In the Twilight

MEN say the sullen instrument
That, from the Master’s bow,
With pangs of joy or woe,
Feels music’s soul through every fibre sent,
Whispers the ravished strings
More than he knew or meant.
Old summers in its memory glow ;
The secrets of the wind it sings ;
It hears the April-loosened springs,
And mixes with its mood
All it learned when it stood
In the murmurous pine-wood
Long ago !
The magical moonlight then
Steeped every bough and cone ;
The roar of the brook in the glen
Came dim from the distance blown;
The wind through its glooms sang low,
And it swayed to and fro,
Full of dreams, as it stood
In the wonderful wood
Long ago !
O my life, have we not had seasons
That only said live and rejoice ?
That asked not for causes and reasons,
But made us all feeling and voice ?
When we went with the winds in their blowing,
When nature and we were peers,
And our days seemed to share in the flowing
Of the inexhaustible years ?
Have we not from the earth drawn juices
Too fine for Earth’s sordid uses ?
Have I heard, have I seen,
All I feel and I know ?
Doth my heart overween ?
Or could it have been
Long ago ?
Sometimes a breath floats by me,
An odor from dreamland sent,
That makes the ghost seem nigh me
Of a splendor that came and went,—
Of a life lived somewhere, I know not
In what diviner sphere,—
Of memories that stay not and go not,
Like music heard once by an ear
That cannot forget or reclaim it,—
A something so shy, it would shame it
To make it a show,
A something too vague, could I name it,
For others to know,
As if I had lived it or dreamed it,
As if I had acted or schemed it,
Long ago !
And yet, could I live it over,
This life that stirs in my brain,
Could I be both maiden and lover,
Moon and tide, bee and clover,
As I seem to have been, once again, —
Could I but speak it and show it,
This pleasure more sharp than pain,
That baffles and lures me so, —
The world should not lack a poet
Such as it had in the ages glad
Long ago !