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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14782 ***
+
+ENGLAND OVER SEAS
+
+by
+
+LLOYD ROBERTS
+
+London
+Elkin Mathews, Cork Street
+
+M CM XIV
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+HOPE
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+  ENGLAND'S FIELDS
+  THE MADNESS OF WINDS
+  YOUNG BLOOD
+  THE HOMESTEADER
+  HUSBANDS OVER SEAS
+  THE COUNTRY GOES TO TOWN
+  THE TRAIL FROM NAPOLI
+  THE CHANGING YEAR
+  RUNNERS OF THE RAIN
+  SPRING MADNESS
+  ONE MORNING WHEN THE RAIN-BIRDS CALL
+  SPRING'S SINGING
+  THE FLUTES OF THE FROGS
+  MISS PIXIE
+  A-FISHING
+  THE BERRY PICKERS
+  THE WOOD TRAIL
+  THE FRUIT-RANCHER
+  FROM EXILE
+  THE WARM GREEN SEA
+  THERE'S MUSIC IN MY HEART TO-DAY
+  AUGUST ON THE RIVER
+  THE WIND TONGUES
+  MUSK-RATS
+  THE KILL
+  ON THE MARSHES
+  THE SCARLET TRAILS
+  AT THE YEAR'S END
+  WINTER WINDS
+  DEAD DAYS
+  THE WINTER HARVEST
+  FLOWERS OF THE SKY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+England's Fields
+
+    England's cliffs are white like milk,
+      But England's fields are green;
+    The grey fogs creep across the moors,
+      But warm suns stand between.
+  And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
+  A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.
+
+    Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
+      The hedges are aglow;
+    The daisies climb the windy hills
+      Till all grow white like snow.
+  And when the slim, pale moon slides up, and dreamy night is near,
+  There's a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.
+
+    Poppies burn in Italy,
+      And suns grow round and high;
+    The black pines of Posilipo
+      Are gaunt upon the sky--
+  And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
+  That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.
+
+    Tell me why the meadow-lands
+      Become so warm in June;
+    Why the tangled roses breathe
+      So softly to the moon;
+  And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
+  Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?
+
+    Weary, we have wandered back--
+      And we have travelled far--
+    Above the storms and over seas
+      Gleamed ever one bright star--
+  O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
+  We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round,
+           green fields of home.
+
+
+
+
+The Madness of Winds
+
+  On all the upland pastures the strong winds gallop free,
+    Trampling down the flowered stalks sleepy in the sun,
+  Whirl away in blue and gold all their finery,
+    Till naked crouch the gentle hosts where the winds have run.
+
+  Along the rocking hillsides shaggy heads are bent;
+    Out upon the tawny plains tortured dust leaps high;
+  The red roof of the sunset is torn away and rent,
+    And chaos lifts the heavy sea and bends the hollow sky.
+
+  The winds are drunk with freedom--the crowded valleys roar;
+    The madness surges through their veins, and when they gallop out
+  The black rain follows close behind, the pale sun flees before,
+    And recklessly across the world goes all the broken rout.
+
+  I was striding on the uplands when the host was running mad,
+    I saw them threshing through the leaves and daisy tops below,
+  And as their feet came up the hill, my tired heart grew glad--
+    Till at the music of their throats I knew that I must go.
+
+  So the winds are now my brothers, they have joined me to their ranks,
+    And when their rampant strength wells up and drives them singing forth,
+  I am with them when they roll the fog across the oily banks,
+    And tumble out the sleeping bergs that crowd beyond the north.
+
+  The woods are drenched with moonlight and every leafs awake;
+    The little beads of dew sit white on every twig and blade;
+  A thousand stars are scattered thick beneath the forest lake;
+    We pass--with only laughter for the havoc we have made.
+
+  There's not a wind that brushes the long bright fields of corn,
+    Or, shrieking, drives the broken wreck beneath a blackened sea,
+  There's not a wind that draws the rain across the face of morn
+    That does not rise when I arise and sink again with me.
+
+
+
+
+Young Blood
+
+  They took me from the forests and they put me in the town;
+  They bid me learn the wisdom the wise men have laid down,
+    To put by my childish ways
+    And forget my Golden Days,
+  With my feet upon the ladder that runs up to high renown.
+
+  So I would not hear the voices that were calling day and night,
+  And I would not see the visions that were ever in my sight;
+    But I mingled with the throngs,
+    Heard their curses and their songs,
+  And raised the brimming glass on high to catch the yellow light.
