Ina Coolbrith

Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! a flower of the fields of air;
A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wings,
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are light as the wind, with every wind astir,
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky.
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?
Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!
...

Love, poised for ready flight,
Ruddy as morning light,
Bright and as brief his stay;
Hope with alluring wing
Fair as the flowers of spring,
Fleeting as they.

Joy, with elusive gleam,
Flitting o'er life's dull stream,
Swift as the tides that run:
Flower that a day endures,
False flight the foot that lures,
Gain that no flight secures,
Lost soon as found!

Thou only, calm of mien,
Waitest, with brow serene,
Soft pinions furled in rest;
Fair as thy lilies are,
Shining, a fixed star,
Blessing and blest.
Me in thy still arms lull,
Presence most beautiful!
Captive my soul, release,
On thy breast undefiled,
Safe from life's tempests wild,
Fold me, a weary child,
Angel of Peace.
...

Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?
Was it the murmer of the meadow brook,
That in and out the reeds and water weeds
Slipped silverly, and on their tremulous keys
Uttered her many melodies? Or voice
Of the far sea, red with the sunset gold,
That sang within her shining shores, and sang
Within the gate, that in the sunset shone
A gate of fire against the outer world?

For, ever as I turned the magic page
Of that old song the old, blind singer sang
Unto the world, when it and song were young—
The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,
Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea-
A mystical, low murmur, tremulous
Upon the wind, came in with musk of rose,
The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smell
Of laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais....

"Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,
Daughters of far-off seas?

Daughters of far-off shores, - bleak, over-blown
With foam of fretful tides, with wail and moan
Of waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beat
Wild, desolate hands above the lonely sands,
Printed no more with pressure of their feet:
That chase no more the light feet flying swift
Up golden sands, nor lift
Foam fingers white unto their garment hem,
And flowing hair of them.

"For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead!
The long hair's gold a dust the wind bloweth
Wherever it may list;
The curvéd lips, that kissed
Heroes and kings of men, a dust that breath,
Nor speech, nor laughter, ever guickeneth;
And all the glory sped
From the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereof
Wrought wonder in their hearts, - desire, and love!
And wrought not any good:
But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood,
And fire and battle-death!
Am I less fair, less fair,
Because that my hands bear
Neither a sword, nor any flaming brand,
To blacken and make desolate my land,
But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs,
And in mine arms a dove!

"Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam
Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mist
Not any sun hath kissed!
Tawny of limb I roam,
The dusks of forests dark within my hair;
The far Yosemite,
For garment and for covering me,
Wove the white foam and mist,
The amber and the rose and amethyst
Of her wild fountains, shaken loose in air.
And I am of the hills and of the sea:
Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calm
With calm of the fair sea, whose billowy gold
Girdles the land whose queen and love I am!
Lo! Am I less than thou,
That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing,
Not any voice doth sing
The beauty of mine eyelids and my brow?
Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways,
And lengths of golden days,
The measure and the music of my praise?

"Ah, what indeed is this
Old land beyond the seas, that ye should miss
For her the grace and majesty of mine?
Are not the fruits and vine
Fair on my hills, and in my vales the roses?
The palm-tree and the pine
Strike hands together under the same skies
In every wind that blows.
What clearer heavens can shine
Above the land whereon the shadow lies
Of her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings,

And lost, evanished gods?
Upon my fresh green sods
No king has walked to curse and desolate:
But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings,
And on ths heights above;
Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs,
And in her arms a dove;
And the great hills are pure, undesecrate,
White with their snows untrod,
And mighty with the presence of their God!

"Harken, how many years
I sat alone, I sat alone and heard
Only the silence stirred
By wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears,
And singing bird that called to singing bird.
Heard but the savage tongue
Of my brown savage children, that among
The hills and valleys chased the buck and doe,
And round the wigwam fires
Chanted wild songs of their wild savage sires,
And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro,
And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo.
Day following upon day,
Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb,
Smooth serpents, swift and slim,
Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bear
Crush through his tangled lair
Of chapparal, upon the startled prey!

"Listen, how I have seen
Flash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine;
Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drain
The mountain's golden vein-
And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again,
Because that ‘now, ' I said, ‘I shall be known!
I shall not set alone;
But reach my hands unto my sister lands!
And they? Will they not turn
Old, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn-
Aye, they will yearn, in sooth,
To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth! '

"What matters though the morn
Redden upon my singing fields of corn!
What matters though the wind's unresting feet
Ripple the vales run with wine,
Ang on these hills of mine
The orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit?
When with nor sound of lute
Nor lyre, doth any singer chant and sing
Me, in my life's fair spring:
The matin song of me in my young day?
But all my lays and mountain to the farther hem
Of sea, and there be none to gather them.

"Lo! I have waited long!
How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb,
Ere its great master come?
Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong,
Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song!


Him a diviner speech
My song-birds wait to teach:
The secrets of the field
My blossoms will not yeld
To other hands than his;
And, lingering for this,
My Laurels lend the glory of their boughs
To crown no narrower brows.
For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth,
And in his eyes, and on his lids thereof,
The light of a great love-
And on his forehead, truth! "...

