Part 4

Oh, grey hill, Where the grazing herd Licks the purple blossom, Crops the spiky weed! Oh, stony pasture, Where the tall mullein Stands up so sturdy On its little seed!

ASSAULT

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound After a year of silence, else I think I should not so have ventured forth alone At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk Between me and the crying of the frogs? Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, That am a timid woman, on her way From one house to another!

TRAVEL

The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

LOW-TIDE

These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went down Will show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore, No place to dream, but a place to die,-- The bottom of the sea once more. There was a child that wandered through A giant's empty house all day,-- House full of wonderful things and new, But no fit place for a child to play.

SONG OF A SECOND APRIL

April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; In orchards near and far away The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; The men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep, Noisy and swift the small brooks run Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun, Pensively,--only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep.

ROSEMARY

For the sake of some things That be now no more I will strew rushes On my chamber-floor, I will plant bergamot At my kitchen-door.

For the sake of dim things That were once so plain I will set a barrel Out to catch the rain, I will hang an iron pot On an iron crane.

Many things be dead and gone That were brave and gay; For the sake of these things I will learn to say, "An it please you, gentle sirs," "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!"

THE POET AND HIS BOOK

Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you bury One sweet bone of mine!

When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered, And above my head Yellow pollen gathered All the empty afternoon? When sweet lovers pause and wonder Who am I that lie thereunder, Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?-- That lungs be failing To inhale the breath Others are exhaling? This my subtle spirit's end?-- Ah, when the thawed winter splashes Over these chance dust and ashes, Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means dead In that hour, but surely When this book, unread, Rots to earth obscurely, And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling Of the thing there is no telling, Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould, And a book of many Waiting to be sold For a casual penny, In a little open case, In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!

When these veins are weeds, When these hollowed sockets Watch the rooty seeds Bursting down like rockets, And surmise the spring again, Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upward At the smell of rain,

Boys and girls that lie Whispering in the hedges, Do not let me die, Mix me with your pledges; Boys and girls that slowly walk In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel, Mix me with your talk,

Do not let me die! Farmers at your raking, When the sun is high, While the hay is making, When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweeten In the lapse of noon;