1
MIRRORS TO NATURE
Introduction
We have here a group of selections that define special relationships between women and the natural world, women who find in that world a reflection of their own lives as well as access to much wider spiritual contexts.
I open this section and the collection with Linda Hogan’s Walking, a contemporary piece that finds in that most simple of activities a connection to all history and time. Because the words move and the images travel, I recommend stillness in the presentation, allowing a clear flow of focus to be traced, leading the audience from landmark to landmark.
As wildly extravagant as Aphra Behn’s picaresque travelogue may seem, it is at least in part autobiographical, she herself having been marooned around 1663 on a plantation in Surinam (four years later, Dutch Guiana) after the death of her father, the Lieutenant-General-designate, on board ship. There is consequently a freshness of color and image in Oroonoko that would be the natural expression of a young European woman’s delight in this brave new world of tropical abundance. “Caesar” is her Indian guide and teacher.
The next four selections are special examples of a kind of nature poem popular among eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women writers, each with a special twist of its own. Mary Howitt’s The Sea Fowler depends on the energy of the rhymed couplets that drive it with the sort of inexorability we might associate with waves and breakers on a wild seacoast. Frances Brooke’s To the Chase . . . also begins with a highly masculine cadence, suggesting the barely controlled violence of a hunting song, but then softens in the third stanza to a gentle plea for mercy. Emily Pfeiffer’s Moth is, by contrast, a perfect miniature, with a special warmth provided by the poet’s very active presence. She is in genuine dialogue with the creature, speaking to it while taking in the message of its life from its activities. As she moves from moth to swallow, and then to Nature at large, the scale of the poem shifts and expands, to end with an indictment of mankind’s relative rigidity. And Jane Carlyle, very much in dialogue with her subject as well, sees in her Swallow a contrast to her own limitations, but only after exhaustive speculation on the bird’s history and motives which draws one completely into that other’s life. To represent Emily Dickinson, a significant number of whose nearly 1,800 poems involve her garden, I’ve chosen Dear March—Comein because it also has the properties of a dialogue, with March, April, and their harbingers intensely present to the speaker. The poem deliciously contrasts the immensity of Nature with the domesticity of backyard conversation. Clarissa Scott Delany, a young Black poet of the first quarter of this century, chooses to find Solace in the full year’s cycle, “the shifting pageant of the seasons.” Her images are simple, even occasionally trite, but when read aloud their familiarity seems actually to add impact, much the way song lyrics may appear overworn and hackneyed on the page, but become intensely moving when sung.
A White Heron places Sylvia, our young heroine, amidst the enormity of all outdoors, as if seen through a telescope, from a great distance. The narrative is fairly straightforward until the end, when the speaker addresses the girl directly. The “wait! wait!” is a completely arresting moment, suddenly bringing the narrator into the story. The author, Sarah Orne Jewett, has been praised for her attention to detail and her ability to turn the familiar into the exceptional. She wrote of her work, “The thing that teases the mind over and over for years and at last gets itself put down rightly on paper, whether little or great it belongs to literature,” a thought that could well be applied to most of the material in this section.
Soge Track’s young girl in The Clearing in the Valley is herself the storyteller, and this more simply structured first person narrative becomes remarkable for its present-tense immediacy, the wealth of personal detail, and the degree to which it communicates the special and constant presence of Nature in Native American life.
Linda Hogan from Walking
Tonight I walk. I am watching the sky. I think of the people who came before me and how they knew the placement of stars in the sky, watched the moving sun long and hard enough to witness how a certain angle of light touched a stone only once a year. Without written records, they knew the gods of every night, the small, fine details of the world around them and of immensity above them.
Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark, considering snow. On the dry, red road, I pass the place of the sunflower, that dark and secret location where creation took place. I wonder if it will return this summer, if it will multiply and move up to the other stand of flowers in a territorial struggle.
It’s winter and there is smoke from the fires. The square, lighted windows of houses are fogging over. It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another.
Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.
