TWO SONGS OF A YEAR 1914-1915

So; it is nightfall then. The valley flush That beckoned home the way for herds and men Is hardly spent: Down the bright pathway winds, through veils of hush And wonderment. Unuttered yet the chime That tells of folding-time; Hardly the sun has set;— The trees are sweetly troubled with bright words From new-alighted birds. And yet, ... Here, round my neck, are come to cling and twine, The arms, the folding arms, close, close and fain, All mine!— I pleaded to, in vain, I reached for, only to their dimpled scorning, Down the blue halls of morning;— Where all things else could lure them on and on, Now here, now gone, From bush to bush, from beckoning bough to bough, With bird-calls of Come Hither!— Ah, but now ... Now it is dusk.—And from his heaven of mirth, A wilding skylark sudden dropt to earth Along the last low sunbeam yellow-moted,— Athrob with joy,— There pushes here, a little golden Boy, Still gazing with great eyes: And wonder-wise, All fragrancy, all valor silver-throated, My daughterling, my swan, My Alison. Closer than homing lambs against the bars At folding-time, that crowd, all mother-warm, They crowd, they cling, they wreathe;— And thick as sparkles of the thronging stars, Their kisses swarm. O Rose of Being at whose heart I breathe, Fold over, hold me fast In the dim Eden of a blinding kiss. And lightning heart’s desire, be still at last. Heart can no more,— Life can no more Than this.

Love, that Love cannot share,— Now turn to air! And fade to ashes, O my daily bread, Save only if you may Bless you, to be the stay Of the uncomforted. Behold, you far-off lights,— From smoke-veiled heights, If there be dwelling in our wilderness! For Love the refugee, No stronghold can there be,— No shelter more, while these go shelterless. Love hath no home, beside His own two arms spread wide;— The only home, among all walls that are: So there may come to cling, Some yet forlorner thing Feeling its way, along this blackened star. Josephine Preston Peabody