The Poems of Celia Thaxter

Front matter

Appledore Edition

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Preface

In this new edition of the collected writings of Celia Thaxter, great care has been taken to keep to her own arrangement and to the order in which the poems were originally published. In this way they seem to make something like a journal of her daily life and thought, and to mark the constantly increasing power of observation which was so marked a trait in her character. As her eyes grew quicker to see the blooming of flowers and the flight of birds, the turn of the waves as they broke on the rocks of Appledore, so the eyes of her spirit read more and more clearly the inward significance of things, the mysterious sorrows and joys of human life. In the earliest of her poems there is much to be found of that strange insight and anticipation of experience which comes with such gifts of nature and gifts for writing as hers, but as life went on it seemed as if Sorrow were visible to her eyes, a shrouded figure walking in the daylight. was often true to the sad vision of her imagination, yet she oftenest came hand in hand with some invisible dancing Joy to a friend's door.

Through the long list of these brief poems (beginning in the earliest book with and follow- ing through the volumes called and ; all reprinted here with some later verses found together among her papers), one walks side by side in intimate companionship with this sometimes sad-hearted but sincerely glad and happy woman and poet, and knows the springs of her life and the power of her great love and hope. In another volume all her delightful verses and stories for children have been gathered; but one poem, , seemed to belong to one book as much as to the other, and this has been reprinted in both.

In the volume of her will be found the records of Celia Thaxter's life and so far as it could be told the history of her literary work, while some personal notes by the hand of one of her dearest and oldest friends leave little to be said here. Yet those who have known through her writings alone the islands she loved so much, may care to know how, just before she died, she paid, as if with dim foreboding, a last visit to the old familiar places of the tiny world that was so dear to her. Day after day she called those who were with her to walk or sail; once to spend a long afternoon among the high cliffs of Star Island where we sat in the shade behind the old church, and she spoke of the year that she spent in the Gosport parsonage, and went there with us, to find old memories waiting to surprise her in the worn doorways, and ghosts and fancies of her youth tenanting all the an- cient rooms. Once we went to the lighthouse on White Island, where she walked lightly over the rough rocks with wonted feet, and showed us many a trace of her childhood, and sang some quaint old songs, as we sat on the cliff looking seaward, with a touching lovely cadence in her voice, an unforgotten cadence to any one who ever heard her sing. We sat by the Spaniards' graves through a long summer twilight, and she repeated her poem as if its familiar words were new, and we talked of many things as we watched the sea. And on Appledore she showed us all the childish playgrounds dearest to her and to her brothers,—the cupboard in a crevice of rock, the old wells and cellars, the tiny stone-walled enclosures, the worn doorsteps of unremembered houses. We crept under the Sheep rock for shelter out of a sudden gust of rain, we found some of the rarer wild flowers in their secret places. In one of these it thrills me now to remember that she saw a new white flower, strange to her and to the island, which seemed to reach up to her hand. "This never bloomed on Appledore before," she said, and looked at it with grave wonder. "It has not quite bloomed yet," she said, standing before the flower; "I shall come here again;" and then we went our unreturning way up the footpath that led over the ledges, and left the new flower growing in its deep windless hollow on the soft green turf.

It was midsummer, and the bayberry bushes were all a bright and shining green, and we watched a sandpiper, and heard the plaintive cry that begged us not to find and trouble its nest. Under the very rocks and gray ledges, to the far nests of the wild sea birds, her love and knowledge seemed to go. She was made of that very dust, and set about with that sea, islanded indeed in the reserves of her lonely nature with its storms and calmness of high tides, but it seemed as if a little star dust must have been mixed with the ordinary dust of those coasts; there was something bright in her spirit that will forever shine, and light the hearts of those who loved her. It will pass on to a later time in these poems that she wrote of music, of spring and winter, of flowers and birds, and of that northern sea which was her friend and fellow.

S. O. J.

Land-locked

Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee; And, catching gleams of sunset's dying smile, Through the dusk land for many a changing mile The river runneth softly to the sea.

O happy river, could I follow thee! O yearning heart, that never can be still! O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill, Longing for level line of solemn sea!

Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds, Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight, All summer's glory thine from morn till night, And life too full of joy for uttered words.

Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream Deliciously how twilight falls to-night Over the glimmering water, how the light Dies blissfully away, until I seem

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek, To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail And dip of oars, and voices on the gale Afar off, calling low,—my name they speak!

O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave The sad, caressing murmur of the wave That breaks in tender music on the shore.