Aphra Behn from Oroonoko
My stay was to be short in that country; because my father dy’d at sea, and never arriv’d to possess the honour design’d him (which was Lieutenant-General of six and thirty islands, besides the continent of Surinam), nor the advantages he hop’d to reap by them: so that though we were oblig’d to continue on our voyage, we did not intend to stay upon the place. Though, in a word, I must say thus much of it; that certainly had His late Majesty, of sacred memory, but seen and known what a vast and charming world he had been master of in that continent, he would never have parted so easily with it to the Dutch. ‘Tis a continent whose vast extent was never yet known, and may contain more noble earth than all the universe beside; for, they say, it reaches from east to west one way as far as China, and another to Peru: it affords all things both for beauty and use; ’tis there eternal spring, always the very months of April, May, and June; the shades are perpetual, the trees bearing at once all degrees of leaves and fruit, from blooming buds to ripe autumn: groves of oranges, lemons, citrons, figs, nutmegs, and noble aromaticks, continually bearing their fragrancies. The trees appearing all like nosegays adorn’d with flowers of different kinds, some are all white, some purple, some scarlet, some blue, some yellow; bearing at the same time ripe fruit, and blooming young, or producing every day new. The very wood of all these trees has an intrinsic value above common timber; for they are, when cut, of different colours, glorious to behold, and bear a price considerable, to inlay withal. Besides this, they yield rich balm, and gums; so that we make our candles of such an aromatick substance, as does not only give a sufficient light, but, as they burn, they cast their perfumes all about. Cedar is the common firing, and all the houses are built with it. The very meat we eat, when set on the table, if it be native, I mean of the country, perfumes the whole room; especially a little beast call’d an armadilly, a thing which I can liken to nothing so well as a rhinoceros; ’tis all in white armour, so jointed, that it moves as well in it, as if it had nothing on: this beast is about the bigness of a pig of six weeks old. But it were endless to give an account of all the divers wonderful and strange things that country affords, and which we took a very great delight to go in search of; tho those adventures are oftentimes fatal, and at least dangerous: but while we had Caesar in our company on these designs, we fear’d no harm, nor suffer’d any.
Mary Botham Howitt The Sea Fowler
The baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea; But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.
The baron hunts the running deer, the fisher nets the brine; But every bird that builds a nest on ocean-cliffs is mine.
Come on then, Jack and Alick, let’s to the sea-rocks bold: I was train’d to take the sea-fowl ere I was five years old.
The wild sea roars, and lashes the granite crags below, And round the misty islets the loud, strong tempests blow.
And let them blow! Roar wind and wave, they shall not me dismay;
I’ve faced the eagle in her nest and snatch’d her young away.
The eagle shall not build her nest, proud bird although she be,
Nor yet the strong-wing’d cormorant, without the leave of me.
The eider-duck has laid her eggs, the tern doth hatch her young,
And the merry gull screams o’er her brood; but all to me belong.
Away, then, in the daylight, and back again ere eve, The eagle could not rear her young, unless I gave her leave.
The baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea; But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.
Frances Moore Brooke To the Chase, to the Chase!
To the chase, to the chase! on the brow of the hill
Let the hounds meet the sweet-breathing morn;
Whilst full to the welkin, their notes clear and shrill,
Join the sound of the heart-cheering horn.
What music celestial! when urging the race
Sweet Echo repeats—“To the chase, to the chase!”
Our pleasure transports us, how gay flies the hour!
Sweet health and quick spirits attend;
Not sweeter when evening convenes to the bower,
And we meet the loved smile of a friend.
See the stag just before us! He starts at the cry:—
He stops—his strength fails—speak, my friends—must he die?
His innocent aspect while standing at bay,
His expression of anguish and pain,
All plead for compassion,—your looks seem to say
Let him bound o’er his forests again.
Quick, release him to dart o‘er the neighboring plain,
Let him live, let him bound o’er his forests again!
Emily Pfeiffer To a Moth that Drinketh of the Ripe October
I
A Moth belated, sun and zephyr-kist,
Trembling about a pale arbutus bell,
Probing to wildering depths its honey’d cell,—
A noonday thief, a downy sensualist!
Not vainly, sprite, thou drawest careless breath,
Strikest ambrosia from the cool-cupp’d flowers,
And flutterest through the soft, uncounted hours,
To drop at last in unawaited death;
Tis something to be glad! and those fine thrills,
Which move thee, to my lip have drawn the smile
Wherewith we look on joy. Drink! drown thine ills,
If ill have any part in thee; erewhile
May the pent force—thy bounded life, set free,
Fill larger sphere with equal ecstasy.
II
With what fine organs art thou dower‘d, frail elf!
Thy harp is pitch’d too high for dull annoy,
Thy life a love-feast, and a silent joy,
As mute and rapt as Passion’s silent self.
I turn from thee, and see the swallow sweep
Like a wing’d will, and the keen-scented hound
That snuffs with rapture at the tainted ground,—
All things that freely course, that swim or leap,—
Then, hearing glad-voic’d creatures men call dumb,
I feel my heart, oft sinking ’neath the weight
Of Nature’s sorrow, lighten at the sum
Of Nature’s joy; its half-unfolded fate
Breathes hope—for all but those beneath the ban
Of the inquisitor and tyrant, man.
Jane Welsh Carlyle To a Swallow Building under Our Eaves
Thou too hast travell’d, little fluttering thing—
Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing
Thou too must rest.
But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell,
I’d give to know why here thou lik’st so well
To build thy nest.
For thou hast pass’d fair places in thy flight;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
And, strange thy taste,
Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye,
Of all the spots for building ’neath the sky,
To choose this waste.
Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse
Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
Felt here secure?
Ah, no! thou need‘st not gold, thou happy one!
Thou know’st it not. Of all God’s creatures, man
Alone is poor.