Was in the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves,
Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked,
And saw the silvery ripples of the brook,
The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees,
And mellow fields of harvest; saw the Gate
Burn in the sunset; the thin thread of mist
Creep white across the Saucelito hills;
Till the day darkened down the ocean rim,
The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais,
And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars.
...

Only a Rose! Waif of a day is it-
So brief a thing, indeed!
Yet all the mystery of life is writ
Within it, could we read.
...

(CALIFORNIA POPPY.)

Thy satin vesture richer is than looms
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings,
Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes
That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,
For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup
Her sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun,
Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
...

The morning-glory, wet with the night rain,
Swinging its sapphire bells against the pane,
Chimes: ‘Wake! The day is here!
Wake, dreamer, to this miracle new-born-
A burst of melody and light devine
Fair as the fair first morn
Wherein God syllabled earth's golden sphere.
Behold thy treasure shine,
A jewel to adorn
Eternity, from countless aeons wrought!
This gift, inestimable, which swift time
Holds out to thee, take thou, and make sublime;
Tomorrow is not, yesterday is not,
Today alone is-and today is thine! '
...

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain.
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss—
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
...

Poet-Astronomer, who night by night
God's star-page scanned, yet failed to read aright,
Where throughout space His alphabet of suns
Spells Life, in inextinguishable light!

For not, if cycling Time might blot the whole
Of that vast scheme from the illuminated scroll,
The Worlds, incalculable, to rayless void,
Could cease of Man the imperishable Soul.

O finite mind that would the infinite
To challenge seek, and measure! Piteous plight!
How happier the bird of lightest wing,
That soars and trusts the Teacher of its flight!

An empty glass upon a broken shrine,
What matters it? The quaffed or unquaffed wine?
See the clear goblet with what nectar brimmed
From fountains inexhaustible, devine!
...

Light of the suns and stars of heaven,
The sweet warm air, and the green earth sod,
And birth and death unto all are given,
Children alike of the selfsame God.
What matters the ebony locks or flaxen,
The skin of snow, or the skin of tan?
Indian, Afric, Mongol, Saxon-
Within are the heart and the soul of Man.
...

For you ‘one little song to sing
That deep within your heart
May live, a sweet and sacred thing
From all the world apart.'

A song? -the rhythmic rapture of
A passion that endures! -
And one, alone, for you? Ah, Love,
When all my songs are yours!
...

I
At Bethlehem
Shepherds, what of the night?
‘Dark, dark and cold;
Snow upon field and fold,
Wind that is fierce and wild!
But over the wastes of white,
Far in the East, and far,
Rises a strange new Star;
Its lusters rest and shine
On the roof of the stabled Kine,
Where, or a dream beguiled,
Was the cry of a new-born child.'

II
After Calvary
Watchers, what of the night?
‘Well! well! all's well!
Behold God's miracle
Of Life and Light!
Lo, He the Crucified,
He, for our sins who died,
Jesus, the Holy Slain,
Lives, lives again!
In the dawn's first glow that gleamed
We have seen Him and adored,
Our Savior, King and Lord!
He has broken the tomb's dread prison-
Christ is risen! Christ is risen! -
And the World is redeemed-redeemed! '

III
After Nineteen Centuries
Brothers, what of the night?
‘Ah! who can say?
We seek, we watch, we pray,
But where is the light?
Still here the sin and shame-
The poor and weak down-trod;
The wrongs that have no name,
The good by evil slain!
The blood-soaked battle-sod,
The cries of "Kill! " and "Slay! "-
The pain, the tears, the cries. . .
O thou White Son of God,
Was all the lesson vain-
In vain the Sacrifice? '
...

(Song)


The night wind in its passing
Sweeps the blossoms of the tree,
And fragrance, like a melody,
Is wafted up to me.

I know not whence, nor whither,
Of fragrance born, of song,
But O, but O, the memories
Tonight that ‘round me throng!
...

Through the still darks, the searchers, from this height,
Vigil the wheeling worlds upon their course;
He, its name-giver, seeking supreme light
Beyond the stars, sought and beheld their source.
...

Clean winds sweep over it,
Blue sky to cover it,
The sun to give it light
And moon and stars of night;
Jeweled the floor is,
Golden the door is,
Hung all with ‘broideries,
Many-hued, many-wise.
Who would not covet,
Who would not love it?

I love it so-
I love it so
I would not care to know
Another space,
Another sphere,
However fair,
However dear,
Or far or near.
Each leaf my lover is,
Each flower a fragrant bliss;
No bird that wings through it,
No voice that sings to it-
Tree-note, bird, water, all-
But holds me thrall.

Yet He who builded,
Fashioned and gilded,
Guards it and tends it,
But only lends it.
Mine for a single day-
A day and night to stay . . .
If it might be always!
...

I grow aweary of my kind-
Its petty aims, its creeds
That cripple mind and soul, and blind
The heart to trust needs;
Aweary of its blatant noise,
Its paltry pomp and show;
Its ignorance of simpler joys
So happier far to know.

