WHENCE comes he ? He is all distraught.
A bramble in his hair is caught,
And there are dreams within his eyes
From regions of the upper skies,
Found in deep forest pools that drowse
Under low interlacing boughs
And for a moment wake to paint
Unreal parallels, when faint
With breath of nectaries blown bare
A wind steals from one knows not where.
In that obscure where he has been
What are the wonders he has seen ?
In steam of marish spots and springs
Touched by the noon, what startled things,
What great eyes glancing through green gloom,
What faces fashioned out of bloom, —
Where creatures of the azure mists
Weave their enchantment, what bright lists
Of airy shapes, and what swift flight
Up the long pencils of the light,
What phantoms turning as they fled ?
What voices lured, what beckoning led ?
Forbid to all but such as he,
They say he read the charactery,
On bark and stem, of mystic runes.
They say he heard forgotten tunes,
Sung when the moons were young, — oh, sweet,
And only broken measures fleet
Homeless till some blest listener hears
The bitter music sealed in tears !
They say he saw sweep over him
Or whirling scarf, or flashing limb,
That something liefer touched his lips
Than honey that the wild bee sips,
That something whispered him all day —
While in a trance of joy he lay
And flower-soft fingers brushed his brow —
The secrets known to no man now.
In some deep dell with mosses lined
They say he left his soul behind.
The chantry tolled beyond the wood
As if from outer solitude.
Softly the day drew down ; and far
As echoes falling from a star
The children called him. And he came, —
And on his face immortal flame.
For the dark wood had held him fast,
The leaves a subtle sorcery cast,
The briers bound him, the wild sprays
Tangled his feet in dear delays,
Tendrils would clasp, and waterfalls
Foam round him, and he broke through walls
Of living amethyst where sun
And haze and distance wrought as one.
And you will know him from the look
Of men by happiness forsook, —
Since he had been that time made free
Of the first court of poesy,
Nor till midsummer’s day return,
And skies are blue and roses burn,
Shall he set foot within those dim
Delightful ranges, nor for him
Those vaporous barriers be stirred —
For he has lost the magic word.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.