice's flow
And ache at heart with deepening pain.
And one fair face no more I know,
Still living sweet, but sweet in vain.

I watch her in the corner there,
As, restless, bold, and unafraid,
She slips and floats along the air
Till all her subtile house is made.

Her home, her bed, her daily food
All from that hidden store she draws;
She fashions it and knows it good,
By instinct's strong and sacred laws.

No tenuous threads to weave her nest,
She seeks and gathers there or here;
But spins it from her faithful breast,
Renewing still, till leaves are sere.

Then, worn with toil, and tired of life,
In vain her shining traps are set.
Her frost hath hushed the insect strife
And gilded flies her charm forget.

But swinging in the snares she spun,
She sways to every winter wind:
Her joy, her toil, her errand done,
Her corse the sport of storms unkind.

Poor sister of the spinster clan!
I too from out my store within
My daily life and living plan,
My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.

I know thy heart when heartless hands
Sweep all that hard-earned web away:
Destroy its pearled and glittering bands,
And leave thee homeless by the way.

I know thy peace when all is done.
Each anchored thread, each tiny knot,
Soft shining in the autumn sun;
A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.

I know what thou hast never known,
-Sad presage to a soul allowed;-
That not for life I spin, alone.
But day by day I spin my shroud.

Fair and peaceful daisies,
Smiling in the grass,
Who hath sung your praises?
Poets by you pass,
And I alone am left to celebrate your mass.

In the summer morning,
Through the fields ye shine,
Joyfully adorning
Earth with grace divine,
And pour, from sunny hearts, fresh gladness into mine.

Lying in the meadows,
Like the milky way,
From nocturnal shadows
Glad to fall away,
And live a happy life in the wide light of day.

Bees about you humming
Pile their yellow store,
Winds in whispers coming
Teach you love's sweet lore,
For your reluctant lips still worshipping the more.

Birds with music laden
Shower their songs on you;
And the rustic maiden,
Standing in the dew,
By your alternate leaves tells if her love be true.

Little stars of glory!
From your amber eyes
No inconstant story
Of her love should rise!
And yet 'He loves me not!' is oft the sad surprise.

Crowds of milk-white blossoms!
Noon's concentred beams
Glowing in your bosoms;
So, by living streams
In heaven, I think the light of flowers immortal gleams.

When your date is over,
Peacefully ye fade,
With the fragrant clover
And sweet grasses laid,
In odors for a pall beneath the orchard shade.

Happy, happy daisies!
Would I were like you,
Pure from human praises,
Fresh with morning dew,
And ever in my heart to heaven's clear sunshine true!

'Stretch out thy hand, insatiate Time!
Keeper of keys, restore to me
Some gift that in the gray Earth's prime
Her happy children held of thee;
Some signet of that mystery
Thy footsteps trample into death,
Some score of that strange harmony
That sings in every breath.'

So sung I on an autumn-day,
Sitting in silence, golden, clear,
When even the mild winds seemed to pray
Beside the slowly dying year,
And the old conqueror stopped to hear;
For, like the echo of a bell,
I heard him speak, in accents clear:
'Choose! and thy wise choice tell!'

Then all my vanishing desires,
The threads of hope and joy and pain,
Long burned in life's consuming fires,
Came glittering into life again,
And, gathered as a summer rain
Into the rainbow's bended wing,
Cried, with one voice of longing vain:
'Give me Fastrada's ring!

'Give me that talisman of peace
She wore upon her finger white,
Then shall the weary visions cease,
That haunt me all the lingering night;
The world shall blossom with delight,
And birds of heaven about me sing;
Ah! fill these darkened eyes with light!
Give me Fastrada's ring!

'Give me no jewels from thy store,
No learned scrolls, no gems of art;
My eager wishes grasp at more:
Sleep for a worn and wretched heart;
A draught to melt these lips apart,
Sealed with such thirst as death-pains bring;
Love,-life's sole rest and better part,
Give me Fastrada's ring!'

The summer sun bedecks Anjou,
The harvest time keeps promise true,
And I have kept my faith with you
Basile Renaud!
The sun forsakes my dungeon walls,
Across the fosse no shadow falls,
I hear no answer to my calls,
Basile Renaud!

My name was Clara Madaillon.
I had a sister, I had one
Who should have been a hooded nun,
That made us three:
Marie and I dwelt in the tower,
But Angelique forsook her dower,
And in a convent made her bower,
The convent of St. Brie.

There came a lover to our lands,
I wove my hair in shining bands
And put bright jewels on my hands,
Basile Renaud!
You looked at me as at a star,
You said I was as cold and far;
I laugh now, thinking what you are,
Basile Renaud!