+
+  But I was not meant to wander where the wild things never came,
+  Where the night-time was like day-time and the seasons were the same;
+    Where the city's sullen roar
+    Ever surged against my door,
+  And the only peace was battle and the only goal was fame.
+
+  For my blood pulsed hot within me and the prize seemed wondrous small;
+  And my soul cried out for freedom in a world beyond a wall.
+    Oh, fame can well be sung
+    By those no longer young,
+  By wisdom, age and learning; but youth transcends them all!
+
+  So I'll let the spring of life well up and drown the empty quest;
+  And I'll watch the stars more bright than fame gleam red along the crest;
+    And taste the driving rain
+    Between my lips again,
+  And know that to the blood of youth the open road is best.
+
+  With Spring-time in the woodlands will my pulses stir and thrill;
+  I'll run below the wet young moon where myriad frogs pipe shrill;
+    I'll forget the world of strife,
+    Where fame is more than life;
+  And I'll mate with youth and beauty when the sun is on the hill.
+
+
+
+
+The Homesteader
+
+  Mother England, I am coming, cease your calling for a season,
+    For the plains of wheat need reaping, and the thrasher's at the door.
+  All these long years I have loved you, but you cannot call it treason
+    If I loved my shack of shingles and my little baby more.
+
+  Now my family have departed--for the good Lord took them early--
+    And I turn to thee, O England, as a son that seeks his home.
+  Now younger folk may plough and plant the plains I love so dearly,
+    Whose acres stretch too wide for feet that can no longer roam.
+
+  If the western skies are bluer and the western snows are whiter,
+    And the flowers of the prairie-lands are bright and honey-sweet,
+  'Tis the scent of English primrose makes my weary heart beat lighter
+    As I count the days that part me from your little cobble street.
+
+  For the last time come the reapers (you can hear the knives ring cheery
+    As they pitch the bearded barley in a thousand tents of gold);
+  For I see the cliffs of Devon bulking dark beyond the prairie,
+    And hear the skylarks calling to a heart that's growing old.
+
+  When the chaff-piles cease their burning and the frost is closing over
+    All the barren leagues of stubble that my lonely feet have passed,
+  I shall spike the door and journey towards the Channel lights of Dover--
+    That England may receive my dreams and bury them at last!
+
+
+
+
+Husbands Over Seas
+
+  Each morning they sit down to their little bites of bread,
+    To six warm bowls of porridge and a broken mug or two.
+  And each simple soul is happy and each hungry mouth is fed--
+    Then why should she be smiling as the weary-hearted do?
+
+  All day the house has echoed to their tiny, treble laughter
+    (Six little rose-faced cherubs who trip shouting through the day),
+  Till the candle lights the cradle and runs dark along the rafter--
+    Then why should she be watching while the long night wastes away?
+
+  She tells them how their daddy has sailed out across the seas,
+    And they'll be going after when the May begins to bloom.
+  Oh, they clap their hands together as they cluster round her knees--
+    Then why should she be weeping as they tumble from the room?
+
+  The May has bloomed and withered and the haws are clinging red,
+    The winter winds are talking in the dead ranks of the trees;
+  And still she tells of daddy as she tucks each tot in bed--
+    God pity all dear women who have husbands over seas!
+
+
+
+
+The Country Goes to Town
+
+  The Country walked to Town, and what did she find there?
+  Not a bird nor flower, the trees forsaken were;
+  The folk were walking two-and-two in every lane and street--
+  You scarce could hear your neighbour for the racket of their feet.
+
+  She could not see the sun shine for dust about the sky;
+  She could not hear the winds call, the walls went up so high;
+  And even when the night came to brush aside the day,
+  She found about the city they were driving it away.
+
+  "Then what have you got here?" the Country asked the Town.
+  "There's not a green leaf anywhere, the world is bleak and brown,
+  I haven't seen a red cheek nor heard a woman's laughter;
+  I'm going back to Bird Land, but won't you follow after?"
+
+  The Town rode to the Country, and what did she find there?
+  Just a lot of emptiness, with flowers everywhere.
+  The birds were screaming overhead, the sun was on her face,
+  The fences were untidy, and the brambles a disgrace.
+
+  "Then what have you got here?" the Town cried in her scorn.
+  "I haven't met a four-in-hand nor heard a motor horn.
+  It'll cost a pretty penny to restore my riding clothes,
+  While my beauty is nigh ruined for the freckles on my nose."
+
+  "What have I got here?  Just azure hills and peace,
+  Green moss and green fern on roads that never cease.
