May-Day

Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring,

With sudden passion languishing,

Teaching Barren moors to smile,

Painting pictures mile on mile,

Holds a cup with cowslip-wreaths,

Whence a smokeless incense breathes.

The air is full of whistlings bland;

What was that I heard

Out of the hazy land?

Harp of the wind, or song of bird,

Or vagrant booming of the air,

Voice of a meteor lost in day?

Such tidings of the starry sphere

Can this elastic air convey.

Or haply ’twas the cannonade

Of the pent and darkened lake,

Cooled by the pendent mountain’s shade,

Whose deeps, till beams of noonday break,

Afflicted moan, and latest hold

Even into May the iceberg cold.

Was it a squirrel’s pettish bark,

Or clarionet of jay? or hark

Where yon wedged line the Nestor leads,

Steering north with raucous cry

Through tracts and provinces of sky,

Every night alighting down

In new landscapes of romance,

Where darkling feed the clamorous clans

By lonely lakes to men unknown.

Come the tumult whence it will,

Voice of sport, or rush of wings,

It is a sound, it is a token

That the marble sleep is broken,

And a change has passed on things.

  When late I walked, in earlier days,

All was stiff and stark;

Knee-deep snows choked all the ways,

In the sky no spark;

Firm-braced I sought my ancient woods,

Struggling through the drifted roads;

The whited desert knew me not,

Snow-ridges masked each darling spot;

The summer dells, by genius haunted,

One arctic moon had disenchanted.

All the sweet secrets therein hid

By Fancy, ghastly spells undid.

Eldest mason, Frost, had piled

Swift cathedrals in the wild;

The piny hosts were sheeted ghosts

In the star-lit minster aisled.

I found no joy: the icy wind

Might rule the forest to his mind.

Who would freeze on frozen lakes?

Back to books and sheltered home,

And wood-fire flickering on the walls,

To hear, when, ’mid our talk and games,

Without the baffled North-wind calls.

But soft! a sultry morning breaks;

The ground-pines wash their rusty green,

The maple-tops their crimson tint,

On the soft path each track is seen,

The girl’s foot leaves its neater print.

The pebble loosened from the frost

Asks of the urchin to be tost.

In flint and marble beats a heart,

The kind Earth takes her children’s part,

The green lane is the school-boy’s friend,

Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,

The fresh ground loves his top and ball,

The air rings jocund to his call,

The brimming brook invites a leap,

He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.

The youth sees omens where he goes,

And speaks all languages the rose,

The wood-fly mocks with tiny voice

The far halloo of human voice;

The perfumed berry on the spray

Smacks of faint memories far away.

A subtle chain of countless rings

The next into the farthest brings,

And, striving to be man, the worm

Mounts through all the spires of form.

  The caged linnet in the spring

Hearkens for the choral glee,

When his fellows on the wing

Migrate from the Southern Sea;

When trellised grapes their flowers unmask,

And the new-born tendrils twine,

The old wine darkling in the cask

Feels the bloom on the living vine,

And bursts the hoops at hint of Spring:

And so, perchance, in Adam’s race,

Of Eden’s bower some dream-like trace

Survived the Flight and swam the Flood,

And wakes the wish in youngest blood

To tread the forfeit Paradise,

And feed once more the exile’s eyes;

And ever when the happy child

In May beholds the blooming wild,

And hears in heaven the bluebird sing,

‘Onward,’ he cries, ‘your baskets bring,—

In the next field is air more mild,

And o'er yon hazy crest is Eden's balmier spring.’

  Not for a regiment’s parade,

Nor evil laws or rulers made,

Blue Walden rolls its cannonade,

But for a lofty sign

Which the Zodiac threw,

That the bondage-days are told.

And waters free as winds shall flow.

Lo! how all the tribes combine

To rout the flying foe.

See, every patriot oak-leaf throws

His elfin length upon the snows,

Not idle, since the leaf all day

Draws to the spot the solar ray,

Ere sunset quarrying inches down,

And halfway to the mosses brown;

While the grass beneath the rime

Has hints of the propitious time,

And upward pries and perforates

Through the cold slab a thousand gates,

Till green lances peering through

Bend happy in the welkin blue.

