Henry Beers - The Two Twilights

The muses ring my bell and run away.
I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen:
You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay;
And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean.
When I was young you used to come and stay,
But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen
What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day!
How many a summer evening have ye been
Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing
And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark
Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound
Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring;
And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark
Where from my threshold sank the vale profound.

So late and long the shadows lie
Under the quadrangle wall:
From such a narrow strip of sky
So scant an hour the sunbeams fall,
They hardly come to touch at all
This cool, sequestered corner where,
Beside the chapel belfry tall,
I cultivate my small parterre.

Poor, sickly blooms of Academe,
Recluses of the college close,
Whose nun-like pallor would beseem
The violet better than the rose:
There's not a bud among you blows
With scent or hue to lure the bee:
Only the thorn that on you grows —
Only the thorn grows hardily.

Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon
The way to blush? Do you forget
How once, beneath the enamored moon,
You climbed against the parapet,
To touch the breast of Juliet
Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear,
In gardens of the Capulet,
Far south, my flowers, not here – not here?

Whither do ye blow?
For now the moon is low.
Whence is it that ye come,
And where is it ye go?
All night the air was still,
The crickets' song was shrill;
But now there runs a hum
And rustling through the trees.
A breath of coolness wakes,
As on Canadian lakes,
And on Atlantic seas,
And each high Alpine lawn
Begin the winds of dawn.

I would not be
A voyager on the windy seas:
More sweet to me
This bank where crickets chirp, and bees
Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.

I would not bide
On lonely heights where shepherds dwell.
At twilight tide
The sounds that from the valley swell,
Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,
Are sweeter far
Than music of cold mountain rills.
The evening star
Wakes love and song below, but chills
With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.

I would not woo
Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.
Soft eyes of blue
And sudden blushes unaware
Do net my heart in silken snare.

I do not love
The eyrie, but low woodland nest
Of cushat dove:
Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest
And sleep in grassy meadow's breast.

As I lay yonder in tall grass
A drunken bumble-bee went past
Delirious with honey toddy.
The golden sash about his body
Could scarce keep in his swollen belly
Distent with honey-suckle jelly.
Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine
Had filled his soul with song divine;
Deep had he drunk the warm night through:
His hairy thighs were wet with dew.
Full many an antic he had played
While the world went round through sleep and shade.
Oft had he lit with thirsty lip
Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip,
When on smooth petals he would slip
Or over tangled stamens trip,
And headlong in the pollen rolled,
Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold.
Or else his heavy feet would stumble
Against some bud and down he'd tumble
Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble
In low, soft bass – poor maudlin bumble!
With tipsy hum on sleepy wing
He buzzed a glee – a bacchic thing
Which, wandering strangely in the moon,
He learned from grigs that sing in June,
Unknown to sober bees who dwell
Through the dark hours in waxen cell.
When south wind floated him away
The music of the summer day
Lost something: sure it was a pain
To miss that dainty star-light strain.

Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour
White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake
All rose and sank upon the lifting swell
That swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped
Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves.
And when the sun from western gates of day
Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame,
So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed
Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers,
When garden-walks lie dark with early shade.
That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed
With liquid glory till they overflowed
And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out,
That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its waves
In tints of violet and ruby blooms.
But when the flashing gem that lit the day
Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills,
The rainbow paintings faded from the mere,
The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed,
While, paling slow through tender amber hues,
The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white,
And wanly shivered in the evening breeze.
When twilight closed – when earliest dew-drops fell
All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts,
They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink,
When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarms
The untrod wildness of their virgin breasts;
Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low
Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave,
They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep.
But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn,
Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole,
Across the silent lake, the winding shores,
The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes,
The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed,
And dusky woodlands where the night came down.

An open door and door-steps wide,
With pillared vines on either side,
And terraced flowers, stair over stair,
Standing in pots of earthenware
Where stiff processions filed around —
Black on the smooth, sienna ground.
Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there
Which, in the moisty hot-house air,
Lay winter long in patient rows,
Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows:
Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems
In bunches on their reed-like stems;
Their fragrance forced by art too soon
To mingle with the sweets of June.
(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals
From ashes of the gilt pastilles,
Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings,
In dim saloons of eastern kings.)
I saw the calla's arching cup
With yellow spadix standing up,
Its liquid scents to stir and mix —
The goldenest of toddy-sticks;
Roses and purple fuchsia drops;
Camellias, which the gardener crops
To make the sickening wreaths that lie
On coffins when our loved ones die.
These all and many more were there;