Off Shore

Rock, little boat, beneath the quiet sky; Only the stars behold us where we lie,— Only the stars and yonder brightening moon.

On the wide sea to-night alone are we; The sweet, bright summer day dies silently, Its glowing sunset will have faded soon.

Rock softly, little boat, the while I mark The far off gliding sails, distinct and dark, Across the west pass steadily and slow.

But on the eastern waters sad, they change And vanish, dream-like, gray, and cold, and strange, And no one knoweth whither they may go.

We care not, we, drifting with wind and tide, While glad waves darken upon either side, Save where the moon sends silver sparkles down,

And yonder slender stream of changing light, Now white, now crimson, tremulously bright, Where dark the lighthouse stands, with fiery crown.

Thick falls the dew, soundless on sea and shore: It shines on little boat and idle oar, Wherever moonbeams touch with tranquil glow.

The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet; They call to me,—incessantly they beat Along the boat from stern to curvèd prow.

Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair, All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware, Murmuring "Thee I love," and passes on.

Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote; Oh could we float forever, little boat, Under the blissful sky drifting alone!

Expectation

Throughout the lonely house the whole day long The wind-harp's fitful music sinks and swells,— A cry of pain, sometimes, or sad and strong, Or faint, like broken peals of silver bells.

Across the little garden comes the breeze, Bows all its cups of flame, and brings to me Its breath of mignonette and bright sweet-peas, With drowsy murmurs from the encircling sea.

In at the open door a crimson drift. Of fluttering, fading woodbine leaves is blown, And through the clambering vine the sunbeams sift, And trembling shadows on the floor are thrown.

I climb the stair, and from the window lean Seeking thy sail, O love, that still delays; Longing to catch its glimmer, searching keen The jealous distance veiled in tender haze.

What care I if the pansies purple be, Or sweet the wind-harp wails through the slow hours; Or that the lulling music of the sea Comes woven with the perfume of the flowers?

Thou comest not! I ponder o'er the leaves, The crimson drift behind the open door: Soon shall we listen to a wind that grieves, Mourning this glad year, dead forevermore.

And, O my love, shall we on some sad day Find joys and hopes low fallen like the leaves, Blown by life's chilly autumn wind away In withered heaps God's eye alone perceives?

Come thou, and save me from my dreary thought! Who dares to question Time, what it may bring? Yet round us lies the radiant summer, fraught With beauty: must we dream of suffering?

Yea, even so. Through this enchanted land, This morning-red of life, we go to meet The tempest in the desert, hand in hand, Along God's paths of pain, that seek his feet.

But this one golden moment,—hold it fast! The light grows long: low in the west the sun, Clear red and glorious, slowly sinks at last, And while I muse, the tranquil day is done.

The land breeze freshens in thy gleaming sail! Across the singing waves the shadows creep: Under the new moon's thread of silver pale, With the first star, thou comest o'er the deep.

The Wreck of the Pocahontas

I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower, For the sun dropped down and the day was dead. They shone like a glorious clustered flower,— Ten golden and five red.

Looking across, where the line of coast Stretched darkly, shrinking away from the sea, The lights sprang out at its edge,—almost They seemed to answer me!

O warning lights! burn bright and clear, Hither the storm comes! Leagues away It moans and thunders low and drear,— Burn till the break of day!

Good-night! I called to the gulls that sailed Slow past me through the evening sky; And my comrades, answering shrilly, hailed Me back with boding cry.

A mournful breeze began to blow; Weird music it drew through the iron bars; The sullen billows boiled below, And dimly peered the stars;

The sails that flecked the ocean floor From east to west leaned low and fled; They knew what came in the distant roar That filled the air with dread!

Flung by a fitful gust, there beat Against the window a dash of rain: Steady as tramp of marching feet Strode on the hurricane.

It smote the waves for a moment still, Level and deadly white for fear; The bare rock shuddered,—an awful thrill Shook even my tower of cheer.

Like all the demons loosed at last, Whistling and shrieking, wild and wide, The mad wind raged, while strong and fast Rolled in the rising tide.

And soon in ponderous showers, the spray, Struck from the granite, reared and sprung And clutched at tower and cottage gray, Where overwhelmed they clung

Half drowning to the naked rock; But still burned on the faithful light, Nor faltered at the tempest's shock, Through all the fearful night.

Was it in vain? That knew not we. We seemed, in that confusion vast Of rushing wind and roaring sea, One point whereon was cast

The whole Atlantic's weight of brine. Heaven help the ship should drift our way! No matter how the light might shine Far on into the day.

When morning dawned, above the din Of gale and breaker boomed a gun! Another! We who sat within Answered with cries each one.

