Puslapio vaizdai
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CLOVER.

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN KEATS.

DEAR uplands, Chester's favorable fields,

My large unjealous Loves, many yet one--
A grave good-morrow to your Graces, all,
Fair tilth and fruitful seasons!

Lo, how still!

The midmorn empties you of men, save me ;
Speak to your lover, meadows! None can hear.
I lie as lies yon placid Brandywine,

Holding the hills and heavens in my heart

For contemplation.

'Tis a perfect hour.

From founts of dawn the fluent autumn day

Has rippled as a brook right pleasantly

Half-way to noon; but now with widening turn
Makes pause, in lucent meditation locked,
And rounds into a silver pool of morn,

Bottom'd with clover-fields. My heart just hears
Eight lingering strokes of some far village-bell,
That speak the hour so inward-voiced, meseems
Time's conscience has but whispered him eight hints
Of revolution. Reigns that mild surcease
That stills the middle of each al morn-
When nimble noises that with sunrise ran
About the farms have sunk again to rest;
When Tom no more across the horse-lot calls
To sleepy Dick, nor Dick husk-voiced upbraids
The sway-back'd roan for stamping on his foot.
With sulphurous oath and kick in flank, what time
The cart-chain clinks across the slanting shaft,

And, kitchenward, the rattling bucket plumps

Souse down the well, where quivering ducks quack loud, And Susan Cook is singing.

Up the sky

The hesitating moon slow trembles on,
Faint as a new-washed soul but lately up
From out a buried body. Far about,
A hundred slopes in hundred fantasies
Most ravishingly run, so smooth of curve
That I but seem to see the fluent plain
Rise toward a rain of clover-blooms, as lakes
Pout gentle mounds of plashment up to meet
Big shower-drops. Now the little winds, as bees,
Bowing the blooms come wandering where I lie
Mixt soul and body with the clover-tufts,
Light on my spirit, give from wing and thigh
Rich pollens and divine sweet irritants
To every nerve, and freshly make report
Of inmost Nature's secret autumn-thought
Unto some soul of sense within my frame
That owns each cognizance of the outlying five,
And sees, hears, tastes, smells, touches, all in one.

Tell me, dear Clover (since my soul is thine,
Since I am fain give study all the day,

To make thy ways my ways, thy service mine,

To seek me out thy God, my God to be,
And die from out myself to live in thee)—

Now, Cousin Clover, tell me in mine ear :
Go'st thou to market with thy pink and green?
Of what avail, this color and this grace?
Wert thou but squat of stem and brindle-brown,
Still careless herds would feed. A poet, thou:
What worth, what worth, the whole of all thine art?
Three-Leaves, instruct me! I am sick of price.

Framed in the arching of two clover-stems
Where-through I gaze from off my hill, afar,
The spacious fields from me to Heaven take on
Tremors of change and new significance

To th' eye, as to the ear a simple tale
Begins to hint a parable's sense beneath.
The prospect widens, cuts all bounds of blue
Where horizontal limits bend, and spreads
Into a curious-hill'd and curious-valley'd Vast,
Endless before, behind, around; which seems
Th' incalculable Up and-Down of Time
Made plain before mine eyes. The clover-stems
Still cover all the space; but now they bear,
For clover-blooms, fair, stately heads of men
With poets' faces heartsome, dear and pale--
Sweet visages of all the souls of time

Whose loving service to the world has been
In the artist's way expressed and bodied. Oh,
In arms' reach, here be Dante, Keats, Chopin,
Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo,

Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shakespeare, Bach,
And Buddha (sweetest masters! Let me lay
These arms this once, this humble once, about
Your reverend necks-the most containing clasp,
For all in all, this world e'er saw!) and there,
Yet further on, bright throngs unnamable
Of workers worshipful, nobilities

In the Court of Gentle Service, silent men,
Dwellers in woods, brooders on helpful art,
And all the press of them, the fair, the large,
That wrought with beauty.

Lo, what bulk is here?

Now comes the Course-of-things, shaped like an Ox,

Slow browsing, o'er my hillside, ponderously

The huge-brawned, tame, and workful Course-of-things,

That hath his grass, if earth be round or flat,
And hath his grass, if empires plunge in pain
Or faiths flash out. This cool, unasking Ox
Comes browsing o'er my hills and vales of Time,
And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls it, sharp,
And sicklewise, about my poets' heads,

And twists them in, all-Dante, Keats, Chopin,
Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo,

Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shakespeare, Bach,
And Buddha, in one sheaf-and champs and chews,
With slantly-churning jaws, and swallows down;
Then slowly plants a mighty forefoot out,

And makes advance to futureward, one inch.
So they have played their part.

And to this end?

"

This, God? This, troublous-breeding Earth? This, Sun Of hot, quick pains? To this no-end that ends, These Masters wrought, and wept, and sweated blood, And burned, and loved, and ached with public shame, And found no friends to breathe their loves to, save Woods and wet pillows? This was all? This Ox? "Nay," quoth a sum of voices in mine ear, "God's clover, we, and feed His Course of-things; The pasture is God's pasture; systems strange Of food and fiberment He hath, whereby The general brawn is built for plans of His To quality precise. Kinsman, learn this : The artist's market is the heart of man; The artist's price, some little good of man. Tease not thy vision with vain search for ends. The End of Means is art that works by love. The End of Ends

in God's Beginning's lost."

WEST CHESTER, PA., Summer of 1876.

THE WAVING OF THE CORN.

PLOUGHMAN, whose gnarly hand yet kindly wheeled Thy plough to ring this solitary tree

With clover, whose round plat, reserved a-field, In cool green radius twice my length may be— Scanting the corn thy furrows else might yield, To pleasure August, bees, fair thoughts, and me, That here come oft together-daily I,

Stretched prone in summer's mortal ecstasy, Do stir with thanks to thee, as stirs this morn With waving of the corn.

Unseen, the farmer's boy from round the hill
Whistles a snatch that seeks his soul unsought,

And fills some time with tune, howbeit shrill;
The cricket tells straight on his simple thought—
Nay, 'tis the cricket's way of being still;
The peddler bee drones in, and gossips naught;
Far down the wood, a one-desiring dove
Times me the beating of the heart of love :
And these be all the sounds that mix, each morn,
With waving of the corn.

From here to where the louder passions dwell,
Green leagues of hilly separation roll:

Trade ends where yon far clover ridges swell.
Ye terrible Towns, ne'er claim the trembling soul
That, craftless all to buy or hoard or sell,
From out your deadly complex quarrel stole
To company with large amiable trees,
Suck honey summer with unjealous bees,
And take Time's strokes as softly as this morn
Takes waving of the corn.

WEST CHESTER, PA., 1876.

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