I

Swift April ardors bring the white of May,
May merges into leafy June, and all
Mid splendors of full summer gild the day
And make the night an odorous festival
'Twixt star and sod; and yet, how wan the cheer,
I miss thee, Arthur, thou no more art here
To taste the beauty, laud the crescent year.

II

Strange is thine absence, since no son of man
Felt deeplier in his blood the summer lure;
Nor sang more sweetly, while the caravan
Of months passed stately by, nor was so sure
To list shy sounds, to smell the hidden flowers
And rediscover earth's reluctant bowers.

III

Yea, strange and sad. No thrush that flutes alone
Amidst the thicket but reminds of thee,
As, silver sweet and shy, he makes his moan;
No single bloom midst garden pageantry
But doth declare thee to my musing mind:
The presence gone, thy semblance left behind.

IV

In this thou livest and shalt ever live:
Of all the beauty of the breathing days
Thou art inextricably a part, dost give
An added loveliness, a new amaze;
Mine in the meadows, mine beside the leas,
Mine when I meet (since thou art part of these)
The splendor of the sunsets and the seas!

*****

V

Were spring and summer half so fair, if first
They came into a world that knew them not?
Should we receive as now the thrilling burst
Of bud and bird-song, if each vernal spot
Had never known the resurrection bliss?
Is not our love of summer made up of this
Welcoming the old friend that summer is?

VI

And so with thee, — the beauty and the joy
Were never half to me so holy-deep
As since that thou art vanished, comrade, boy,
Dear singer, singing yet, although asleep.
I see all through thine eyes, I feel thee by,
I know that Memory will not let thee die.

*****

VII

Hark! 'Tis the river-lay beyond the hill.
How often when we flee the city-spell
And gleeful turn to Nature, thence to fill
Our souls with peace and joyance, and to quell
The strife, we recognize old mother earth
As calling, calling to us in tender mirth;
How long-withholden secrets come to birth!

*****

VIII

Arthur, thy winsomeness of mood and mien,
Now treasured up in hearts that still are strong,
Must gradually, as fade the leaves, I ween,
Pass with those hearts the fleeting years along:
But oh, thy golden words! they still shall claim
Long life and honor and a singing fame!

IX

Thy golden words! Nay, silver were they too;
Betimes, like sounding brass they summoned us;
Again, with dulcet pleading, pierced us through
Whenso the hour was soft and amorous;
Or yet again, with pomp and purple pride
They seemed to open up down vistas wide
All ancient glories that have lived and died!

*****

X

What pride in chanting hath a forest bird?
Doth any sunset with most spangled dress
Greeting the morning, speak a haughty word?
Is not all Nature one in humbleness?
So wert thou humble, priest of beauty, dead
Untimely, leaving us discomforted.

*****

XI

There is companionship too close for speech:
Wordless communion is the best, meseems;
Such is betwixt us, and our spirits reach
To touch and mingle, waking or in dreams:
The union deepens, even as skies at eve
Grow mellow when the garish day-things leave.

XII

The green of marshes hath another hue
From that of inland meadows, and the scent,
Salt of the sea and pungent, interblent
With memories of sails upon the blue,
Comes from another world from that of hay
After June mowing; more unlike than they
Life seems, companion mine, with thee away.

*****

XIII

I hardly know if sorrow or content
Have mastery as I brood upon thy loss:
Such comforting large thoughts are someway blent
With haunting pain; the shadow of a cross
Is all uplit with radiance, and a voice
Weeping, becomes a voice that doth rejoice,
Although it wots not it hath made the choice.

*****

XIV

The bronze magnificence of autumn woke
In thee an ecstasy that rivaled spring;
It seemed as if some pent-up rapture broke
All bounds, when regal summer, on the wing,
Paused momently to hover, and became
A miracle of slumber and of flame.

XV

Then wert thou fain to weave on wonder looms
Utterance of joy, stretching out eager hands
To May and to October, apple blooms
Fellowing with asters, in such cunning strands
Of woven fairness, that two-fold delight
Was in the pattern of such colors dight.

XVI

There came an eve whose colors, like dim strains
Of old forgotten music, softly stole
Into the sundown skies; the subtle stains
Of gray and pink and russet made a whole
Harmonious utterly; which faded slow
Into the mist-and-gold of night, and lo,
Even the stars were muffled in their glow!

XVII

Then felt I need of thee to share the sight:
It was too delicate to win the praise
Of many easy-moved to quick delight
In obvious skies that follow usual days;
But this, so marvelous in mood and tone,
This afterglow seemed meant for us alone.

XVIII

Alas, the summer waits thee! All her shows
Heaped up and heavenly proffer thee their boon,
And yet in vain the great procession goes;
Its chronicler no more beneath the moon,
Nor when the noon is high, walks as of yore:
Thy passing hath bereaved both sea and shore,
The very sea seems silent evermore!