Into each other's eyes with fear We looked through helpless tears, as still, One after one, near and more near, The signals pealed, until

The thick storm seemed to break apart To show us, staggering to her grave, The fated brig. We had no heart To look, for naught could save.

One glimpse of black hull heaving slow, Then closed the mists o'er canvas torn And tangled ropes swept to and fro From masts that raked forlorn.

Weeks after, yet ringed round with spray Our island lay, and none might land; Though blue the waters of the bay Stretched calm on either hand.

And when at last from the distant shore A little boat stole out, to reach Our loneliness, and bring once more Fresh human thought and speech,

We told our tale, and the boatmen cried: "'T was the Pocahontas,—all were lost! For miles along the coast the tide Her shattered timbers tossed."

Then I looked the whole horizon round,— So beautiful the ocean spread About us, o'er those sailors drowned! "Father in heaven," I said,—

A child's grief struggling in my breast,— "Do purposeless thy children meet Such bitter death? How was it best These hearts should cease to beat?

Oh wherefore? Are we naught to Thee? Like senseless weeds that rise and fall Upon thine awful sea, are we No more then, after all?"

And I shut the beauty from my sight, For I thought of the dead that lay below; From the bright air faded the warmth and light, There came a chill like snow.

Then I heard the far-off rote resound, Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled, And a subtile sense of Thought profound Touched me with power untold.

And like a voice eternal spake That wondrous rhythm, and, "Peace, be still!" It murmured, "bow thy head and take Life's rapture and life's ill,

And wait. At last all shall be clear." The long, low, mellow music rose And fell, and soothed my dreaming ear With infinite repose.

Sighing I climbed the lighthouse stair, Half forgetting my grief and pain; And while the day died, sweet and fair, I lit the lamps again.

A Thanksgiving

High on the ledge the wind blows the bayberry bright, Turning the leaves till they shudder and shine in the light; Yellow St. John's-wort and yarrow are nodding their heads, Iris and wild-rose are glowing in purples and reds.

Swift flies the schooner careering beyond o'er the blue; Faint shows the furrow she leaves as she cleaves lightly through; Gay gleams the fluttering flag at her delicate mast; Full swell the sails with the wind that is following fast.

Quail and sandpiper and swallow and sparrow are here: Sweet sound their manifold notes, high and low, far and near; Chorus of musical waters, the rush of the breeze, Steady and strong from the south,—what glad voices are these!

O cup of the wild-rose, curved close to hold odorous dew, What thought do you hide in your heart? I would that I knew!

O beautiful Iris, unfurling your purple and gold, What victory fling you abroad in the flags you unfold?

Sweet may your thought be, red rose, but still sweeter is mine, Close in my heart hidden, clear as your dewdrop divine. Flutter your gonfalons, Iris, the pæan I sing Is for victory better than joy or than beauty can bring.

Into thy calm eyes, O Nature, I look and rejoice; Prayerful, I add my one note to the Infinite voice: As shining and singing and sparkling glides on the glad day, And eastward the swift-rolling planet wheels into the gray.

The Minute-guns

I stood within the little cove, Full of the morning's life and hope, While heavily the eager waves Charged thundering up the rocky slope.

The splendid breakers! How they rushed, All emerald green and flashing white, Tumultuous in the morning sun, With cheer and sparkle and delight!

And freshly blew the fragrant wind, The wild sea wind, across their tops, And caught the spray and flung it far In sweeping showers of glittering drops.

Within the cove all flashed and foamed With many a fleeting rainbow hue; Without, gleamed bright against the sky A tender wavering line of blue,

Where tossed the distant waves, and far Shone silver-white a quiet sail; And overhead the soaring gulls With graceful pinions stemmed the gale.

And all my pulses thrilled with joy, Watching the winds' and waters' strife, With sudden rapture,—and I cried, "Oh, sweet is life! Thank God for life!"

Sailed any cloud across the sky, Marring this glory of the sun's? Over the sea, from distant forts, There came the boom of minute-guns!

War-tidings! Many a brave soul fled, And many a heart the message stuns! I saw no more the joyous waves, I only heard the minute-guns.

Seaward

<>To ——

How long it seems since that mild April night, When, leaning from the window, you and I Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight, The loon's unearthly cry!

Southwest the wind blew, million little waves Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune, But mournful, like the voice of one who raves, That laughter of the loon!

We called to him, while blindly through the haze Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow, So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace, Moored lightly just below.

We called, and lo, he answered! Half in fear We sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay Made melancholy music far and near, Sadly it died away.

