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The Tuft of Flowers

    I WENT to turn the grass once after one
    Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
    The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
    Before I came to view the leveled scene.
    I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
    I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
    But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
    And I must be, as he had been,--alone,
    'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
    'Whether they work together or apart.'
    But as I said it, swift there passed me by
    On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,
    Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
    Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
    And once I marked his flight go round and round,
    As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
    And then he flew as far as eye could see,
    And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
    I thought of questions that have no reply,
    And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
    But he turned first, and led my eye to look
    At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
    A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
    Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
    I left my place to know them by their name,
    Finding them butterfly weed when I came.
    The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
    By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
    Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
    But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
    The butterfly and I had lit upon,
    Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
    That made me hear the wakening birds around,
    And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
    And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
    So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
    But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
    And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
    And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
    With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
    'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
    'Whether they work together or apart.'

Spoils of the Dead

    TWO fairies it was
    On a still summer day
    Came forth in the woods
    With the flowers to play.
    The flowers they plucked
    They cast on the ground
    For others, and those
    For still others they found.
    Flower-guided it was
    That they came as they ran
    On something that lay
    In the shape of a man.
    The snow must have made
    The feathery bed
    When this one fell
    On the sleep of the dead.
    But the snow was gone
    A long time ago,
    And the body he wore
    Nigh gone with the snow.
    The fairies drew near
    And keenly espied
    A ring on his hand
    And a chain at his side.
    They knelt in the leaves
    And eerily played
    With the glittering things,
    And were not afraid.
    And when they went home
    To hide in their burrow,
    They took them along
    To play with to-morrow.
    When you came on death,
    Did you not come flower-guided
    Like the elves in the wood?
    I remember that I did.
    But I recognised death
    With sorrow and dread,
    And I hated and hate
    The spoils of the dead.

Pan with Us

    PAN came out of the woods one day,--
    His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
    The gray of the moss of walls were they,--
    And stood in the sun and looked his fill
    At wooded valley and wooded hill.
    He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
    On a height of naked pasture land;
    In all the country he did command
    He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
    That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
    His heart knew peace, for none came here
    To this lean feeding save once a year
    Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
    Or homespun children with clicking pails
    Who see no little they tell no tales.
    He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
    A new-world song, far out of reach,
    For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech
    And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
    Were music enough for him, for one.
    Times were changed from what they were:
    Such pipes kept less of power to stir
    The fruited bough of the juniper
    And the fragile bluets clustered there
    Than the merest aimless breath of air.
    They were pipes of pagan mirth,
    And the world had found new terms of worth.
    He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
    And ravelled a flower and looked away--
    Play? Play?--What should he play?

The Demiurge's Laugh

    IT was far in the sameness of the wood;
    I was running with joy on the Demon's trail,
    Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
    It was just as the light was beginning to fail
    That I suddenly heard--all I needed to hear:
    It has lasted me many and many a year.
    The sound was behind me instead of before,
    A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
    As of one who utterly couldn't care.
    The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
    Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
    And well I knew what the Demon meant.
    I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.
    I felt as a fool to have been so caught,
    And checked my steps to make pretence
    It was something among the leaves I sought
    (Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).
    Thereafter I sat me against a tree.

Now Close the Windows

    NOW close the windows and hush all the fields;
    If the trees must, let them silently toss;
    No bird is singing now, and if there is,
    Be it my loss.
    It will be long ere the marshes resume,
    It will be long ere the earliest bird:
    So close the windows and not hear the wind,
    But see all wind-stirred.

A Line-storm Song

    THE line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
    The road is forlorn all day,
    Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
    And the hoof-prints vanish away.
    The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
    Expend their bloom in vain.
    Come over the hills and far with me,
    And be my love in the rain.
    The birds have less to say for themselves
    In the wood-world's torn despair
    Than now these numberless years the elves,
    Although they are no less there:
    All song of the woods is crushed like some
    Wild, easily shattered rose.
    Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
    Where the boughs rain when it blows.
    There is the gale to urge behind
    And bruit our singing down,
    And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
    From which to gather your gown.
    What matter if we go clear to the west,
    And come not through dry-shod?
    For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
    The rain-fresh goldenrod.
    Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
    But it seems like the sea's return
    To the ancient lands where it left the shells
    Before the age of the fern;
    And it seems like the time when after doubt
    Our love came back amain.
    Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
    And be my love in the rain.