Rose Terry Cooke: Verses about Weather

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.

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.

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.

Sole she sat beside her window,
Hearing only rain-drops pour,
Looking only at the shore,
When, outside the little casement,
Weeping in a feigned abasement,
Love stood knocking
Knocking at her bolted door.

Slow she swung the little casement
Where the Autumn roses glowed,
Sweet and sad her deep eyes showed;
And her voice, in gentlest measure,
Said aloud-'Nor Love, nor Pleasure
Can come in here any more-
Never, any more!'

'But I am Love nor Pleasure-
I am but an orphan baby;
Lost, my mother is, or maybe
Dead she lies, while I am weeping,'
Sobbed the child, his soft lie creeping
Softly through the bolted door
Through the maiden's door.

Low she said, in accents lonely:
'Once I let him in before,
Once I opened wide my door.
Ever since my life is dreary,
All my prayers are vague and weary;
Once I let him in before,
Now I'll double-lock the door!'

In the rain he stands imploring;
Tears and kisses storm the door,
Where she let him in before.
Will she never know repenting?
Will she ever, late relenting,
Let him in, as once before?
Will she double-lock the door?