That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost! Her canvas catching every wandering beam, Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast She glided like a dream.

Would we were leaning from your window now, Together calling to the eerie loon, The fresh wind blowing care from either brow, This sumptuous night of June!

So many sighs load this sweet inland air, 'T is hard to breathe, nor can we find relief,— However lightly touched we all must share This nobleness of grief.

But sighs are spent before they reach your ear; Vaguely they mingle with the water's rune, No sadder sound salutes you than the clear, Wild laughter of the loon.

Rock Weeds

So bleak these shores, wind-swept and all the year Washed by the wild Atlantic's restless tide, You would not dream that flowers the woods hold dear Amid such desolation dare abide.

Yet when the bitter winter breaks, some day, With soft winds fluttering her garments' hem, Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May, Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem;

Scatters her violets with lavish hands, White, blue, and amber; calls the columbine, Till like clear flame in lonely nooks, gay bands Swinging their scarlet bells, obey the sign;

Makes buttercups and dandelions blaze, And throws in glimmering patches here and there, The little eyebright's pearls, and gently lays The impress of her beauty everywhere.

Later, June bids the sweet wild rose to blow; Wakes from its dream the drowsy pimpernel; Unfolds the bindweed's ivory buds, that glow As delicately blushing as a shell.

Then purple Iris smiles, and hour by hour, The fair procession multiplies; and soon, In clusters creamy white, the elder-flower Waves its broad disk against the rising moon.

O'er quiet beaches shelving to the sea Tall mulleins sway, and thistles; all day long Flows in the wooing water dreamily, With subtile music in its slumberous song.

Herb-robert hears, and princess'-feather bright, And goldthread clasps the little skull-cap blue;

And troops of swallows, gathering for their flight, O'er goldenrod and asters hold review.

The barren island dreams in flowers, while blow The south winds, drawing haze o'er sea and land; Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slow, Makes the frail blossoms vibrate where they stand;

And hints of heavier pulses soon to shake Its mighty breast when summer is no more, And devastating waves sweep on and break, And clasp with girdle white the iron shore.

Close folded, safe within the sheltering seed, Blossom and bell and leafy beauty hide; Nor icy blast, nor bitter spray they heed, But patiently their wondrous change abide.

The heart of God through his creation stirs, We thrill to feel it, trembling as the flowers. That die to live again,—his messengers, To keep faith firm in these sad souls of ours.

The waves of Time may devastate our lives, The frosts of age may check our failing breath, They shall not touch the spirit that survives Triumphant over doubt and pain and death.

The Sandpiper

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,— One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,— One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Twilight

Septemper's slender crescent grows again Distinct in yonder peaceful evening red, Clearer the stars are sparkling overhead, And all the sky is pure, without a stain.

Cool blows the evening wind from out the West And bows the flowers, the last sweet flowers that bloom,— Pale asters, many a heavy-waving plume Of goldenrod that bends as if opprest.

The summer's songs are hushed. Up the lone shore The weary waves wash sadly, and a grief Sounds in the wind, like farewells fond and brief. The cricket's chirp but makes the silence more.

Life's autumn comes; the leaves begin to fall; The moods of spring and summer pass away; The glory and the rapture, day by day, Depart, and soon the quiet grave folds all.

O thoughtful sky, how many eyes in vain Are lifted to your beauty, full of tears! How many hearts go back through all the years, Heavy with loss, eager with questioning pain,

To read the dim Hereafter, to obtain One glimpse beyond the earthly curtain, where Their dearest dwell, where they may be or e'er September's slender crescent shines again!

The Swallow

The swallow twitters about the eaves; Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear; Around her climb the woodbine leaves In a golden atmosphere.

The summer wind sways leaf and spray, That catch and cling to the cool gray wall; The bright sea stretches miles away, And the noon sun shines o'er all.

In the chamber's shadow, quietly, I stand and worship the sky and the leaves, The golden air and the brilliant sea, The swallow at the eaves.

Like a living jewel she sits and sings; Fain would I read her riddle aright, Fain would I know whence her rapture springs, So strong in a thing so slight!

The fine, clear fire of joy that steals Through all my spirit at what I see In the glimpse my window's space reveals,— That seems no mystery!

But scarce for her joy can she utter her song; Yet she knows not the beauty of skies or seas. Is it bliss of living, so sweet and strong? Is it love, which is more than these?

O happy creature! what stirs thee so? A spark of the gladness of God thou art. Why should we seek to find and to know The secret of thy heart?

