| |
| OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, | |
| Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, | |
| Out of the Ninth-month midnight, | |
| Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot, | |
| Down from the showered halo, | 5 |
| Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive, | |
| Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, | |
| From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, | |
| From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, | |
| From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears, | 10 |
| From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist, | |
| From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease, | |
| From the myriad thence-aroused words, | |
| From the word stronger and more delicious than any, | |
| From such as now they start the scene revisiting, | 15 |
| As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, | |
| Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, | |
| A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, | |
| Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, | |
| I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, | 20 |
| Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them, | |
| A reminiscence sing. | |
| |
| Once Paumanok, | |
| When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing, | |
| Up this seashore in some briers, | 25 |
| Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, | |
| And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, | |
| And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, | |
| And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, | |
| And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, | 30 |
| Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. | |
| |
| Shine! shine! shine! | |
| Pour down your warmth, great sun! | |
| While we bask, we two together. | |
| |
| Two together! | 35 |
| Winds blow south, or winds blow north, | |
| Day come white, or night come black, | |
| Home, or rivers and mountains from home, | |
| Singing all time, minding no time, | |
| While we two keep together. | 40 |
| |
| Till of a sudden, | |
| Maybe killed, unknown to her mate, | |
| One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, | |
| Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, | |
| Nor ever appeared again. | 45 |
| And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, | |
| And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, | |
| Over the hoarse surging of the sea, | |
| Or flitting from brier to brier by day, | |
| I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, | 50 |
| The solitary guest from Alabama. | |
| |
| Blow! blow! blow! | |
| Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok’s shore; | |
| I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. | |
| |
| Yes, when the stars glistened, | 55 |
| All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, | |
| Down almost amid the slapping waves, | |
| Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. | |
| |
| He called on his mate, | |
| He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know. | 60 |
| |
| Yes, my brother, I know,— | |
| The rest might not, but I have treasured every note, | |
| For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding, | |
| Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, | |
| Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, | 65 |
| The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, | |
| I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, | |
| Listened long and long. | |
| |
| Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, | |
| Following you, my brother. | 70 |
| |
| Soothe! soothe! soothe! | |
| Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, | |
| And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, | |
| But my love soothes not me, not me. | |
| |
| Low hangs the moon, it rose late, | 75 |
| It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. | |
| |
| O madly the sea pushes upon the land, | |
| With love, with love. | |
| |
| O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers? | |
| What is that little black thing I see there in the white? | 80 |
| |
| Loud! loud! loud! | |
| Loud I call to you, my love! | |
| |
| High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, | |
| Surely you must know who is here, is here, | |
| You must know who I am, my love. | 85 |
| |
| Low-hanging moon! | |
| What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? | |
| O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! | |
| O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. | |
| |
| Land! land! O land! | 90 |
| Whichever way I turn, O, I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would, | |
| For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. | |
| |
| O rising stars! | |
| Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. | |
| |
| O throat! O trembling throat! | 95 |
| Sound clearer through the atmosphere! | |
| Pierce the woods, the earth, | |
| Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. | |
| |
| Shake out carols! | |
| Solitary here, the night’s carols! | 100 |
| Carols of lonesome love! death’ carols! | |
| Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! | |
| O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! | |
| O reckless despairing carols! | |
| |
| But soft! sink low! | 105 |
| Soft! let me just murmur, | |
| And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea, | |
| For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, | |
| So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, | |
| But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. | 110 |
| |
| Hither, my love! | |
| Here I am! here! | |
| With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you, | |
| This gentle call is for you my love, for you. | |
| |
| Do not be decoyed elsewhere: | 115 |
| That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, | |
| That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray, | |
| Those are the shadows of leaves. | |
| |
| O darkness! O in vain! | |
| O I am very sick and sorrowful. | 120 |
| |
| O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea! | |
| O troubled reflection in the sea! | |
| O throat! O throbbing heart! | |
| And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. | |
| |
| O past! O happy life! O songs of joy! | 125 |
| In the air, in the woods, over fields, | |
| Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! | |
| But my mate no more, no more with me! | |
| We two together no more. | |
| |
| The aria sinking, | 130 |
| All else continuing, the stars shining, | |
| The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, | |
| With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, | |
| On the sands of Paumanok’s shore gray and rustling, | |
| The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching, | 135 |
| The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, | |
| The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, | |
| The aria’s meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, | |
| The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, | |
| The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, | 140 |
| The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying, | |
| To the boy’s soul’s questions sullenly timing, some drown’d secret hissing, | |
| To the outsetting bard. | |
| |
| Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul) | |
| Is it indeed toward you mate you sing? or is it really to me? | 145 |
| For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, now I have heard you, | |
| Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake, | |
| And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, | |
| A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die. | |
| |
| O you singers solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, | 150 |
| O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you, | |
| Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, | |
| Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, | |
| Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night, | |
| By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, | 155 |
| The messenger there aroused, the fire, the sweet hell within, | |
| The unknown want, the destiny of me. | |
| |
| O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere) | |
| O if I am to have so much, let me have more! | |
| |
| A word then, (for I will conquer it) | 160 |
| The word final, superior to all, | |
| Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; | |
| Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? | |
| Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? | |
| |
| Whereto answering, the sea, | 165 |
| Delaying not, hurrying not, | |
| Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, | |
| Lisped to me the low and delicious word death, | |
| And again death, death, death, death, | |
| Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my aroused child’s heart, | 170 |
| But edging near as privately for me, rustling at my feet, | |
| Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over, | |
| Death, death, death, death, death. | |
| |
| Which I do not forget, | |
| But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, | 175 |
| That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach, | |
| With the thousand responsive songs at random, | |
| My own songs awaked from that hour, | |
| And with them the key, the word up from the waves, | |
| The word of the sweetest song and all songs, | 180 |
| That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, | |
| (Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside) | |
| The sea whispered me. | |
| |
