Of favor
frozen fast in scorn!
When Good's a-freeze, we call it Ill!
This rosy Time is glacier-born.
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, [21]
Complain thou not, O heart; for these
Bank-in the current of the will
To uses, arts, and charities.
____
Baltimore, 1879-80.
Notes: Opposition
As an
introduction to this poem I quote a
sentence from Dr. Gates's
excellent essay: "As we look at the circumstances of his life,
let us carry with us the strains of this poem, which interprets
the use of crosses, interferences, and attempted thwartings of one's purpose;
for the ethical value of Lanier's life and writings can be fully understood
only by remembering how much he
overcame and how heroically he persisted
in manly work in his chosen art through years of such broken health
as would have
driven most men to the inert, self-indulgent life of an invalid.
The
superb power of will which he displayed is a lesson as valuable
as the noble poems which it illustrates and enforces."
Marsh Song -- At Sunset
Over the
monstrous shambling sea, [1]
Over the Caliban sea,
Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest:
Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West, --
Thy Prospero I'll be.
Over the humped and fishy sea,
Over the Caliban sea,
O cloud in the West, like a thought in the heart
Of
pardon, loose thy wing, and start,
And do a grace for me.
Over the huge and huddling sea, [11]
Over the Caliban sea,
Bring
hither my brother Antonio, -- Man, --
My injurer: night breaks the ban;
Brother, I
pardon thee.
____
Baltimore, 1879-80.
Notes: Marsh Song -- At Sunset
At the first
reading, no doubt, this song appears indistinct, though
poetical.
On a second
reading, however, with Shakespeare's `Tempest' fresh in mind,
it seems, as it is, highly
artistic; and we wonder at the happy use
made of the Shakespearean characters: the
gracious, forgiving Prospero,
the
rightful Duke of Milan; Antonio, his usurping brother,
forgiven
notwithstanding; Caliban, the
savage, deformed, fish-like slave;
and Ariel, the ministering spirit of the air.
With `At Sunset' compare Lanier's `Evening Song', another and a more agreeable
sunset picture.
A Ballad of Trees and the Master
Into the woods my Master went, [1]
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When into the woods He came.
Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came, [11]
Content with death and shame.
When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:
'Twas on a tree they slew Him -- last
When out of the woods He came.
____
Baltimore, November, 1880.
Notes: A Ballad of Trees and the Master
In the `Introduction' (p. xxxi ff. [Part III]) I have tried to show
the
intensity and the
breadth of Lanier's love of nature in general.
President Gates gives a separate section to Lanier's love
of trees and plant-life; and, after quoting some lines
on the soothing and inspiring
companionship of trees,
thus speaks of our Ballad: "This ministration of trees to a mind and heart
`forspent with shame and grief' finds its culmination in the
pathetic lines
upon that olive-garden near Jerusalem, which to those of us
who have sat within its shade must always seem the most
sacred spot on earth.
The almost
mystic exaltation of the power of
poetic sympathy
which inspired these
intense lines, `Into the Woods my Master went',
may
impair their religious effect for many
devout souls.
But to many others this short poem will express most wonderfully
that
essential human-heartedness in the Son of Man, our Divine Saviour,
which made Him one with us in His need of the quiet,
sym
pathetic ministrations of nature -- perhaps the heart of the reason
why this olive-grove was `the place where He was wont to go' for prayer."
See St. Luke 22:39.
For Lanier's other poems on Christ see `Introduction',
p. xxxvii f. [Part III].
Sunrise
In my sleep I was fain of their
fellowship, fain [1]
Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main.
The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep;
Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep,
Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting,
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting,
Came to the gates of sleep.
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep,
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling:
The gates of sleep fell a-trembling [11]
Like as the lips of a lady that forth
falter "yes",
Shaken with happiness:
The gates of sleep stood wide.
I have waked, I have come, my
beloved! I might not abide:
I have come ere the dawn, O
beloved, my live-oaks, to hide
In your gospelling glooms, -- to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.
Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied Tree
That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know
From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? [21]
They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps.
Reason's not one that weeps.
What logic of greeting lies
Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?
O
cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye gloss
All the dull-tissued dark with your
luminous darks that emboss
The vague
blackness of night into pattern and plan,
So,
(But would I could know, but would I could know,)
With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man, -- [31]
So, with your silences purfling this silence of man
While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban,
Under the ban, --
So, ye have
wrought me
Designs on the night of our knowledge, -- yea, ye have taught me,
So,
That haply we know somewhat more than we know.
Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms,
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms,
Ye ministers meet for each
passion that grieves, [41]
Friendly, sisterly,
sweetheart leaves,
Oh, rain me down from your darks that
contain me
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, --
Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet
That
advise me of more than they bring, -- repeat
Me the woods-smell that
swiftly but now brought breath
From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, --
Teach me the terms of silence, --
preach me
The
passion of
patience, -- sift me, --
impeach me, --
And there, oh there [51]
As ye hang with your
myriad palms upturned in the air,
Pray me a
myriad prayer.
My
gossip, the owl, -- is it thou
That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough,
As I pass to the beach, art stirred?
Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird?
. . . . .
Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea,
Old
chemist, rapt in alchemy,
Distilling silence, -- lo,
That which our father-age had died to know -- [61]
The menstruum that dissolves all matter -- thou
Hast found it: for this silence, filling now
The globed clarity of receiving space,
This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, disgrace,
Death, love, sin, sanity,
Must in yon silence clear
solution lie.
Too clear! That
crystal nothing who'll peruse?
The blackest night could bring us brighter news.
Yet precious qualities of silence haunt
Round these vast margins, ministrant. [71]
Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space,
With
trying to breathe no bigger than thy race
Just to be fellow'd, when that thou hast found
No man with room, or grace enough of bound
To
entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art, --
'Tis here, 'tis here thou canst unhand thy heart
And breathe it free, and breathe it free,
By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.
The tide's at full: the marsh with flooded streams
Glimmers, a limpid
labyrinth of dreams. [81]
Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies
A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies
Shine scant with one forked galaxy, --
The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast they lie.
Oh, what if a sound should be made!
Oh, what if a bound should be laid
To this bow-and-string
tension of beauty and silence a-spring, --
To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string!
I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam
Will break as a
bubble o'er-blown in a dream, -- [91]
Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night,
Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted with light,
Over-sated with beauty and silence, will seem
But a
bubble that broke in a dream,
If a bound of degree to this grace be laid,
Or a sound or a
motion made.
But no: it is made: list! somewhere, --
mystery, where?
In the leaves? in the air?
In my heart? is a
motion made:
'Tis a
motion of dawn, like a
flicker of shade on shade. [101]
In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudinous stirring
Upwinds through the woods; the little ones,
softly conferring,
Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are still;
But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, --
And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river, --
And look where a
passionate shiver
Expectant is bending the blades
Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, --
And
invisible wings, fast
fleeting, fast
fleeting,
Are
beating [111]