There are some souls who may look in on these Essential peoples of the earth and air-- That have the stars and flowers in their care-- And read their soul-suggestive secrecies: Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees, Who from them learn, what no known schools declare, God’s knowledge; and from winds, that, singing, fare, God’s gospel, filled with mighty harmonies. Souls, unto whom the waves impart a word Of fuller faith; the sunset and the dawn Preach sermons more inspired even than The tongues of Pentecost; as, distant heard In forms of change, through Nature upward drawn, God doth address th’ immortal part of Man.
I looked upon a dead girl’s face and heard What seemed the voice of Death cry out to me, Deep in her heart, all of the agony Of her lost dreams, complaining word on word:-- How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirred Her life’s sad depths to rippling melody, Or made the imaged longing, there, to be The realization of a hope deferred. So in her life had Love behaved to her. Between the lonely chapters of her years And her young eyes making no golden blur With god-bright face and hair; who led me to Her side at last, and bade me, through my tears, With Death’s dumb lips, too late, to see and know.
She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocks Are hairy with the lichens and the twist Of knotted wolf’s-bane, mumbling in the mist, Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks. At her bent back the moon, slow-sinking, mocks, Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed; Once at her feet the slipping serpent hissed, And once the owl called to the forest fox.-- What Sabboth brew does she intend? What root Now seek for, seal for what satanic spell Of incantations and demonic fire?-- From her rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier, What dark Familiar points her sure pursuit, There, with gaunt eyes, red with the glow of Hell?
Oaks and a water. By the water--eyes, Ice-green and steadfast as still stars; and hair Yellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf’s lair; And limbs--like mist the lightning’s flicker dyes. The humped oaks huddle under iron skies; The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere; White on the water falls a vulture-glare Of moon, and black the circling raven flies. Again the power of this thing hath laid Compulsion on me: and I seem to hear A sweet voice calling me beyond the gates To longed-for love: I come: each forest glade Seems reaching out white arms to draw me near-- Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.