I hear no sound of wind or wave;
No sob or song, except the slow
Leaf-cricket’s flute-soft tremolo,
Among wet walks grown gray and grave.—
In raiment mists of silver sear,
With strange, pale eyes thou comest, O
Thou Spirit of the Waning-Year!
VI
The hills are full of prophecies
And ancient voices of the dead;
Of hidden shapes that no man sees,
Pale, visionary presences,
That speak the things no tongue hath said,
No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.
The streams are full of oracles,
And momentary whisperings;
An immaterial beauty swells
Its breezy silver o’er the shells
With wordless speech that sings and sings
The real life of unreal things.
No indeterminable thought is theirs,
The stars’, the sunsets’ and the flowers’;
Whose inexpressible speech declares
Th’ immortal Beautiful, who shares
This mortal riddle which is ours,
Beyond the forward-flying hours.
VII
The hornet stings the garnet grape,
Whose hull splits with the honeyed heat;—
Fall hears the long loud locust beat
Its song out, where, a girl-like shape,
She watches, through the wine-press’ crust,
Sweet trickle of the purple must.
The bee clings to the scarlet peach,
That thrusts a downy cheek between
The leaves of golden gray and green;—
Fall walks where orchard branches reach
Abundance to her hands, or drop
Their ripeness down to make her stop.
The bitter-sweet and sassafras
Hang yellow pods and crimson-black
Along the rails, that ramble back
Among the corn where she must pass;
Where, on her hair, a golden haze,
Showers the pollen of the maize.
Not till ’mid sad, chill scents all day
The green leaf-cricket chirrs its tune,
And underneath the hunter’s-moon
The oxen plod through clinging clay,
Or when, beyond the dripping pane,
The night sets in with whirling rain: