_He is reminded of another day with her._

The hips were reddening on this rose, Those haws were hung with fire, That day we went this way that goes Up hills of bough and brier.

This hooked thorn caught her gown and seemed Imploring her to linger; Upon her hair a sun-ray streamed Like some baptizing finger.

This false-foxglove, so golden now With yellow blooms like bangles, Was fading then. But yonder bough,-- The sumach's plume entangles,-- Was like an Indian's painted face; And, like a squaw, attended That bush, in vague vermilion grace With beads of berries splendid.

And here we turned to mount that hill, Down which the wild brook tumbles; And, like to-day, that day was still, And soft winds swayed the umbles Of these wild carrots lawny gray; And there, deep-dappled o'er us, An orchard stretched; and in our way Dropped ripened fruit before us.

A m.u.f.fled thud the pippin fell, And at our feet rolled dusty; A hornet clinging to its bell, The pear lay bruised and rusty.

The smell of pulpy peach and plum, From which the juice oozed yellow, Around which bees made sleepy hum, Filled warm the air and mellow.

And then we came where, many hued, The wet wild-morning-glory Hung its balloons in shadows dewed For dawning's offertory.

With bush and bramble, far away, Beneath us stretched the valley, Cleft of one creek, as clear as day, That bickered musically.

The brown, the bronze, the green, the red Of weed and brier ran riot To walls of woods, whose vistas led To shadowy nooks of quiet.

Long waves of feathering golden-rod Ran through the gray in patches; As in a cloud the gold of G.o.d Burns, that the sunset catches.

And there, above the blue hills, rolled, Like some vast conflagration, The sunset, flaming rose and gold, We watched in exultation.

Then turning homeward, she and I Went in love's sweet derangement-- How different now seem earth and sky, Since this undreamed estrangement!

3

_He enters the woods. He sits down despondently._

Here where the day is dimmest, And silence company, Some might find sympathy For loss, or grief the grimmest, In each great-hearted tree-- Here where the day is dimmest-- But, ah, there's none for me!

In leaves might find communion, Returning sigh for sigh, For love the heavens deny; The love that yearns for union, Yet parts and knows not why.-- In leaves might find communion-- But, ah, not I, not I!

My eyes with tears are aching.-- Why has she written me?

And will no longer see?-- My heart with grief is breaking, With grief that this should be-- My eyes with tears are aching-- Why has she written me?

4

_He proceeds in the direction of a stream._

Better is death than sleep, Better for tired eyes.-- Why do we weep and weep When near us the solace lies?

There in that stream, that, deep,-- Reflecting woods and skies,-- Could comfort all our sighs.

The mystery of things, Of dreams, philosophies, 'Round which the mortal clings, _That_ can unriddle these.-- What is't the water sings?

What is't it promises?-- End to all miseries!

5

_He seats himself on a rock and gazes steadily into the stream._

And here alone I sit and it is so!-- O vales and hills! O valley lands and k.n.o.bs!

What cure have you for woe?

None that my heart may know!-- The wearying sameness!--yet this thing is so!-- This thing is so, and still the waters flow, The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbs With sun and wind, and yet this thing is so!-- Here, at this culvert's mouth, The shadowy water, flowing towards the south, Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.-- What is there yonder that makes me afraid?-- Of my own self afraid?--what is't below?

What power draws me to the striate stream?

What evil or what dream?-- Me, dropping pebbles in the quiet wave, That echoes, strange as music in a cave, Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shade Like sound of tears--the shadow of some woe, An ailing phantom that will not be laid, Since this is so, since this sad thing is so.

There, in the water, how the lank green gra.s.s Mats its rank blades, each blade a crooked kris, Making a marsh; 'mid which the currents miss Their rock-born melodies.

But there, and there one sees The wide-belled mallow, as within a gla.s.s, Long-pistiled, leaning o'er The root-contorted sh.o.r.e, As if its own pink image it would kiss.

And there the tangled wild-potato vine Lifts conical blossoms, each a cup of wine, As pale as moonlight is.

And there tall gipsy lilies, all a-sway, Their savage, coppery faces, fierce of hue, Dull purple-streaked, bend in inverted view.-- And where the stream around those rushes creeps, The dragon-fly, in endless error, keeps Sewing the pale gold gown of day With tangled st.i.tches of a burning blue: Its brilliant body seems a needle fine, A thread of azure ray.

