Edmma Sosse

LYING IN THE GRASS.

Between two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colors pass.

Before me, dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie,

I seem to move with them in harmony,—

A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep.

The weary butterflies that droop their wings,

The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red,—
Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes;

Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose:
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair,
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

Ah! now the rosy children come to play,

And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear high voices sound from far away.

They know so little why the world is sad,

They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad ; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent extacies;
What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight

A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight;

What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love,
Comes drifting down upon us from above,
In watching how their limbs and features move.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind,

I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,-
A microcosm where all things living are.

And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death
Should come behind and take away my breath,

I should not rise as one who sorroweth ;

For I should pass, but all the world would be

Full of desire and young delight and glee,

And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is flying; in the silver-blue

The young moon shines from her bright window

through:

The mowers are all gone, and I go too.

THE MÆNAD'S GRAVE.

The girl who once, on Lydian heights,
Around the sacred grove of pines,

Would dance through whole tempestuous nights

When no moon shines,

Whose pipe of lotos featly blown

Gave airs as shrill as Cotys' own,

Who crowned with buds of ivy dark,

Three times drained deep with amorous lips

The wine-fed bowl of willow-bark,

With silver tips,

Nor sank, nor ceased, but shouted still

Like some wild wind from hill to hill.

She lies at last where poplars wave
Their sad gray foliage all day long,
The river murmurs near her grave

A soothing song;

Farewell, it saith! Her days have done
With shouting at the set of sun.

TO MY DAUGHTER.

Thou hast the colors of the Spring,
The gold of kingcups triumphing,
The blue of wood-bells wild;
But winter-thoughts thy spirit fill,
And thou art wandering from us still,
Too young to be our child.

Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed,
Thou dear and much desired guest,

That home is near at last;
Long lost in high mysterious lands,
Close by our door thy spirit stands,
Its journey well-nigh past.

Oh sweet bewildered soul, I watch
The fountains of thine eyes, to catch
New fancies bubbling there,
To feel our common light, and lose
The flush of strange ethereal hues
Too dim for us to share!

Fade, cold immortal lights, and make
This creature human for my sake,
Since I am naught but clay;

An angel is too fine a thing
To sit behind my chair and sing,
And cheer my passing day.

I smile, who could not smile, unless
The air of rapt unconsciousness

Passed, with the fading hours;

I joy in every childish sign

That proves the stranger less divine
And much more meekly ours.

I smile, as one by night who seęs, Through mist of newly-budded trees, The clear Orion set,

And knows that soon the dawn will fly In fire across the riven sky,

And gild the woodlands wet.