Classic Poem

A LEGEND OF SUMMER.

In July, when the year has eaten deep
Into the breast of summer, when the hours creep
Slowly, in a kind of drunken sleep,
Over each other, they're so satisfied
With the luxury, the tenderness, and the pride
Of the great time — when the air is all
Light and heat, even without sunshine —
When the green of the earth and the blue sky incline
Each to each, the trees
Drinking deep of heaven, and the sky taking shade from these —
When birds begin to hush
Their singing in tree and bush —
When the rose's blush pales by the flush
Of the ripe geraniums — when the mountain ashberries
Are growing red like cherries,
The petals of the large white lily yellowed over with down,
From its own self overblown —
When fruits are sweetening and corn ripening,
All at full height, toppling over, swaying
Between blooming and decaying;
A mystery, a sort of chasm between
Pleasures, crosses, treasures, losses,
Joy and sorrow, yesterday and to-morrow —
This is the dim land of no-being, the quaint, sweet land
Of spirit, fairy, dreaming, ruled by the wand
Of a wild power seated firm on either hand,
Whom yet we neither see, nor understand
Look what I have found, here upon fairy-ground,
Written in cabalistic letters all over the daisies!
Who will thread the mazes
Of the mix'd words, interwoven phrases,
Fairy writ? Quiet thrush up there,
And you, O all beasts, fishes, birds in earth, sea, or air,
Listen to the fairy history of Snowbell, the most fair.

A little babe, who, on a winter's night,
Snow-white and softly falling as new snow,
On her queen mother's pillow did alight;
There lying rare,
And spotless fair,
All fairy-wise bedight.

Hush! for the soft knell
Is ringing over the snow,
Ringing for the mother to go —
Snowbell, Snowbell!
Growing through spring to summer, first a child,
Delicate, wild
Fragrance of heaven, like what snowdrops hold
Hidden in the pure swell of their bosoms cold,
As they foretell the lily;
Then, slipping through
Her bud-life, fair and fairer grew.

She walks white amongst the lilies,
Her hair floats wide upon the quivering air;
She dons the sunlight for a crown, to bear it
Only; there is none to share it,
Yet she stoops to wear it.

She is our purity, say the lilies, our sister, queen;
Do you see the little green
Branch of a tree there, tenderly
Tipping her shoulder?
By free airs made bolder,
Lo! its motions enfold her,
Snowbell, happy graces that hold her.
Look, the birds come hopping out of the wood
From the cool shade,
Stopping just in the flood
Of sunlight, cooing for Snowbell, queen-maid,
Watching her, catching her,
Wooing her through the green glade.
The wood dove curves his supple throat
For glee of her; the blackbird's note
Drops in a sweet surprise
Of love taught by her liquid eyes.
Swallows sail low,
With poised wing scanning her curiously.
Thrushes and linnets follow;
The skylark crouches nigh;
Pert robin trips forward daintily;
Whilst proudly at her side,
Through brake and tangled grasses,
The peacock drags his glory, heeding nought
But glory, straying wide as Snowbell passes.

Skirting the wood she goes,
Through the long morning hours,
Softly, to the awakening of the flowers
See their delicate blooms unfolding,
In the dawn of her beholding!
Is she kissing yon wild white rose,
On the tips of its leaves, with her ruby lips
Stooping over them, pressing to gather
A sweetness? — nay, but to give one rather,
That is the end of her caressing.
Such a large sweetness, lo! it slips over
The little frail petals, swelling so
That it crushes them flat; crush round it, cover
Your pearl rose — No!
Then the rough earth shares it, daisies and clover,
And wild bees hover
About these to sip
The Rose-slip.

Blow, pure wind, from the meadow,
Blow near, blow far,
O sweet air of the meadow,
How magical sweet you are,
Is't with the breath of kine?
Rise, rise, from the low river side;
Blow wide
Wine of the lowland demon, rich and strong;
No! you belong
To Snowbell, this fair day,
For you are pure and sweet,
Because her feet incline your way.

Incline and pass
Over the emerald grass,
Feet, white, and soft, and fleet.
The large-eyed cattle watch her going
Adown the field to the magic hollow;
They love the pastures where they graze,
They move to gaze
Upon her face, to trace her ways
Upheave slow limbs and follow,
Follow, follow her with gentle lowing.
To the hollow that dips
In a gap of the hill
That sits in the demon's lap —
The wide-mouthed hollow has misty lips,
It moves them to and fro;
They feel about, suck in, swell out, and blow
Little puffs of fog right off to the meadow.

Little loose mist-balls — look, one, two,
Gracefully swimming; the sun looks through,
And they glitter, and shimmer, and dive, and pass
To the upland, skimming the flower of the grass.

By fifties, by hundreds, more and more,
Swelling out, crowding up from the demon's door.

Crouching and leaping and gliding
Ah! one between her and the sun,
Snowbell, guiding
Fantastical motions such way
As to puzzle her day
She is snatching it — see —
The frail plaything, swaying it,
Bringing it close to the fair face,
Pressing her throat,
With fond touch delaying it,
Letting it float
Through the loose hair astray —
Now clutching its hiding-place,
Tossing it high,
Once, twice, and thrice rapidly.

Till, slidden in her breast unbidden,
It rests there,
She unaware,
Thinking it frolicked in the wide air.

So and so, adown the meadow
As the day grows, she goes
To the mouth of the hollow.

And lo! the misty lips move to and fro,
Glow, and quiver, and smile
Like a soft summer haze
To beguile
Her, Snowbell, who lingers awhile,
Whose eyes shine in amaze
As pile rises on pile
Of gold mist-wreaths,
The demon breathes.

Ay, stay the small feet.
She reaches her hands
Every side of her, fingering the mist where she stands,
That subtly spreads wide of her,
Mist that will swallow
Thee, sweet summer rose — ah! drawn into the hollow.
Snowbell, Snowbell, O! what a clatter
The birds make, now they see what's the matter.
Snowbell, Snowbell!
" Is she gone? " " Hush. " " Did you see her go? "
" No, but the robin did, or the thrush. "
" I? Oh! no, no, no. "
" Snowbell! " " Can nobody tell
Which way in the broad day? — "
" Well, well, well. "
So, snatching the half-notes
Out of each other's throats
Before the sound can flow,
Clamouring and stammering they go,
Just in the fashion of their dawn-twilight chatter.

Now one by one the kine
Slow-paced come down,
And gentle-faced incline
Their eyes into the mist,
With no surprise that it has sucked her in,
Yet do they seem to list
Some stir therein,
They deem may bode of her: what is't?

They hear and cannot tell,
Snowbell, and will not leave
The margin of her sight for whom they grieve,
The brink of their delight,
But sink adown and lie
I' the mist there drearily,
Like spectres large and grey,
Chewing for cud the golden fog alway.

But she, drawn in stealthily, stops
As the mist-curtain drops —
O magical hollow — behind her,
And smiles as she sees the deep day, and wonders.
In thy heart the wise water,
That knows and can speak,
Lies asleep
Almost her eyes' laughter
The silence doth break,
And she draws in her breath
Is it death as she ponders,
Or swoon in the lap of the noon?
For asleep, and asleep, and asleep is the hollow.

In the charmed rest,
Her hair falling flat over shoulders and breast,
Hands prest each to each, hanging low,
Feet carest by the water's brim,
Innocent eyes looking in, a dim minute or so,
Snowbell unheeding,
How the wide, wild uncertain spirit time is speeding!

Noon that lingers,
Noon that flies,
Magic moments, mysteries,
Spirit fingers turn thy pages,
Book unwritten, midday, ages;
Spirits flitting through the leaves,
Unwitting of who joys or grieves;
Spirits wise and full of follies
To the brim;
Who shall lose and who shall win,
Skim the hour, or drown therein
At your whim?