  As we thaw frozen flesh with snow,

So Spring will not her time forerun,

Mix polar night with tropic glow,

Nor cloy us with unshaded sun,

Nor wanton skip with bacchic dance,

But she has the temperance

Of the gods, whereof she is one,—

Masks her treasury of heat

Under east winds crossed with sleet.

Plants and birds and humble creatures

Well accept her rule austere;

Titan-born, to hardy natures

Cold is genial and dear.

As Southern wrath to Northern right

Is but straw to anthracite;

As in the day of sacrifice,

When heroes piled the pyre,

The dismal Massachusetts ice

Burned more than others’ fire,

So Spring guards with surface cold

The garnered heat of ages old.

Hers to sow the seed of bread,

That man and all the kinds be fed;

And, when the sunlight fills the hours,

Dissolves the crust, displays the flowers.

  Beneath the calm, within the light,

A hid unruly appetite

Of swifter life, a surer hope,

Strains every sense to larger scope,

Impatient to anticipate

The halting steps of aged Fate.

Slow grows the palm, too slow the pearl:

When Nature falters, fain would zeal

Grasp the felloes of her wheel,

And grasping give the orbs another whirl.

Turn swiftlier round, O tardy ball!

And sun this frozen side.

Bring hither back the robin’s call,

Bring back the tulip’s pride.

  Why chidest thou the tardy Spring?

The hardy bunting does not chide;

The blackbirds make the maples ring

With social cheer and jubilee;

The redwing flutes his o-ka-lee,

The robins know the melting snow;

The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed,

Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves,

Secure the osier yet will hide

Her callow brood in mantling leaves,—

And thou, by science all undone,

Why only must thy reason fail

To see the southing of the sun?

  The world rolls round,—mistrust it not,—

Befalls again what once befell;

All things return, both sphere and mote,

And I shall hear my bluebird’s note,

And dream the dream of Auburn-dell.

  April cold with dropping rain

Willows and lilacs brings again,

The whistle of returning birds,

And trumpet-lowing of the herds.

The scarlet maple-keys betray

What potent blood hath modest May,

What fiery force the earth renews,

The wealth of forms, the flush of hues;

What joy in rosy waves outpoured

Flows from the heart of Love, the Lord.

  Hither rolls the storm of heat;

I feel its finer billows beat

Like a sea which me infolds;

Heat with viewless fingers moulds,

Swells, and mellows, and matures,

Paints, and flavors, and allures,

Bird and brier inly warms,

Still enriches and transforms,

Gives the reed and lily length,

Adds to oak and oxen strength,

Transforming what it doth infold,

Life out of death, new out of old,

Painting fawns’ and leopards’ fells,

Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells,

Fires gardens with a joyful blaze

Of tulips, in the morning’s rays.

The dead log touched bursts into leaf,

The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf.

What god is this imperial Heat,

Earth’s prime secret, sculpture’s seat?

Doth it bear hidden in its heart

Water-line patterns of all art?

Is it Daedalus? is it Love?

Or walks in mask almighty Jove,

And drops from Power’s redundant horn

All seeds of beauty to be born?

  Where shall we keep the holiday,

And duly greet the entering May?

Too strait and low our cottage doors,

And all unmeet our carpet floors;

Nor spacious court, nor monarch’s hall,

Suffice to hold the festival.

Up and away! where haughty woods

Front the liberated floods:

We will climb the broad-backed hills,

Hear the uproar of their joy;

We will mark the leaps and gleams

Of the new-delivered streams,

And the murmuring rivers of sap

Mount in the pipes of the trees,

Giddy with day, to the topmost spire,

Which for a spike of tender green

Bartered its powdery cap;

And the colors of joy in the bird,

And the love in its carol heard,

Frog and lizard in holiday coats,

And turtle brave in his golden spots;

While cheerful cries of crag and plain

Reply to the thunder of river and main.

  As poured the flood of the ancient sea

Spilling over mountain chains,

Bending forests as bends the sedge,

Faster flowing o’er the plains,—

A world-wide wave with a foaming edge

That rims the running silver sheet,—

So pours the deluge of the heat

Broad northward o’er the land,

Painting artless paradises,

Drugging herbs with Syrian spices,

Fanning secret fires which glow

In columbine and clover-blow,

Climbing the northern zones,

Where a thousand pallid towns

Lie like cockles by the main,

Or tented armies on a plain.

