The Project Gutenberg EBook of Willow Pollen, by Jeannette Augustus Marks This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Willow Pollen Author: Jeannette Augustus Marks Release Date: September 20, 2016 [EBook #53099] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLOW POLLEN *** Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) WILLOW POLLEN WILLOW POLLEN BY JEANNETTE MARKS Boston The Four Seas Company 1921 Copyright, 1921, by The Four Seas Company The Four Seas Press Boston, Mass., U. S. A. TO The Memory of {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} My Mother JEANNETTE HOLMES COLWELL MARKS ACKNOWLEDGMENT Many of these poems were first published in Ainslee’s, Bellman, Century, Churchman, Contemporary Verse, Everybody’s, Freeman, Forum, Holland’s Magazine, McClure’s, Metropolitan, Nation, New Republic, North American Review, Outlook, Poetry (Chicago), Poetry Journal, The Bookman, Smart Set and other magazines. Fleur de Lys September 27, 1920. CONTENTS Page Proem 11 Willow Pollen 13 You 14 Cross Roads 15 Calendar 16 Wild Grape Vine 19 To Some Flowers 21 Stars 22 Green Golden Door 23 Bread 24 Obscurity 26 Brown Mother 30 Sea Gulls 32 Dragon 33 The Wanderer 34 Blind Sleep 35 The Bowl 36 White Hair 39 Clear Pools 40 These Two 41 The Railroad Station 43 Bubbles 44 Peddled Joy 45 Work 46 Somewhere Tonight 47 Your Sunlit Way 48 Strange Faces 49 Everywhere 50 Cloud 51 Bucentaur 52 Moth 53 Gray Waters 54 Journey’s End 55 White Paths 56 Ebony 57 To Some Philadelphia Sparrows 58 Oriole’s Nest 59 Little Miss Hilly 60 Rose Toada 61 Thatch 62 Sun Path 63 Ravello 64 Chester-on-the Dee 65 The River Seiont 66 Gold and Ivory 67 Steps 68 Beside the Way 69 {6} {7} {8} Wait Awhile 70 Indian Summer 71 A Thousand Years 72 The Broken Door 73 Only Your Name 74 Repetends 75 Too Late 76 The Tide 77 Dust and Dreams 78 The Nest 79 Lost Love 80 “When Spring” 81 Two Candles 82 Rosy Miller 84 His Name 85 Mist 86 Last Dawn 87 Even as Here 88 Again? 90 WILLOW POLLEN PROEM Beautiful she was to look upon And beautiful to know, And all who knew her loved her. There was none to whom she was not tender, Compassionate in her word or her silence; There was none of whom she did not think well. In a quiet room, my head upon her breast, Often have I heard her heart beat, Often have I listened to the voice of her heart, And its speech was the speech of many sorrows. But of her own sorrows she spoke not; She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing; And her speech was silence, Murmur of wind, Mute spaces of sky,— These were her caresses and her healing, And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,— Not separate. She is gone. Remember her if you will! For me she is still everywhere And never to be forgotten! Out of the dawn The fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes; Through the hot day The shadow of her presence revolves upon me As the cool finger on the sun dial; In the afternoon Shaken light burns in the memory of her hair; And at evening All my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her, Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silence And I am come back to my Mother And to sleep. WILLOW POLLEN {9} {10} {11} {12} {13} Fleur de Lys on Lake Champlain, June 3, 1920 The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms, At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes; A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips, Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves. In the willow pollen the bees hum; In the apple bloom the bees hum; Fluttering up like a begging hand The ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf, The thrush its song. O beautiful world, what are you? And who made you? Are you no more than a fragrant dream, A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon, A swaying mirror, Willow pollen, A twirling song, A crumbling leaf? YOU I You are the sunshine, I am the sod: Flame to my leaf-mould, And goldenrod. II You are the shadow, I am the rock: Coolness of sheep bells, Stilling the flock. III You are the starlight, I am the stream: Trees dripping lustre Into our dream. CROSS ROADS I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,— All the festivals of spring your name has lain Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip In the rain? I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,— Every step a song, every song a flight home to you While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day And I pray? I wonder if the heavens know I love you,— Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I Say goodbye? CALENDAR Of a Little Garden on Lake Champlain {14} {15} {16} Sometimes the sun, like a big bee Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom, Dreams over my garden, So still the dust shines on his burning wings. And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star To fill his basket claws with night. Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold, Rubs legs together—I saw him do it— And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose And blood-red columbine,— It’s July then. Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn, Scours it with pollen from his back And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,— Then it’s June. At times he scoops the white crest off a wave Into the basket of his claws— I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy— Then zi-ig! He’s back again Spreading some lilies by the sandy path, White with gold dashed on their lips Where he clings—the big bee—sucking. I know he’s there because the bells ring so: Seven lilies, then five, then four, I count them on their stems, An octave’s length of melody, A little running song of happiness,— It’s August then. But now he’s quiet. Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields, And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him. For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks. Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need, Spreading it in marigolds and frost,— It is September then,—October, too. The bee, the big bee, the burning bee Begins and ends in gold. In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom, He climbs the sky with fagots on his back To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils; And when he leaves my garden for his sleep, Flings daffodils along an evening sky,— It’s May then, and April, too. Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee. Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back. What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes Or a saffron butterfly Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk! I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly About my little garden’s pool, But not for long. He has his mysteries. His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold. Who would not like the change?... I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, I know! WILD GRAPE VINE {17} {18} {19} I will be like a wild grape vine, I will climb the sun gathering color; Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose, Cupped in brown-gold, Dusted with silver. I will cling with my dry stem Until my stem is strong as brown cedar. Then will I swing from tree to tree, Twisting, turning, blowing, Binding all trees with my tendrils, Embracing them, leaping with them, Woven in and out of them, One! And the wild bee shall love me, And the wild bee shall follow me With song! And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk And sweet odor at dawn. And then!—And then Among all beloved trees which can resist me! They will yield themselves to me And I shall swing over the whole world,— Every forest of earth, Every dim place, withdrawn, silent, Every wilderness,— Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose, Beating upon the stars with my gold, Kissing the dawn with my silver, Resting in my brown upon earth, My roots in her, my fruit her being! Wind, Wind, Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,— The wild bee clinging! Wind, Wind, Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,— The wild bee following! Wind, Wind, Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,— The wild bee singing! TO SOME FLOWERS Growing Near a Wall of Portland Harbor What will you bring today? Nod once if it be grave, Nod thrice if it be gay! Primrose with eyes for night, Sweet-peas with wings for flight, Poppies with cups for dew, Love in the midst of rue: Which nods to me? No, you turn your faces all one way Against the wall, Because a wind from off the sea Draws its chill fingers down your cups And bids your petals fall. You do not nod, You beckon neither once nor thrice To me, but to the earth There slips a cover manifold Of every hue. And from the wall beside the sea Curl mist and myriad broken wings. Such gift you give to me! {20} {21} {22} STARS I When joys were vivid I did sit Within a golden field, And there I pulled the whitest stars Green earth can yield. II For Bethlehem those stars were named, The Lord Christ sat with me; And I was little and I leaned Upon His knee. III Now I am old and joys are gone, Christ in this room I find Who brings from distant Bethlehem Stars for His blind. GREEN GOLDEN DOOR Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Fanning the life a man must live, Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, Love and hope that he calleth his, Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin Casting them forth and sucking them in, Green golden door, swing out, swing out! Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Show me the youth that will not die, Tell me the dream that has not waked, Seek me the heart that never ached, Speak me the truth men will not doubt! Green golden door, swing out, swing out! Green golden door, swing in, swing out! Long is the wailing of man’s breath, Short is the wail of death. BREAD I Dear and Unknown, So you shower white porcelain with roses for me, Red roses, white roses, roses of rose, Clipping their stems, Spreading them out in the bowl Till the green leaves net the white water with silver, Glisten with light, Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves, With the breath of their draught of cool water, With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water, Safe in the shadow of night, Tasting the gift of new life. II {22} {23} {24} Once beauty was bread unto me. But now I am gone, rob none for my bread. God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled. Did God give me love? What doubling of petals has ever brought grief? What leaf? In what garden is life crushed always to dreams? Oh, now, what are roses to me, Red roses, white roses and roses of rose? Does God give the roses a soul for their flight? What petals blow on this journey I go? III Dear, my Unknown, Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself! Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose, Once bread unto me; Rain them on pulses that beat, Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom; Give them, I beg you, to one who can see; Feed them, I pray you,— Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,— To men who still hunger for bread! OBSCURITY I Someday I shall be a leaf A shining green leaf, fan-folded, One of many opening in a sunlit wind; Or I shall be a bit of bark, Say on the Poverty Birch— Since I am obscure and poor and short of life And my work of no account to commerce—, And I shall flutter there in the wind, My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin And cross-hatched with lines of color; Or—but I do not know what I shall be And it does not matter. God has made so much that alters beautiful: The jigging shadows of trees Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change; The wind that tramps eternity; The very lava of this universe He turns to frost; Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam And tosses into space the spinning stars. II I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad Remembering their soft dress in spring? Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass? And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem? I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,— They sound so strong for any wind. But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed And I am awkward and ill at ease— Clothes have a way of telling stories Even as the bark of trees will tell Which way the storm winds blow— I remember when I was young And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes, My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves And there were more than I needed; And my hair was soft and thick, With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring; And my body was lithe and vigorous; When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm, The least clearing wind set me free again And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves Shaking the sunlight into dance. {25} {26} {27} III Now I lie awake at night, many nights, Sometimes when I am ill, Sometimes when I am well, And think about money and rents in worn clothes And feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats As if it were my own hunger; And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper And flaps tattered dirty shawls over me, And my thoughts are bent and old And I shiver in the dark trying to bless God. I wonder why God gives Himself to trees And lets old women starve? And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper? And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold As fat beech buds against the frost? Do you suppose God is a Merchant And sells this warm lustre from the stars— Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind— And plans to make a profit from the rich?... I am not an anarchist Except in stars. IV When the dawn comes it brings the crows. Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows! The crow sleeps east but west he blows To pick some carrion that he knows Caw! Caw! Caw! It blows! V I travel East to meet the sun With a gray heron battling up against the wind, Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep, Above the trees that toss the light, Above the rocks that blossom into rose, On towards the sun! It does not matter now how I am clothed; For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts, Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored, Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind, And the lustre on the heron’s breast Is now God and now the Morning Star: I travel East to meet the sun! BROWN MOTHER Brown Mother, Earth Mother, my love does it stir, is it living? Is this seed-time in darkness? It is bleak, and the rain Drums hard on this silence, makes heavy my pain. I am blind yet the wind does search me like eyes that are old. O, my Mother, sweet Mother, through the lengthening night it is cold! Brown Mother, Earth Mother, the swell of your bosom, the scent of your hair, They are life, they are death, two in one to your child, Like the flame of your blossom, the sweep of your wild, Or the primal red mud of life’s sowing. Earth Mother, brown Mother, dear Mother, will the long night be run?... Touch the root to its milk, do you say? Send the sap to the bud, Feel the five-fingered leaf on my bosom, the grass on my lip? Find my bed in the wild? Bear the rose and the lily for child?... O, my Mother, Earth Mother, reach me round with your loving, Fold me in to your heart, base me deep on your breast for this sleep! Then, Mother, sweet Mother, with the clay and the spring I shall wake, Turn my back to the East with its frost and its manacled trees, Turn my face to the West and the blaze of my lover the Sun! {28} {29} {30} {31} {32} SEA GULLS On Leaving Eggemoggin Sea gulls I saw lifting the dawn with rosy feet, Bearing the sunlight on their wings, Dripping the dusk from burnished plumes; And I thought It would be joy to be a sea gull At dusk, at dawn of day, And through long sunlit hours. Sea gulls I saw carrying the night upon their backs, Wide tail spread crescent for the moon and stars— The moon a glowing jelly fish, The stars foam flecks of light; And I thought It would be joy to be a sea gull! How I would dart with them, Strike storm with coral spur, Rip whirling spray of angry tides, Snatch mangled, light-shot offal of the sea,— Torn, tossed and moving terribly; And stare for stare answer those myriad eyes That float and sway, stab, sting and die away! How I would peer from wide cold eyes of fire At dusk, at dawn And through the long daylight Into those coiling depths of sea; Then split the sun, the moon, the stars, With laughter, laughter, laughter, For the sea’s mad power! DRAGON Some saw a dragon eating up the light, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! Some heard a lost bird riding out the night, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! But I saw: A low dark hill with its twisted back, Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail! And I heard: The wind draw out of the west and wail, Dance and stagger and jig and reel With the long low sound of a life in grief! I saw a life in grief Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! Dance and stagger and jig and reel! Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! THE WANDERER {33} {34} Hear the illimitable wind Rush from a desolate sea of space Into the valley’s folded gloom, And smite the branches gibbeted On frosty trees, and lash the woods To moans of age-old agony! Hark! how it leaps upon the roofs Of cottages, to drop whimpering Like some old dog before the door of home; Or pipes through chink and sill, a witless thing. It is the only houseless one, A pensioner of sea and cloud, An outcast in a universe Of night and day, of life and death, An alien, frenzied wanderer,— Homeless, illimitable wind! BLIND SLEEP In dreams have come to stay Earth’s golden bonnet of the day, Her gay attire, The dove wings gray she wore at dawn, The ivory of her cradled breast, Her dusk of plumèd fire, And all her garments of delight. Heavily I grope Step after step, Afar, About this star-illumined sod, Silver with all the slumber of the world, Jewelled with every gem of light, Splintered with frosty air,— And know blind sleep. THE BOWL God said, “For you this bowl is life! Draw near and look! Therein is the bright water of dawn, Night’s silver covering of rain! Therein is dream lying like day,— Topaz with sun upon it! Lithe out of this bowl Shall leap the larch in spring, For this is love,— Green flame of flight to the very tip!” I looked into the bowl, wondering: And night and dawn mingled And sleep stirred And the day turned in its dream, And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip. Then I took the bowl in my two hands, Thanking God. But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more, Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leaves Beaten by frozen wind. There is no rain to soften sleep, No day like topaz in the sun, I see the larch crumble to ash,— My arms grow numb