Musings of a Pre-Raphaelite Painter

HIGH in the trees
He balances —
Gay-hearted oriole! Fluttering down
Willful and leaf-light with leaves that drift,
Now clear in a rift
Of branch-fringed sky,
Now dim on the brown
Of russet bark —
And hark!
Rare and shy
His notes begin,
First sweet and thin,
Held to a rippling swell that ebbs again —
O for the wax that dulled the sirens’ strain !
Birds and a tree-top ! Such a combination
Leaves far too much to the imagination.

Here are my colors : how one’s thoughts run riot
When any noise disturbs the woodland quiet !
— What silver-gray of lichens — tiny trees
That branch and fork like any forest brother ;
Moist green of mosses ; deep soft velvets, these,
Tipped with a jester’s cap and bells of coral ;
And one that grows supine; red-cupped, another :
A creamy tassel fallen from the sorrel :
A spreading fungus, colored orange, gold,
Saffron, all shades of yellow, metal-cold,
Or warm with shifting sunlight — what a study
Beside the toadstool pulp that quivers ruddy !

Another strain!
Up, up he’s borne upon his own refrain !
Rollicking tree-tops
Nodding together,
Gladness of bird-song,

Blue-skied fair weather !
What if the day stops ?
Days are so long !
Under the warm shades
Gay fancies throng.
What if the day fades ?
After a night
Tree-tops and bird-song
Welcome the light —
Rollicking tree-tops
Nodding together,
Gladness of bird-song,
Blue-skied fair weather !

He’s gone ! Oh what a flight, imagination !
Now to my moss and its configuration.