The million-handed sculptor moulds

Quaintest bud and blossom folds,

The million-handed painter pours

Opal hues and purple dye;

Azaleas flush the island floors,

And the tints of heaven reply.

  Wreaths for the May! for happy Spring

To-day shall all her dowry bring,

The love of kind, the joy, the grace,

Hymen of element and race,

Knowing well to celebrate

With song and hue and star and state,

With tender light and youthful cheer,

The spousals of the new-born year.

  Spring is strong and virtuous,

Broad-sowing, cheerful, plenteous,

Quickening underneath the mould

Grains beyond the price of gold.

So deep and large her bounties are,

That one broad, long midsummer day

Shall to the planet overpay

The ravage of a year of war.

  Drug the cup, thou butler sweet,

And send the nectar round;

The feet that slid so long on sleet

Are glad to feel the ground.

Fill and saturate each kind

With good according to its mind,

Fill each kind and saturate

With good agreeing with its fate,

And soft perfection of its plan—

Willow and violet, maiden and man.

  The bitter-sweet, the haunting air

Creepeth, bloweth everywhere;

It preys on all, all prey on it.

Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,

Stings the strong with enterprise,

Makes travellers long for Indian skies,

And where it comes this courier fleet

Fans in all hearts expectance sweet,

As if to-morrow should redeem

The vanished rose of evening’s dream.

By houses lies a fresher green,

On men and maids a ruddier mien,

As if Time brought a new relay

Of shining virgins every May,

And Summer came to ripen maids

To a beauty that not fades.

  I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,

Stepping daily onward north

To greet staid ancient cavaliers

Filing single in stately train.

And who, and who are the travellers?

They were Night and Day, and Day and Night,

Pilgrims wight with step forthright.

I saw the Days deformed and low,

Short and bent by cold and snow;

The merry Spring threw wreaths on them,

Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell;

Many a flower and many a gem,

They were refreshed by the smell,

They shook the snow from hats and shoon,

They put their April raiment on;

And those eternal forms,

Unhurt by a thousand storms,

Shot up to the height of the sky again,

And danced as merrily as young men.

I saw them mask their awful glance

Sidewise meek in gossamer lids;

And to speak my thought if none forbids

It was as if the eternal gods,

Tired of their starry periods,

Hid their majesty in cloth

Woven of tulips and painted moth.

On carpets green the maskers march

Below May’s well-appointed arch,

Each star, each god; each grace amain,

Every joy and virtue speed,

Marching duly in her train,

And fainting Nature at her need

Is made whole again.

  ’Twas the vintage-day of field and wood,

When magic wine for bards is brewed;

Every tree and stem and chink

Gushed with syrup to the brink.

The air stole into the streets of towns,

Refreshed the wise, reformed the clowns,

And betrayed the fund of joy

To the high-school and medalled boy:

On from hall to chamber ran,

From youth to maid, from boy to man,

To babes, and to old eyes as well.

‘Once more,’ the old man cried, ‘ye clouds,

Airy turrets purple-piled,

Which once my infancy beguiled,

Beguile me with the wonted spell.

I know ye skilful to convoy

The total freight of hope and joy

Into rude and homely nooks,

Shed mocking lustres on shelf of books,

On farmer’s byre, on pasture rude,

And stony pathway to the wood.

I care not if the pomps you show

Be what they soothfast appear,

Or if yon realms in sunset glow

Be bubbles of the atmosphere.

And if it be to you allowed

To fool me with a shining cloud,

So only new griefs are consoled

By new delights, as old by old,

Frankly I will be your guest,

Count your change and cheer the best.

The world hath overmuch of pain,—

If Nature give me joy again,

Of such deceit I’ll not complain.’

  Ah! well I mind the calendar,

Faithful through a thousand years,

Of the painted race of flowers,

Exact to days, exact to hours,

Counted on the spacious dial

Yon broidered zodiac girds.

I know the trusty almanac

Of the punctual coming-back,

On their due days, of the birds.

I marked them yestermorn,

A flock of finches darting

Beneath the crystal arch,

Piping, as they flew, a march,—

Belike the one they used in parting

Last year from yon oak or larch;

Dusky sparrows in a crowd,

Diving, darting northward free,

Suddenly betook them all,

Every one to his hole in the wall,

Or to his niche in the apple-tree.

