I
Not till the wildman wind is shrill,
Howling upon the hill
In every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,
Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,
And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white,
The frightened moon hurries above the house,
Shall I lie down; and, deep,—
Letting the mad wind keep
Its shouting revel round me,—fall asleep.
II
Not till its dark halloo is hushed,
And where wild waters rushed,—
Like some hoof’d terror underneath its whip
And spur of foam,—remains
A ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stains
Of moony mists and rains,
And stealthy starbeams, still as spectres, slip;
Shall I—with thoughts that take
Unto themselves the ache
Of silence as a sound—from sleep awake.
AIRY TONGUES
I
There is a song the wet leaves lisp
When Morn comes down the woodland way;
And misty as a thistle-wisp
Her gown gleams, windy gray:
A song that seems to say,
“Awake! ’tis day!”
There is a sigh when Day sits down
Beside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;
While on her glistening hair and gown
The rose of rest is strew:
A sigh, that seems to croon,
“Come rest! ’tis noon!”
There is a whisper when the stars,
Above an evening-purpled height,
Crown the dead Day with nenuphars
Of fire, gold and white:
A voice, that seems t’ invite,
“Come love! ’tis night!”