I would be comrade to the rills,
To robin, lark and wren-
All tenants of the vales and hills
Afar from haunts of men;
Know note of bough, and note of bird-
His seers-the world-old trees!
What tome, or script. Or spoken word
Teach wisdom like to these?

I would be under God's own roof,
With Nature's fashionings.
And watch the weave of warp and woof
Of all delicious things;
And get acquainted with His skies,
And the great stars therein;
His lesser Folk-the lesser Wise—
My nearer kith and kin.

For they are true; they break no laws-
Clean as in Eden-bowers-
Our kindred named as dumb, because
Their language is not ours;
The humbler kind of fur and fin
And feather, clothed as we
(With all the art that man can win)
May never hope to be.

What quit welcoming! Their ways
Of human fear untaught,
So grateful, with the love and grace
By man almost forgot. . . .
I would go down to the deep woods
And its still depths within,
Find in its healing solitudes
Companionship with Kin.
...

Hark, from the budding boughs that burst of song!
And where the leagues of emerald stretch away,
Out rings the meadow-lark's ecstatic lay,
While the green hills the liquid notes prolong.
The slender callas shine, a saintly throng,
From their broad leaves; and her slim stem upon,
The royal rose unfolds her to the sun.
O gentle March! O turbulent and strong!
The dove, the tiger, in thy changeful mood.
For while the larks sing, and the linnets brood,
Lo! sullen storm-clouds sweep the smiling dome;
And roar of winds; and the mad tempest-wrath
Beats on the blossomed plain, the forest path,
And the vast ocean smites to seething foam.
...

I did not seek for Love, Love came to me...
But now that Love is mine I would not give
One lightest breath of it for all earth, sea,
Air-Heaven, might hold! Not that my soul might live!
...

The World sweeps by! It is the end of Time!
Nay, not the end, for Time can have no end:
A cycle of the illimitable chain
That makes the circle Eternity.
It is the Day foretold: that Judgement Day!
Mountains have melted and the seas exhaled:
The Word, respoken healed the Universe,
And, perfected, the Golden Globe swings on,
See, how the great hills marshal their white peaks!
The forests lift their plumes! Fields laugh to flower!
And the vast waters of the firmament
Pour back the mighty seas, void of their dead!
‘Tis Earth reborn; Eden re-blossoming;
Life conquering Death-A new Dawn quickening Space.

I, only-I, who am that Lucifer-
‘Star of the Morning, ' once-once Lucifer,
Of all God's sons bright and most beautiful'-
I vanquished, lost, without His Heaven stand,
Without the Earth He framed, and named so fair;
That golden Earth into its orbit swung
Beheld beside Him in Cretion's morn-
I, Lucifer, who knew its perfect ways,
The Serpent I, within the Paradise
By me deflowered, through me outcast and lost.
But yet I failed! O blessed that I failed!
In that He failed not in the love that gave
The Love that died to save! Joy, that I failed!
The one sole joy illuminating all
The deeps on deeps of my supremest Hell.
For this I thank Thee, Father! -that I failed.

And I-That He bow down and worship me
My Kingdom offered-I! my Kingdom, I,
The arch-usurper! -never Kingdom mine,
But His, ten-million-fold! His who redeemed,
And right of Love, All King, All Conqueror!

Now to my bondage! Bound a thousand years!
Fit Thou the sin with juster punishment!
Make it the eons-freedom nevermore.
And what the bonds? Chains, fetters, gives and gyres?
Walls that unclose not, and the weight of the worlds?
Ah, lighter these than breath of Eden-air!
Than petals of its roses softer far!
The least slight cry of Thy least creature, God,
Voicing its pain, outweighs, outbinds them all-
Bonds not the hosts of all Thy heaven could break.

Yet-grant me one last ray of my lost Star-
My Star! my Star! my Star, Thou God, my Star! -
Before the darkness whelm and cover me.
Stand forth, my Angels and Archangels, mine,
Once glorious host, so fallen, so wronged through me-
Yet not so wronged as I by Lucifer,
Mad with the supreme crime, the lust of power.
Mercy, Jehovah! Mercy, Thou, for these!
Their pardon-mine alone the punishment!
Is there an anguish deeper? make it mine! ...
Aye! -unto this I bow, this last, supreme-
His tender smile! His Love-my Brother, Christ!
...

O Mother Earth, how couldst thou let him go?
Thy son, whose every touch was a caress
To blossom into all of loveliness-
This gentle son of thine who loved thee so!
Who lived a gospel humblest souls but know,
And voiced his faith in deeds that live and bless.
Lo, all the treasure of thy veins were less
Than this, the gold such Alchemist may show

Thou wert almost a heaven beyond compare
To him, wherein he witnessed everywhere
The Maker's handwork; in each path he trod
And followed with his labor, like to prayer,
What soul has walked within a way more fair? -
A cleaner pathway to a surer God?
...

His was the lowliest lot of all
That fell to mortal birth:
A Babe within a manager laid,
Nor gold nor treasure worth;
With feet to tread the path of pain,
But not the ways of mirth;
A cross to bear, the thorns to wear-
The King of all the earth!
...