But here below me where my pensive shade Looks up at me, the stale stream stagnant lies, Deep, dark, but clear and silent; save the hiss Of bursting bubbles in the sp.a.w.ny ooze.-- All flowers here refuse To grow or blossom; beauties, too, are few, That haunt its depths: no glittering minnows braid Its languid crystal; and no gravels strew With colored orbs its bottom. Half afraid I shrink from my own eyes There in its cairngorm skies-- I know not why, and yet it seems 'tis this:--

I know not what--but where the kildees wade Slim in the foamy sc.u.m, From that direction hither doth it come, And makes my heart afraid.

Nearer it draws to where those low rocks ail, Warm rocks on which some water-snake hath clomb To bask its spotted body, coiling numb.-- At first it seemed a prism on the grail, A bubble's prism yonder; then a trail, An angled sparkle in a shadow, swayed Frog-like through deeps, to crouch a flaccid, pale, Squat bulk below.... Reflected trees and skies, And breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss, Seem in its stolid eyes, Deep down--the dim disguise Of something ghoulish there, whose features fail, Then come again in rhythmic waviness, With arms like tentacles that seem to press Up towards me. Limbs that writhe, and fade, And clench--tough limbs, that twist and cross Through flabby hair like smoky moss.

How horrible to see this thing at night!

Or when the sunset slants its brimstone light Above the water! when, in phantom flight, The will-o'-the-wisps, perhaps, above it reel.

Then haply would it rise, a rotting green, Up, up, and gather me with arms of steel, Soft steel, and drag me where the wave is white, Beneath that boulder there, that plants a keel Against the ripple there, a shoulder lean.-- No! no! I must away before 'tis night!

Before the fire-flies dot The dusk with sulphur blurrings bright!

Before upon yon height The white wild-carrots vanish from the sight; And boneset blossoms, tossing there in cl.u.s.ters, Fade to a ridge, a streak of ghostly l.u.s.tres.

And in yon sunlit spot, That cedar tree is not!-- But a huge cap instead, that, half-asleep, Some giant dropped while driving home his sheep.

And 'mid those fallow browns And russet grays, the fragrant peak Of yonder timothy stack, Is not a stack, but something hideous, black, That threatens and, grotesquely demon, frowns.

I must away from here.-- Already dusk draws near.

The owlet's dolorous hoot Sounds quavering as a gnome's wild flute; The toad, within the wet, Begins to tune its goblin flageolet.

The slow sun sinks behind Those hills; and like a withered cheek, Distorted there, the spectral moon's defined Above those trees; above that ma.s.s of vines That, like a wrecked appentice, roofs those pines.-- Oh, I am faint and weak.-- I must away, away, Before the close of day!-- Already at my back I feel the woods grow black; And sense the evening wind, Guttural and gaunt and blind, Snarling behind me like a were-wolf pack.-- When will it cease to pierce, This anguish dull and fierce, At heart and soul? when will it let me go?--

At last, with footsteps slow, With half averted cheek, I've reached this woodland creek, Far from that place of fear; And still I seem to hear A dripping footstep near; A gurgling voice dim glimmering at my ear.

I try to fly!--I can not!--yes, and no!-- What horror holds me!--G.o.d! that obscene, slow, Sure mastering chimera there Has yet some horrible feeler round my neck, Or in my scattered hair!-- Off! off! thou devil's coil!-- The waters, thrashing, boil-- Once more I'm free! once more I'm free!

Glad of that firefly fleck, That, like a lamp of golden fairy oil, Lights me the way I flee.-- No more I stare, magnetic-fixed; nor reck, Nor little care to foil The madness there! the murder there! that slips Back to its lair of slime, that seeps and drips, That sought in vain to fasten on my lips.

6

_Taking a letter from his pocket, he hurries away._

What can it mean for me? What have I done to her?

I, in our season of love as a sun to her: She, all its heaven of silvery, numberful Stars and its moon shining golden and slumberful; Who on my life, that was th.o.r.n.y and lowery, Gazed--and made beautiful; smiled--and made flowery.

She, to my heart and my soul a divinity!

She, who--I dreamed!--seemed my spirit's affinity!-- What have I done to her? what have I done?

What can she mean by this?--what have I said to her!

I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her; Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her; Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her!

See!--she has written me thus! she has written me....

Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!-- Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it, Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!-- What have I said to her? what have I said?

What shall I make of it? I who am trembling, Dreading to lose her.--A moth, the dissembling Flame of the candle attracts with its guttering, Flattering on till its body lies fluttering, Scorched in the summer night.--Foolish, importunate, Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!-- Such has she been to me making me such to her, Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!-- What shall I make of it? what can I make?

Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless, Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless.

I,--with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,-- Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin, Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.-- I,--in the sky with the egrets that, flying me, Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly, White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderly Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;-- Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry Violet curve of thy star falling fiery-- So was I lost in night! thus am undone!