back to the very heart Holding this bowl God gave to me! {35} {36} {37} THE GREAT SILENCE I Magnificent, my Own, Across the City’s crash of sound, Above the marching of her war-shod feet, I hear you call, “I am alone,—alone!” In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat, Echo and tone, “Alone,—I am alone!” II Oh, Splendid One, The stars still hang the City’s night With peace and light! What wars could ever bind The signing of God’s universe in space? You turn your eyes, Burning, ancient, wise, And speak, “All have I seen, Evil and good, All man has been, All man has done,— And I am blind.” But God, I cried ... Then came your moan, Like Pontius Pilate overthrown, “God I have denied!” III Magnificent, my Own, There beyond the City’s sky Are pinnacle and dream, The rushing of a mighty stream, The night-wind’s cry And thunder-harp of pine. “Oh, Christ,” you weep, “They are not mine, They are not mine! I cannot see, I cannot hear, Only I remember year on year Abel and Cain. Yet somewhere in this welter of my pain I keep Memory of another,— those two lost syllables of doom.” “What syllables are they, my Own?” “That word is ‘Brother’!” WHITE HAIR {38} {39} All the warmth has gone out of white hair, It only answers to the wind And lifts and stirs like creeping snow Close to the frozen scalp of earth. It has no gold of autumn grasses Or red of beech buds Or warm brown of tree bark Or depths of quiet In which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night. Has death white hair And the cramped empty shoulders of old age? If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him. But if his touch is the touch of warm rain, If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper, If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlock And his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing, Then I shall go to him gladly, And sleep well.... CLEAR POOLS What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes? What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood? What these cries that stop the ears with their pain? Let us take our love unto God, He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind; How well He knows that love must carry its burden If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars! What are we that we should not know that we are His, And of Him our passion and of Him our tears? His breast is deep and He will fold us there In the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness. Distance from us knows He not nor space, And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself? Are we not one even as we are His? What is that cry? Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters? What is this light that flows like a brook? How well He knows that love must carry its burden, If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars! THESE TWO {40} {41} Sometimes when I am alone at night I put my hand upon my heart; But it matters little to me that these two are one From the deep inflow of the rushing blood Even to the extremity of each living finger Swung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:— This heart and hand that are so wonderful, So joined in life; so fashioned In the beat of pulse And passionate discernment of touch for joy, So separate and yet not to be divided. It is not of them I am thinking When I place my hand on my heart In the lonely night. In its weight Again I feel your head lying on my breast And in its touch the oval of your childlike face. You are wide-eyed once more, With those gray eyes of the sea Full of space and the shadows of birds’ wings And the terror of known depths of human tragedy; You are wide-eyed now Looking into the dark with me, Wondering about the night. I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heart And that we are separated; I cannot understand the use of my own fingers Or the beating of my own pulse; And I take my hand away And lie alone in the dark And suffer. THE RAILROAD STATION A station is a place of miracle: So many trains passing and repassing, So many thoughts coming and going, So many greetings and farewells! Any surprise might happen there: God come and go, Street cries turn to stars, Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole! Thus, in such a place, Love met me once. That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity, And we heard the street cries sing like stars, And we saw God come and go And the dust upon our hair was gold! Now, blinded, I look past all I see: It might happen, Love might be there again! It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven. Who does! Yet so many greetings and farewells,— Anything might happen! Have you not felt that way, And, bewildered, watched; And, longing, waited? BUBBLES {42} {43} {44} How shall I link my thought to yours Through hours that whirl to dust! Fling me some word will keep me close to you, If but a rainbow bubble like our breath, And share with me its swift-revolving dream! See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun! In purple sleep it spins among the stars, Or crimson film it holds the dawn, Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,— One azure word turned kiss! PEDDLED JOY “May I not sell this gewgaw red?” “You must not sell! You cannot buy!” “Not sell my own, my heart?” “You two are one: you may not part,— One peddled joy, you both are dead!” “Must I go hungry all the way?” “You must not beg! You must not cry!” “Not for two bits o’love today?” “Your empty scrip for pillow keep: It brings great gifts,—thirst, sorrow, sleep!” WORK I told my heart that work must be The only aim of life for me. But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!” And wept bitterly. SOMEWHERE TONIGHT On hearing the Evening Bells at Westport-on-Lake Champlain I Somewhere I have heard bells Mellow as the moon: Somewhere they hung and swung, With slender sound they rose Tiptoe with hunger for the sky, Star-pointed with the light of dream; Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,— That was another day, And we were gay! II And now this withered sound’s farewell Swinging like tethered rhyme, Slow-moving, pendulous, A sigh upon the water’s breast, A cloud within the sky! Never again for us, Belovèd, Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,— Somewhere tonight! YOUR SUNLIT WAY I {45} {46} {47} {48}