A Dream.

I stood far off above the haunts of men         Somewhere, I know not, when the sky was dim         From some worn glory, and the morning hymn     Of the gay oriole echoed from the glen.         Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I sought         A visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.     I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed,         Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowers         Drank in the morning mist, dawn's tender showers,     And looked forth for the Day-god who had blazed         His heart away and died at sundown. Far         In the gray west faded a loitering star.     It seemed that I had wandered through long years,         A life of years, still seeking gropingly         A thing I dared not name; now I could see     In the still dawn a hope, in the soft tears         Of the deep-hearted violets a breath         Of kinship, like the herald voice of Death.     Slow moved the morning; where the hill was bare         Woke a reluctant breeze. Dimly I knew         My Day was come. The wind-blown blossoms threw     Their breath about me, and the pine-swept air         Grew to a shape, a mighty, formless thing,         A phantom of the wood's imagining.     And as I gazed, spell-bound, it seemed to move         Its tendril limbs, still swaying tremulously         As if in spirit-doubt; then glad and free     Crystalled the being won from waiting grove         Into a human likeness. There he stood,         The vine-browed shape of Nature's mortal mood.     "Now have I found thee, Vision I have sought         These years, unknowing; surely thou art fair         And inly wise, and on thy tasselled hair     Glows Heaven's own light. Passion and fame are naught         To thy clear eyes, O Prince of many lands, -         Grant me thy joy," I cried, and stretched my hands.     No answer but the flourish of the breeze         Through the black pines. Then, slowly, as the wind         Parts the dense cloud-forms, leaving naught behind     But shapeless vapor, through the budding trees         Drifted some force unseen, and from my sight         Faded my god into the morning light.     Again alone. With wistful, straining eyes         I waited, and the sunshine flecked the bank         Happy with arbutus and violets where I sank     Hearing, near by, a host of melodies,         The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood         The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo'd.     He ceased; the fresh moss-odors filled the grove         With a strange sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs         Moved soft, as though they heard the brooklet rouse     To its spring soul, and whisper low of love.         The white-robed birches stood unbendingly         Like royal maids, in proud expectancy.     Athwart the ramage where the young leaves press         It came to me, ah, call it what you will         Vision or waking dream, I see it still!     Again a form born of the woodland stress         Grew to my gaze, and by some secret sign         Though shadow-hid, I knew the form was thine.     The glancing sunlight made thy ruddy hair         A crown of gold, but on thy spirit-face         There was no smile, only a tender grace     Of love half doubt. Upon thy hand a rare         Wild bird of Paradise perched fearlessly         With radiant plumage and still, lustrous eye.     And as I gazed I saw what I had deemed         A shadow near thy hand, a dusky wing,         A bird like last year's leaves, so dull a thing     Beside its fellow; as the sunshine gleamed     Each breast showed letters bright as crystalled rain,         The fair bird bore "Delight," the other "Pain."     Then came thy voice: "O Love, wilt have my gift?"         I stretched my glad hands eagerly to grasp         The heaven-blown bird, gold-hued, and longed to clasp     It close and know it mine. Ere I might lift         The shining thing and hold it to my breast         Again I heard thy voice with vague unrest.     "These are twin birds and may not parted be."         Full in thine eyes I gazed, and read therein         The paradox of life, of love, of sin,     As on a night of cloud and mystery         One darting flash makes bright the hidden ways,         And feet tread knowingly though thick the haze.     Thy gift, if so I chose, - no other hand         Save thine. - I reached and gathered to my heart         The quivering, sentient things. - Sometimes I start     To know them hidden there. - If I should stand         Idly, some day, and one, - God help me! - breast         A homing breeze, - my brown bird knows its nest.