Before the gates of his mystery Trembling we knock with an eager hand; Silent behind them waiteth He; Not yet may we understand.

But thrilling throughout the universe Throbs the pulse of his mighty will, Till we gain the knowledge of joy or curse In the choice of good or ill.

He looks from the eyes of the little child, And searches souls with their gaze so clear; To the heart some agony makes wild He whispers, "I am here."

He smiles in the face of every flower; In the swallow's twitter of sweet content He speaks, and we follow through every hour The way his deep thought went.

Here should be courage and hope and faith; Naught has escaped the trace of his hand; And a voice in the heart of his silence saith, One day we shall understand.

A Grateful Heart

Last night I stole away alone, to find A mellow crescent setting o'er the sea, And lingered in its light, while over me Blew fitfully the grieving autumn wind.

And somewhat sadly to myself I said, "Summer is gone," and watched how bright and fast Through the moon's track the little waves sped past,— "Summer is gone! her golden days are dead."

Regretfully I thought, "Since I have trod Earth's ways with willing or reluctant feet, Never did season bring me days more sweet, Crowned with rare joys and priceless gifts from God.

"And they are gone: they will return no more. The slender moon went down, all red and still; The stars shone clear, the silent dews fell chill; The waves with ceaseless murmur washed the shore.

A low voice spake: "And wherefore art thou sad? Here in thy heart all summer folded lies, And smiles in sunshine though the sweet time dies: 'T is thine to keep forever fresh and glad!"

Yea, gentle voice, though the fair days depart, And skies grow cold above the restless sea, God's gifts are measureless, and there shall be Eternal summer in the grateful heart.

The Spaniards' Graves

O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you The day you sailed away from sunny Spain? Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew, Melting in tender rain?

Did no one dream of that drear night to be, Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow, When on yon granite point that frets the sea, The ship met her death-blow?

Fifty long years ago these sailors died: (None know how many sleep beneath the waves:) Fourteen gray headstones, rising side by side, Point out their nameless graves,—

Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me, And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry, And sadder winds, and voices of the sea That moans perpetually.

Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain Questioned the distance for the yearning sail, That, leaning landward, should have stretched again White arms wide on the gale,

To bring back their beloved. Year by year, Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed, And lustrous eyes grew dim and age drew near, And hope was dead at last.

Still summer broods o'er that delicious land, Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow: Live any yet of that forsaken band Who loved so long ago?

O Spanish women, over the far seas, Could I but show you where your dead repose! Could I send tidings on this northern breeze That strong and steady blows!

Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet These you have lost, but you can never know One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet With thinking of your woe!

Watching

In childhood's season fair, On many a balmy, moonless summer night, While wheeled the lighthouse arms of dark and bright Far through the humid air;

How patient have I been, Sitting alone, a happy little maid, Waiting to see, careless and unafraid, My father's boat come in;

Close to the water's edge Holding a tiny spark, that he might steer (So dangerous the landing, far and near) Safe past the ragged ledge.

I had no fears,—not one; The wild, wide waste of water leagues around Washed ceaselessly; there was no human sound, And I was all alone.

But Nature was so kind! Like a dear friend I loved the loneliness; My heart rose glad, as at some sweet caress, When passed the wandering wind.

Yet it was joy to hear, From out the darkness, sounds grow clear at last, Of rattling rowlock, and of creaking mast, And voices drawing near!

"Is't thou, dear father? Say!" What well-known shout resounded in reply, As loomed the tall sail, smitten suddenly With the great lighthouse ray!

I will be patient now, Dear Heavenly Father, waiting here for Thee: I know the darkness holds Thee. Shall I be Afraid, when it is Thou?

On thy eternal shore, In pauses, when life's tide is at its prime, I hear the everlasting rote of Time Beating for evermore.

Shall I not then rejoice? Oh, never lost or sad should child of thine Sit waiting, fearing lest there come no sign, No whisper of thy voice!

In May

That was a curlew calling overhead, That fine, clear whistle shaken from the clouds: See! hovering o'er the swamp with wings outspread, He sinks where at its edge in shining crowds The yellow violets dance as they unfold, In the blithe spring wind, all their green and gold.

Blithe south-wind, spreading bloom upon the sea, Drawing about the world this band of haze So softly delicate, and bringing me A touch of balm that like a blessing stays;

Though beauty like a dream bathes sea and land, For the first time Death holds me by the hand.

Yet none the less the swallows weave above Through the bright air a web of light and song, And calling clear and sweet from cove to cove, The sandpiper, the lonely rocks among, Makes wistful music, and the singing sea Sends its strong chorus upward solemnly.