ANDENKEN.

I.

Through the silent streets of the city, In the night's unbusy noon, Up and down in the pallor Of the languid summer moon,

I wander and think of the village, And the house in the maple-gloom, And the porch with the honeysuckles And the sweet-brier all abloom.

My soul is sick with the fragrance Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: Oh, darling! the house is empty, And lonesomer than death!

If I call, no one will answer; If I knock, no one will come;— The feet are at rest forever, And the lips are cold and dumb.

The summer moon is shining So wan and large and still, And the weary dead are sleeping In the graveyard under the hill.

II.

We looked at the wide, white circle Around the autumn moon, And talked of the change of weather,— It would rain, to-morrow, or soon.

And the rain came on the morrow, And beat the dying leaves From the shuddering boughs of the maples Into the flooded eaves.

The clouds wept out their sorrow; But in my heart the tears Are bitter for want of weeping, In all these autumn years.

III.

It is sweet to lie awake musing On all she has said and done, To dwell on the words she uttered, To feast on the smiles I won,

To think with what passion at parting She gave me my kisses again,— Dear adieux, and tears and caresses,— Oh, love! was it joy or pain?

To brood, with a foolish rapture, On the thought that it must be My darling this moment is waking With tenderest thoughts of me!

O sleep I are thy dreams any sweeter? I linger before thy gate: We must enter at it together, And my love is loath and late.

IV.

The bobolink sings in the meadow, The wren in the cherry-tree: Come hither, thou little maiden, And sit upon my knee;

And I will tell thee a story I read in a book of rhyme;— I will but feign that it happened To me, one summer-time,

When we walked through the meadow, And she and I were young;— The story is old and weary With being said and sung.

The story is old and weary;— Ah, child! is it known to thee? Who was it that last night kissed thee Under the cherry-tree?

V.

Like a bird of evil presage, To the lonely house on the shore Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, And shrieked at the bolted door,

And flapped its wings in the gables, And shouted the well-known names, And buffeted the windows Afeard in their shuddering frames.

It was night, and it is daytime,— The morning sun is bland, The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In to the smiling land.

The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In the sun so soft and bright, And toss and play with the dead man Drowned in the storm last night.

VI.

I remember the burning brushwood, Glimmering all day long Yellow and weak in the sunlight, Now leaped up red and strong,

And fired the old dead chestnut, That all our years had stood, Gaunt and gray and ghostly, Apart from the sombre wood;

And, flushed with sudden summer, The leafless boughs on high Blossomed in dreadful beauty Against the darkened sky.

We children sat telling stories, And boasting what we should be, When we were men like our fathers, And watched the blazing tree,

That showered its fiery blossoms, Like a rain of stars, we said, Of crimson and azure and purple. That night, when I lay in bed,

I could not sleep for seeing, Whenever I closed my eyes, The tree in its dazzling splendor Against the darkened skies.

I cannot sleep for seeing, With closed eyes to-night, The tree in its dazzling splendor Dropping its blossoms bright;

And old, old dreams of childhood Come thronging my weary brain. Dear foolish beliefs and longings;— I doubt, are they real again?

It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, That I either think or see;— The phantoms of dead illusions To-night are haunting me.