Forest And Field

I.     Green, watery jets of light let through     The rippling foliage drenched with dew;     And golden glimmers, warm and dim,     That in the vistaed distance swim;     Where, 'round the wood-spring's oozy urn,     The limp, loose fronds of forest fern     Trail like the tresses, green and wet,     A wood-nymph binds with violet.     O'er rocks that bulge and roots that knot     The emerald-amber mosses clot;     From matted walls of brier and brush     The eider nods its plumes of plush;     And, Argus-eyed with many a bloom,     The wild-rose breathes its wild perfume;     May-apples, ripening yellow, lean     With oblong fruit, a lemon-green,     Near Indian-turnips, long of stem,     That bear an acorn-oval gem,     As if some woodland Bacchus there,     While braiding locks of hyacinth hair     With ivy-tod, had idly tost     His thyrsus down and so had lost:     And blood-root, that from scarlet wombs     Puts forth, in spring, its milk-white blooms,     That then like starry footsteps shine     Of April under beech and pine;     At which the gnarled eyes of trees     Stare, big as Fauns' at Dryades,     That bend above a fountain's spar     As white and naked as a star.     The stagnant stream flows sleepily     Thick with its lily-pads; the bee,     All honey-drunk, a Bassarid,     Booms past the mottled toad, that, hid     In calamus-plants and blue-eyed grass,     Beside the water's pooling glass,     Silenus-like, eyes stolidly     The Mnad-glittering dragonfly.     And pennyroyal and peppermint     Pour dry-hot odours without stint     From fields and banks of many streams;     And in their scent one almost seems     To see Demeter pass, her breath     Sweet with her triumph over death.     A haze of floating saffron; sound     Of shy, crisp creepings o'er the ground;     The dip and stir of twig and leaf;     Tempestuous gusts of spices brief     Borne over bosks of sassafras     By winds that foot it on the grass;     Sharp, sudden songs and whisperings,     That hint at untold hidden things     Pan and Sylvanus who of old     Kept sacred each wild wood and wold.     A wily light beneath the trees     Quivers and dusks with every breeze     A Hamadryad, haply, who,     Culling her morning meal of dew     From frail, accustomed cups of flowers,     Now sees some Satyr in the bowers,     Or hears his goat-hoof snapping press     Some brittle branch, and in distress     Shrinks back; her dark, dishevelled hair     Veiling her limbs one instant there. II.     Down precipices of the dawn     The rivers of the day are drawn,     The soundless torrents, free and far,     Of gold that deluge every star.     There is a sound of brooks and wings     That fills the woods with carollings;     And, dashed on moss and flow'r and fern,     And leaves, that quiver, breathe and burn,     Rose-radiance smites the solitudes,     The dew-drenched hills, the dripping woods,     That twitter as with canticles     Of shade and light; and wind, that smells     Of flowers, and buds, and boisterous bees,     Delirious honey, and wet trees.     Through briers that trip them, one by one,     With swinging pails, that take the sun,     A troop of girls comes berriers,     Whose bare feet glitter where they pass     Through dewdrop-trembling tufts of grass.     And, oh! their laughter and their cheers     Wake Echo 'mid her shrubby rocks     Who, answering, from her mountain mocks     With rapid fairy horns; as if     Each mossy vale and weedy cliff     Had its imperial Oberon,     Who, seeking his Titania, hid     In coverts caverned from the sun,     In kingly wrath had called and chid.     Cloud-feathers, oozing orange light,     Make rich the Indian locks of night;     Her dusky waist with sultry gold     Girdled and buckled fold on fold.     One star. A sound of bleating flocks.     Great shadows stretched along the rocks,     Like giant curses overthrown     By some Arthurian champion.     Soft-swimming sorceries of mist     That streak blue glens with amethyst.     And, tinkling in the clover dells,     The twilight sound of cattle-bells.     And where the marsh in reed and grass     Burns, angry as a shattered glass,     The flies make golden blurs, that shine     Like drops of amber-scattered wine     Spun high by reeling Bacchanals,     When Bacchus wreathes his curling hair     With vine-leaves, and from every lair     His worshippers around him calls.     They come, they come, a happy throng,     The berriers with gibe and song;     Their pails brimmed black to tin-bright eaves     With luscious fruit, kept cool with leaves     Of aromatic sassafras;     'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips,     Like laughter, from the purple mass,     Wine-swollen as Silenus' lips. III.     The tanned and tired noon climbs high     Up burning reaches of the sky;     Below the drowsy belts of pines     The rock-ledged river foams and shines;     And over rainless hill and dell     Is blown the harvest's sultry smell:     While, in the fields, one sees and hears     The brawny-throated harvesters,     Their red brows beaded with the heat,     By twos and threes among the wheat     Flash their hot scythes; behind them press     The binders men and maids that sing     Like some mad troop of piping Pan;     While all the hillsides swoon and ring     Such sounds of Ariel airiness     As haunted freckled Caliban.     'O ho! O ho! 'tis noon I say.     The roses blow.     Away, away, above the hay,     To the tune o' the bees the roses sway;     The love-songs that they hum all day,     So low! So low!     The roses' Minnesingers they.'     Up velvet lawns of lilac skies     The tawny moon begins to rise     Behind low, blue-black hills of trees,     As rises up, in Siren seas,     To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid,     A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.     Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur,     Like shaggy Satyrs waiting for     The moonbeam Nymphs, the Dryads white,     That take with loveliness the night,     And glorify it with their love.     The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear,     Beyond dim pines and mellow ways,     The song of some fair harvester,     The lovely Limnad of the grove,     Whose singing charms me while it slays.     'O deep! O deep! the earth and air     Are sunk in sleep.     Adieu to care! Now everywhere     Is rest; and by the old oak there     The maiden with the nut-brown hair     Doth keep, doth keep     Tryst with her lover the young and fair.' IV.     Like Atalanta's spheres of gold,     Within the orchard, apples rolled     From sudden hands of boughs that lay     Their leaves, like palms, against the day;     And near them pears of rusty brown     Lay bruised; and peaches, pink with down,     And furry as the ears of Pan,     Or, like Diana's cheeks, a tan     Beneath which burnt a tender fire;     Or wan as Psyche's with desire.     And down the orchard vistas, young,     A hickory basket by him swung,     A straw-hat, 'gainst the sloping sun     Drawn brim-broad o'er his face, he strode;     As if he looked to find some one,     His eyes far-fixed beyond the road.     Before him, like a living burr,     Rattled the noisy grasshopper.     And where the cows' melodious bells     Trailed music up and down the dells,     Beside the spring, that o'er the ground     Went whimpering like a fretful hound,     He saw her waiting, fair and slim,     Her pail forgotten there, for him.     Yellow as sunset skies and pale     As fairy clouds that stay or sail     Through azure vaults of summer, blue     As summer heavens, the wildflowers grew;     And blossoms on which spurts of light     Fell laughing, like the lips one might     Feign for a Hebe, or a girl     Whose mouth is laughter-lit with pearl.     Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped;     And mosses. moist, in beryl steeped     And musk aromas of the wood     And silence of the solitude:     And everything that near her blew     The spring had showered thick with dew.     Across the rambling fence she leaned,     Her fresh, round arms all white and bare;     Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened,     Rich-coloured with its auburn hair.     A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine     Ah! 'tis his step, 'tis he she hears;     The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine     He comes, ah, yes! 'tis he who nears.     And her brown eyes and all her face     Said welcome. And with rustic grace     He leant beside her; and they had     Some talk with youthful laughter glad:     I know not what; I know but this     Its final period was a kiss.