He gave me a betrothal ring,
I learned for him to smile and sing;
'Proud Clara, have you found your king?'
They said to me.
So from the nuns came Angelique
For her farewells; oh! she was meek,
With yellow tresses down her cheek,
And blue eyes soft to see!

My love beheld her tender face,
Her little hands and gentle grace,-
How dared you give her my right place,
Basie Renaud?
I scoffed at her, I hated him;
And Marie said-'His eyes are dim;
Were't me-' So ran thy requiem,
Basile Renaud!

We took our counsel, nor would show
More signs of vengeance than the snow
That hides a traveller far below
Its shining drift.
The winter nights came on too fast,
But they two did not hear the blast
That howled, and howled, and shivered past,
And muttered in the rift.

One night we were both grave and gay,
For Angelique had gone away,
And one was sad, but two would play,
Basile Renaud.
The firelight flickered in the hall,
The sconces burned with torches tall;
I, blinded, hunted to the wall
Basile Renaud.

'Will you be hunter?' Marie said;
She tied the kerchief round his head;
I had a knife-and it grew red
But not with flame.
His brow bent down upon my arm.
I laughed to see the working charm.
He had no will to do us harm,
Nor breath to murmur blame.

They haled us to a prison high,
Where all day long thick shadows lie,
And in broad daylight we shall die,
Basile Renaud!
But I had vengeance! though there be
Only one sister left of three
Angelique in the nunnery
Basile Renaud!

The chill New England sunshine
Lay on the kitchen floor;
The wild New England north wind
Came rattling at the door.

And by the wide old fire-place,
Deep in her cushioned chair.
Lay back an ancient woman,
With shining snow-white hair.

The peace of God was on her face.
Her eyes were sweet and calm,
And when you heard her earnest voice
It sounded like a psalm.

In all the land they loved her well;
From country and from town
Came many a heart for counsel,
And many a soul cast down.

Her hands had fed the hungry poor
With blessing and with bread;
Her face was like a comforting
From out the Gospel read.

So weak and silent as she lay,
Her warm hands clasped in prayer,
A sudden knocking at the door
Came on her unaware.

And as she turned her hoary head,
Beside her chair there stood
Four grim and grisly Puritans —
No visitants for good.

They came upon her like a host.
And bade her speak and tell
Why she had sworn a wicked oath
To serve the powers of hell;

To work the works of darkness
On children of the light,
A witch they might not suffer here
Who read the Word aright.

Like one who sees her fireside yawn,
A pit of black despair,
Or one who wakes from quiet dreams
Within a lion's lair,

She glared at them with starting, eyes,
Her voice essayed no sound;
She gasped like any hunted deer
The eager dogs surround.

'Answer us!' hoarse and loud they cry;
She looked from side to side —
No human help — 'Oh, gracious God!'
In agony she cried.

Then, calling back her feeble life,
The white lips uttered slow,
'I am as pure as babe unborn
From this foul thing, ye know.

'If God doth visit me for sin,
Beneath His rod I bend,'
But pitiless and wroth were they,
And bent upon their end.

They tortured her with taunt and jeer,
They vexed her night and day —
No husband's arm nor sister's tears
Availed their rage to stay.

Before the church they haled her then;
The minister arose
And poured upon her patient head
The worst of all its woes:

He bade her be accursed of God
Forever here and there;
He cursed her with a heavy curse
No mortal man may bear.

She stood among the cowering crowd
As calm as saints in heaven.
Her eyes as sweet as summer skies.
Her face like summer's even.

The devils wrought their wicked will
On matron and on maid.
'Thou hast bewitched us!' cried they all,
But not a word she said.

They fastened chains about her feet,
And carried her away;
For many days in Salem jail
Alone and ill she lay

She heard the scythe along the field
Ring through the fragrant air,
She smelt the wild-rose on the wind
That bloweth everywhere.

Reviled and hated and bereft.
The soul had plenteous rest,
Though sorrow like a frantic flood
Beat sore upon her breast.

At last the prison door stood wide.
They led the saint abroad;
By many an old familiar place
Her trembling footsteps trod.

Till faint with weakness and distress,
She climbed a hillside bleak,
And faced the gallows built thereon.
Still undisturbed and meek.

They hanged this weary woman there.
Like any felon stout;
Her white hairs on the cruel rope
Were scattered all about.

The body swung upon the tree
In every flitting wind,
Reviled and mocked by passengers
And folk of evil mind.

A woman old and innocent,
To die a death of shame.
With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,
And none to utter blame.

Oh, God, that such a thing should be
On earth which Thou hast made!
A voice from heaven answered me,
' Father forgive,' He said.