Three by Maynard II

Poems by Theodore Maynard.

Trees in Early November

Not all things grow more lovely as they die,
   As do these trees. The misty air is chill;
Waiting for Indian Summer in the sky,
   The winds are still.

The yellow maple-leaves, grown weary, fall
   Of their own flimsy weight by twos and threes,
Till there are hardly any leaves at all
   Upon the trees.

May came in tremulous excited shoots:
   Nothing could be more beautiful, we said,
Till June, with February-nourished roots,
   Lifted her head.

Both are surpassed. This filament of lace,
   Thin bronze and gold against the autumn sun,
Recalls an old saint's worn ecstatic face
   Once gazed upon.

What can the winter bring? A sharp, austere
   Etching of iron boughs—unless it be
An ice-storm; then will Paradise shine clear
   On every tree.

In the Wood

Here there is hardly
      A wind at all,
Yet the leaves go whirling
      As they fall.

And as the bough quivers
      The brown leaves start,
And the hands of beauty
      Tug at my heart.

The solemn ant,
      Like the hardy weed,
Brings golden gifts
      To my aching need.

While Autumn burns
      To its splendid close
I steel my heart
      For the Winter's woes.

No sound but a sigh
      The whole wood through;
And I hear such songs
      As I never knew.

Autumn Mist

A heap of burning leaves will do it; firs
   That rain has draped with jewels are more sure:
These never fail. They touch a spring; and stirs
   Within the mind's blind wall a hidden door
   I never knew was there before.

The solid stone swings open; and I pass
   The threshold, yet a little fearfully,
And see a valley sloping down in grass,
   And on the further hills confronting me
   Woods yellowing all their greenery.

But their so visible beauty is as naught
   Compared with what their beauty has unsealed;
And this in turn is nothing to the thought
   That broods delighted on that misty field
   Imagining beauty unrevealed.

For in the valley dimly I discern
   Bright shadows wandering in a veil of mist;
Faint speech comes up in snatches, till I yearn
   To mingle with what here doth still resist
   The consummation of our tryst.

"Alas!" I hear the spectral voices float:
   "Not less than you do we desire to tear
The stammering tissues from your tongue and throat,
   That you may sing; and make this clouded air
   Lucent, that you may find us fair.

"'Tis only by our longing you are drawn
   To your deep longing: at our breathing move
Your quivering senses in the tinge of dawn
   Or when the moon spins mystery in the grove:
   We live in everything you love.

"Yet though you closer come we shall elude
   Your hands; we fade to make you closer come:
Be your frustration your beatitude!"
   The mist grows denser and the voices dumb...
   The door shuts. I am far from home.

Collected Poems (1946), pp. 32, 33, 80f.

See also Three by Maynard: Poems by Theodore Maynard.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Sun. 11/02/03 07:46:40 AM
Categorized as Sunday Poetry Series.