Poems (Spofford)/Fancies
FANCIES.I. SNOW SQUALL.
Fall thickly, dallying snow-flakes, fall, Nor longer sport in dizzy showers;The earth is waiting for your kiss, You phantoms of the flowers!
When, orbed in spicy dews, you rolled From leaf to leaf along those hoursSweet with the clethra's breath, you learned The secret of the flowers.
Transfigured in your frosty bloom, Now like a wraith the pine tree towers,And on his savage boughs you hang Garlands of ghostly flowers.
But sink into the sod, and wait The enchantments of this sphere of ours,And back to sunshine shall you burst, Branches of living flowers!
II. A SNOW-DROP.
Only a tender little thing, So velvet soft and white it is;But March himself is not so strong, With all the great gales that are his.
In vain his whistling storms he calls, In vain the cohorts of his powerRide down the sky on mighty blasts— He cannot crush the little flower.
Its white spear parts the sod, the snows Than that white spear less snowy are,The rains roll off its crest like spray, It lifts again its spotless star.:
Blow, blow, dark March! To meet you here, Thrust upward from the central gloom,The stellar force of the old earth Pulses to life in this slight bloom.
III. AT DAWN.
A gush of bird-song, a patter of dew, A cloud, and a rainbow's warning,Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue,— An April day in the morning!
Magical, autumn hazes are, And rare is your summer weather,With its purple midnight throbbing far Over lovers clasped together;
But dearer to me these daring flowers The passionate noontide scorning,This gladsome slipping of shining showers, This April day in the morning!
IV. MAYTIME
A mist of stars, a glimmering veil Before the ancient throne of night;A planet like a sentinel Upon the outer height.
Far dusky deeps, and wide still air, Where fainting fragrance rolls along;A bird that warbles in his dream Some thrill of broken song.
Thick fruit-flowers languishing for light Around us in the perfect gloom;And, as we wait, far off and low, The distant breakers' boom.
Ah! among all delicious nights, Give me this hour's transcendent swoon;Enchanted song, enchanted hush, And May without a moon!
V. SEPTEMBER.
Why does the wind at the casement sigh In the gloom of the gray wet dawn?The light is lost from the sea and sky, And the rose is gone!
Gone—and the sunshine after her, Color and fire and perfumed dew: Only the lonely wind may stir In the place she knew.
Then follow, O wind, the happy ways Whither thy blushing love has fled:Round her are lustres of perfect days And all sweetness shed.
Follow—for desert sky and sea Are dim with the rush of the rain:Summer is dead, and the day would be Alone with its pain!