What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
Marring thine eye
For the world’s loveliness, till thou art grown
A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
Not knowing why?
Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy task
With wing and beak.
A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
At which thou work‘st, brave bird, with might and main,
Nor more need’st seek.
In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
And hast small care
Whether an Eden or a desert be
Thy home, so thou remainst alive, and free
To skim the air.
God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.
I love thee much;
For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I! Oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such!
Emily Dickinson Dear March—Come in
Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right up stairs with me—
I have so much to tell—
I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—till I called
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door—
I will not he pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—
Clarissa Scott Delany Solace
My window opens out into the trees
And in that small space
Of branches and of sky
I see the seasons pass
Behold the tender green
Give way to darker heavier leaves.
The glory of the autumn comes
When steeped in mellow sunlight
The fragile, golden leaves
Against a clear blue sky
Linger in the magic of the afternoon
And then reluctantly break off
And filter down to pave
A street with gold.
Then bare, gray branches
Lift themselves against the
Cold December sky
Sometimes weaving a web
Across the rose and dusk of late sunset
Sometimes against a frail new moon
And one bright star riding
A sky of that dark, living blue
Which comes before the heaviness
Of night descends, or the stars
Have powdered the heavens.
Winds beat against these trees;
The cold, but gentle rain of spring
Touches them lightly
The summer torrents strive
To lash them into a fury
And seek to break them—
But they stand.
My life is fevered
And a restlessness at times
An agony—again a vague
And baffling discontent
Possesses me.
I am thankful for my bit of sky
And trees, and for the shifting
Pageant of the seasons.
Such beauty lays upon the heart
A quiet.
Such eternal change and permanence
Take meaning from all turmoil
And leave serenity
Which knows no pain.
Sarah Orne Jewett from A White Heron
Sylvia’s face was like a pale star, if one had seen it from the ground, when the last thorny bough was past, and she stood trembling and tired but wholly triumphant, high in the treetop. Yes, there was the sea with the dawning sun making a golden dazzle over it, and toward that glorious east flew two hawks with slow-moving pinions. How low they looked in the air from that height when one had only seen them before far up, and dark against the blue sky. Their gray feathers were as soft as moths; they seemed only a little way from the tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too could go flying away among the clouds. Westward, the woodlands and farms reached miles and miles into the distance; here and there were church steeples, and white villages, truly it was a vast and awesome world!
The birds sang louder and louder. At last the sun came up bewilderingly bright. Sylvia could see the white sails of ships out at sea, and the clouds that were purple and rose-colored and yellow at first began to fade away. Where was the white heron’s nest in the sea of green branches, and was this wonderful sight and pageant of the world the only reward for having climbed to such a giddy height? Now look down again, Sylvia, where the green marsh is set among the shining birches and dark hemlocks; there where you saw the white heron once you will see him again; look, look! a white spot of him like a single floating feather comes up from the dead hemlock and grows larger, and rises, and comes close at last, and goes by the landmark pine with steady sweep of wing and outstretched slender neck and crested head. And wait! wait! do not move a foot or a finger, little girl, do not send an arrow of light and consciousness from your two eager eyes, for the heron has perched on a pine bough not far beyond yours, and cries back to his mate on the nest and plumes his feathers for the new day!
Soge Track from The Clearing in the Valley
It is no longer summer at the Pueblo. My favorite tree which stands in back of North Pueblo, the side where I live, is naked. It has been stripped of its clothes, yet it is not embarrassed. A few dull, straw-colored leaves still hold onto dry gray twigs that stick out like crooked fingers, trying their best to claw down the heavens. I know not what kind of tree it is, but it has been there for as long as I can remember. It is so huge, taller than the Pueblo, because when I go after water from the creek I can see my tree, extending its branches to the sky.
The two five-story Pueblos stand dark brown against a slowly clearing blue-gray sky. It is in the dawn as the sun, Our Father, is not yet over our mountain. From where I lie I can hear faint noises of the Pueblo people getting up, and Pueblo creek rippling peacefully through the center of the plaza. This is the beginning of a new day for us. Oh, but so early it starts! It’s so dark yet! But that is our way—be up before the sun so that we may pray as soon as he appears.
I decide to get up. I quickly slip into my one blue-flower printed dress and up the ladder I go. You see, we live on the second story and our way of entering our abode is by way of a trapdoor through the roof. When I reach the top I look around, up, and below me. Oh, such beauty!
Many times I have seen this, but I still get such a feeling that I stand and turn round and round, trying to get my eyes full of this beauty. With my arms stretched out, I yawn.
I stand for a while with my head bent down, my long tangled hair over my face. Suddenly every bit of my body feels warm. With my eyes closed I turn my face toward the east and look. I can see that the heavens have opened a path for our sun. Still looking with eyes half-closed, I pull back my hair from my face, stretch my arms to the sun and take his light into my body.
I say, “My Father, it is the start of another day. For this day, I ask for good thoughts.”
