The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning

From many morning-glories

That in an hour will fade,

From many pansy buds

Gathered in the shade,

From lily of the valley

And dandelion buds,

From fiery poppy-buds

Are the Wings of the Morning made.

These, the Wings of the Morning,

An Indian Maiden wove,

Intertwining subtilely

Wands from a willow grove

Beside the Sangamon —

Rude stream of Dreamland Town.

She bound them to my shoulders

With fingers golden-brown.

The wings were part of me;

The willow-wands were hot.

Pulses from my heart

Healed each bruise and spot

Of the morning-glory buds,

Beginning to unfold

Beneath her burning song of suns untold.

“To the farthest star of all,

Go, make a moment's raid.

To the west — escape the earth

Before your pennons fade!

West! west! o'ertake the night

That flees the morning sun.

There's a path between the stars —

A black and silent one.

O tremble when you near

The smallest star that sings:

Only the farthest star

Is cool for willow wings.

“There's a sky within the west —

There's a sky beyond the skies

Where only one star shines —

The Star of Laughing Bells —

In Chaos-land it lies;

Cold as morning-dew,

A gray and tiny boat

Moored on Chaos-shore,

Where nothing else can float

But the Wings of the Morning strong

And the lilt of laughing song

From many a ruddy throat:

“For the Tree of Laughing Bells

Grew from a bleeding seed

Planted mid enchantment

Played on a harp and reed:

Darkness was the harp —

Chaos-wind the reed;

The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red —

The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead.

Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree

Fell to-day at a blast from the reed.

Bring a fallen bell to me.

Go!” the maiden said.

“For the bell will quench our memory,

Our hope,

Our borrowed sorrow;

We will have no thirst for yesterday,

No thought for to-morrow.”

A thousand times ten thousand times

More swift than the sun's swift light

Were the Morning Wings in their flight

On — On —

West of the Universe,

Thro’ the West

To Chaos-night.

How the red bells rang

As I neared the Chaos-shore!

As I flew across to the end of the West

The young bells rang and rang

Above the Chaos roar,

And the Wings of the Morning

Beat in tune

And bore me like a bird along —

And the nearing star turned to a moon —

Gray moon, with a brow of red —

Gray moon with a golden song.

Like a diver after pearls

I plunged to that stifling floor.

It was wide as a giant's wheat-field

An icy, wind-washed shore.

O laughing, proud, but trembling star!

O wind that wounded sore!

On —

Thro’ the gleaming gray

I ran to the storm and clang —

To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed —

And scattered bells like autumn leaves.

How the red bells rang!

My breath within my breast

Was held like a diver's breath —

The leaves were tangled locks of gray —

The boughs of the tree were white and gray,

Shaped like scythes of Death.

The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway —

Sway like scythes of Death.

But it was beautiful!

I knew that all was well.

A thousand bells from a thousand boughs

Each moment bloomed and fell.

On the hill of the wind-swept tree

There were no bells asleep;

They sang beneath my trailing wings

Like rivers sweet and steep.

Deep rock-clefts before my feet

Mighty chimes did keep

And little choirs did keep.

Honeyed, small and fair,

Like flowers, in flowery lands —

Like little maidens’ hands —

Two bells fell in my hair,

Two bells caressed my hair.

I pressed them to my purple lips

In the strangling Chaos-air.

On desperate wings and strong,

Two bells within my breast,

I breathed again, I breathed again —

West of the Universe —

West of the skies of the West.

Into the black toward home,

And never a star in sight,

By Faith that is blind I took my way

With my two bosomed blossoms gay

Till a speck in the East was the Milky way:

Till starlit was the night.

And the bells had quenched all memory —

All hope —

All borrowed sorrow:

I had no thirst for yesterday,

No thought for to-morrow.

Like hearts within my breast

The bells would throb to me

And drown the siren stars

That sang enticingly;

My heart became a bell —

Three bells were in my breast,

Three hearts to comfort me.

We reached the daytime happily —

We reached the earth with glee.

In an hour, in an hour it was done!

The wings in their morning flight

Were a thousand times ten thousand times

More swift than beams of light.

I panted in the grassy wood;

I kissed the Indian Maid

As she took my wings from me:

With all the grace I could

I gave two throbbing bells to her

From the foot of the Laughing Tree.

And one she pressed to her golden breast

And one, gave back to me.

From Lilies of the valley —

See them fade.

From poppy-blooms all frayed,

From dandelions gray with care,

From pansy-faces, worn and torn,

From morning-glories —

See them fade —

From all things fragile, faint and fair

Are the Wings of the Morning made!