I greet with joy the choral trains

Fresh from palms and Cuba’s canes.

Best gems of Nature’s cabinet,

With dews of tropic morning wet,

Beloved of children, bards and Spring,

O birds, your perfect virtues bring,

Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,

Your manners for the heart’s delight,

Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,

Here weave your chamber weather-proof,

Forgive our harms, and condescend

To man, as to a lubber friend,

And, generous, teach his awkward race

Courage and probity and grace!

  Poets praise that hidden wine

Hid in milk we drew

At the barrier of Time,

When our life was new.

We had eaten fairy fruit,

We were quick from head to foot,

All the forms we looked on shone

As with diamond dews thereon.

What cared we for costly joys,

The Museum’s far-fetched toys?

Gleam of sunshine on the wall

Poured a deeper cheer than all

The revels of the Carnival.

We a pine-grove did prefer

To a marble theatre,

Could with gods on mallows dine,

Nor cared for spices or for wine.

Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned.

Arch on arch, the grimmest land;

Whittle of a woodland bird

Made the pulses dance,

Note of horn in valleys heard

Filled the region with romance.

  None can tell how sweet,

How virtuous, the morning air;

Every accent vibrates well;

Not alone the wood-bird’s call,

Or shouting boys that chase their ball,

Pass the height of minstrel skill,

But the ploughman’s thoughtless cry,

Lowing oxen, sheep that bleat,

And the joiner’s hammer-beat,

Softened are above their will,

Take tones from groves they wandered through

Or flutes which passing angels blew.

All grating discords melt,

No dissonant note is dealt,

And though thy voice be shrill

Like rasping file on steel,

Such is the temper of the air,

Echo waits with art and care,

And will the faults of song repair.

  So by remote Superior Lake,

And by resounding Mackinac,

When northern storms the forest shake,

And billows on the long beach break,

The artful Air will separate

Note by note all sounds that grate,

Smothering in her ample breast

All but godlike words,

Reporting to the happy ear

Only purified accords.

Strangely wrought from barking waves,

Soft music daunts the Indian braves,—

Convent-chanting which the child

Hears pealing from the panther's cave

And the impenetrable wild.

  Soft on the South-wind sleeps the haze:

So on thy broad mystic van

Lie the opal-colored days,

And waft the miracle to man.

Soothsayer of the eldest gods,

Repairer of what harms betide,

Revealer of the inmost powers

Prometheus proffered, Jove denied;

Disclosing treasures more than true,

Or in what far to-morrow due;

Speaking by the tongues of flowers,

By the ten-tongued laurel speaking,

Singing by the oriole songs,

Heart of bird the man’s heart seeking;

Whispering hints of treasure hid

Under Morn’s unlifted lid,

Islands looming just beyond

The dim horizon’s utmost bound;—

Who can, like thee, our rags upbraid,

Or taunt us with our hope decayed?

Or who like thee persuade,

Making the splendor of the air,

The morn and sparkling dew, a snare?

Or who resent

Thy genius, wiles and blandishment?

  There is no orator prevails

To beckon or persuade

Like thee the youth or maid:

Thy birds, thy songs, thy brooks, thy gales,

Thy blooms, thy kinds,

Thy echoes in the wilderness,

Soothe pain, and age, and love’s distress,

Fire fainting will, and build heroic minds.

  For thou, O Spring! canst renovate

All that high God did first create.

Be still his arm and architect,

Rebuild the ruin, mend defect;

Chemist to vamp old worlds with new,

Coat sea and sky with heavenlier blue,

New tint the plumage of the birds,

And slough decay from grazing herds,

Sweep ruins from the scarped mountain,

Cleanse the torrent at the fountain,

Purge alpine air by towns defiled,

Bring to fair mother fairer child,

Not less renew the heart and brain,

Scatter the sloth, wash out the stain,

Make the aged eye sun-clear,

To parting soul bring grandeur near.

Under gentle types, my Spring

Masks the might of Nature’s king,

An energy that searches thorough

From Chaos to the dawning morrow;

Into all our human plight,

The soul’s pilgrimage and flight;

In city or in solitude,

Step by step, lifts bad to good,

Without halting, without rest,

Lifting Better up to Best;

Planting seeds of knowledge pure,

Through earth to ripen, through heaven endure.