Classic and Contemporary Poetry
METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE, by BAYARD TAYLOR Poet's Biography First Line: As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes Last Line: The spirit of the pine. Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard Subject(s): Dreams; Life; Memory; Moon; Nature; Nightmares | ||||||||
As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes Familiar fields a land of mystery, Where, chill and strange, a ghostly presence wakes In flower, and bush, and tree, -- Another life, the life of Day o'erwhelms; The Past from present consciousness takes hue, And we remember vast and cloudy realms Our feet have wandered through: So, oft, some moonlight of the mind makes dumb The stir of outer thought: wide open seems The gate wherethrough strange sympathies have come, The secret of our dreams; The source of fine impressions, shooting deep Below the failing plummet of the sense; Which strike beyond all Time, and backward sweep Through all intelligence. We touch the lower life of beast and clod, And the long process of the ages see From blind old Chaos, ere the breath of God Moved it to harmony. All outward wisdom yields to that within, Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key; We only feel that we have ever been, And evermore shall be. And thus I know, by memories unfurled In rarer moods, and many a nameless sign, That once in Time, and somewhere in the world, I was a towering Pine, Rooted upon a cape that overhung The entrance to a mountain gorge whereon The wintry shadow of a peak was flung, Long after rise of sun. Behind, the silent snows; and wide below, The rounded hills made level, lessening down To where a river washed with sluggish flow A many-templed town. There did I clutch the granite with firm feet, There shake my boughs above the roaring gulf, When mountain whirlwinds through the passes beat, And howled the mountain wolf. There did I louder sing than all the floods Whirled in white foam above the precipice, And the sharp sleet that stung the naked woods Answer with sullen hiss: But when the peaceful clouds rose white and high On blandest airs that April skies could bring, Through all my fibres thrilled the tender sigh, The sweet unrest of Spring. She, with warm fingers laced in mine, did melt In fragrant balsam my reluctant blood; And with a smart of keen delight I felt The sap in every bud, And tingled through my rough old bark, and fast Pushed out the younger green, that smoothed my tones, When last year's needles to the wind I cast, And shed my scaly cones. I held the eagle till the mountain mist Rolled from the azure paths he came to soar, And like a hunter, on my gnarled wrist The dappled falcon bore. Poised o'er the blue abyss, the morning lark Sang, wheeling near in rapturous carouse; And hart and hind, soft-pacing through the dark, Slept underneath my boughs. Down on the pasture slopes the herdsman lay, And for the flock his birchen trumpet blew; There ruddy children tumbled in their play, And lovers came to woo. And once an army, crowned with triumph, came Out of the hollow bosom of the gorge, With mighty banners in the wind aflame, Borne on a glittering surge Of tossing spears, a flood that homeward rolled, While cymbals timed their steps of victory, And horn and clarion from their throats of gold Sang with a savage glee. I felt the mountain walls below me shake, Vibrant with sound, and through my branches poured The glorious gust: my song thereto did make Magnificent accord. Some blind harmonic instinct pierced the rind Of that slow life which made me straight and high, And I became a harp for every wind, A voice for every sky; When fierce autumnal gales began to blow, Roaring all day in concert hoarse and deep; And then made silent with my weight of snow -- A spectre on the steep; Filled with a whispering gush, like that which flows Through organ-stops, when sank the sun's red disk Beyond the city, and in blackness rose Temple and obelisk; Or breathing soft, as one who sighs in prayer, Mysterious sounds of portent and of might, What time I felt the wandering waves of air Pulsating through the night. And thus for centuries my rhythmic chant Rolled down the gorge, or surged about the hill: Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant, At every season's will. No longer Memory whispers whence arose The doom that tore me from my place of pride: Whether the storms that load the peak with snows, And start the mountain-slide, Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my top, Upwrenched my roots, and o'er the precipice Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong to drop Into the wild abyss; Or whether hands of men, with scornful strength And force from Nature's rugged armory lent, Sawed through my heart and rolled my tumbling length Sheer down the steep descent. All sense departed, with the boughs I wore; And though I moved with mighty gales at strife, A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, And music was my life. Yet still that life awakens, brings again Its airy anthems, resonant and long, Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill my brain With rhythmic sweeps of song. Thence am I made a poet: thence are sprung Those shadowy motions of the soul, that reach Beyond all grasp of Art, -- for which the tongue Is ignorant of speech. And if some wild, full-gathered harmony Roll its unbroken music through my line, There lives and murmurs, faintly though it be, The Spirit of the Pine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VARIATIONS: 14 by CONRAD AIKEN VARIATIONS: 18 by CONRAD AIKEN LIVE IT THROUGH by DAVID IGNATOW A DREAM OF GAMES by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE DREAM OF WAKING by RANDALL JARRELL APOLOGY FOR BAD DREAMS by ROBINSON JEFFERS GIVE YOUR WISH LIGHT by ROBINSON JEFFERS BEDOUIN [LOVE] SONG by BAYARD TAYLOR NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR |
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