+  And if my heart grows weary of such pleasurings as these,
+  There's a baby who comes romping through the nursery of the trees!"
+
+
+
+
+The Trail from Napoli
+
+  From Capo di Sorrento, its poppies and its clover,
+    The headlands of Fosilipo, the wharves of Napoli,
+  A wide blue trail runs westward to the ocean rim and over
+    To where there lies a little town with lights along the sea.
+
+  Here pink and blue the villas crowd beside the yellow sand,
+    And sweet and hot, the scented winds puff sultry to the bay,
+  The shadow of Vesuvius lies gray across the land--
+    And on my heart a loneliness that calls me far away.
+
+  My restless feet are weary of these hills of purple vines,
+    These crooked groves of olive trees that scrawl the crooked lanes
+  The walnuts shoulder weakly round the tall Italian pines,
+    That whisper like the waves of wheat across the yellow plains.
+
+  All day beneath the ruins of Donn' Anna gaunt and black,
+    The boats of fisher-folk go by with song and trailing net;
+  And dim the cloud of Capri where the red feluccas tack--
+    But still the belching funnels smirch the trail I can't forget.
+
+  Virgil's tomb gapes empty where the oranges are bright,
+    Above the Roman corridors that goats and beggars tread;
+  Soft voices and thin music and laughter all the night--
+    I only see a thousand leagues the Channel lights burn red;
+
+  I only hear dear English tongues forever calling me,
+    Across the high white English cliffs and flowers of the foam;
+  I only breathe sweet lilac bloom a-blowing out to sea--
+    A-blowing down the long sea-lanes to lead a lover home!
+
+
+
+
+The Changing Year
+
+  Summer, autumn, winter, spring--
+  Back and forth the seasons swing;
+    Sun and snows returning ever,
+  Like the wild geese on the wing.
+
+  When the clean sap climbs the tree,
+  When the strong winds groan and flee--
+    Dance the daisies on the hill-tops
+  To the thin tune of the bee.
+
+  When the golden noons hang still,
+  Crimson flames run down the hill,
+    And the musk-rats in the bayou
+  Feel the waters growing chill.
+
+  Wood-smoke mists the naked moor;
+  Dead leaves shroud the forest floor;
+    When the white frosts cross the threshold,
+  Summer softly shuts the door.
+
+  Like cold love and empty pain,
+  Fades the sun and drifts the rain.
+    Tips the world and slips the season,
+  Swinging wide the doors again.
+
+
+
+
+Runners of the Rain
+
+  Gaunt and black the naked pines are scrawled across the sky;
+    The wild wet winds are clinging where the hard peaks lift and soar;
+  They watch our long gray hosts of rain forever marching by,
+    While up through all the canyons we send our sullen roar.
+
+  From every sodden meadow we've trodden out the sun;
+    We've ground the pale green stalks of grass
+             that lifted through the hills;
+  Across the yelping torrents a thousand feet have run,
+    Till waters scream in anger and the wide-mouthed valley fills.
+
+  Among the moaning spruces we threshed our heedless way;
+    And out upon the barrens where the lonely spaces hide,
+  We stamped the miles of mosses and blackened out the day,
+    And waked the awful silence where all the winds have died.
+
+  The stars flamed brave before us and the greater light hung still
+    When the white smoke of our breath blew up
+          and drowned the hollow night.
+  We crushed them out beneath our feet and leapt from hill to hill,
+    Till east to east the sweep of space was rocking with our flight.
+
+  The little walls of man uprose like shields beneath our feet;
+    We beat upon their hollow cells a million shafts of rain;
+  Our wild song of freedom was loud in every street,
+    While down along the slimy wharves the great ships lift and strain.
+
+  The dawn pushed pale thin fingers above the flattened sea,
+    Groping blind white fingers that clawed the shroud of night;
+  'Till from the straining eddies the pale forms turned to flee,
+    And a million tongues of madness rose singing through the fight.
+
+  Across the quaking marshes we turned and wandered back;
+    The trapper in the clearing heard the wan thin hosts of rain.
+  We moved between the steaming trails where all the woods dripped black,
+    And high among the empty hills we pitched our tents again.
+
+
+
+
+Spring Madness
+
+  I stoop and tear the sandals from my feet
+  While the green fires glimmer in the gloom;
+  The hot roar of madness
+  Swells my veins with gladness;
+  I smell the rotting wood-stuff
+  And the drift of willow-bloom,
+  And the moon's wet face
+  Lifts above the place
+  Till gaunt and black the shadows are crowding close for room.
+
+  The alder thickets brush against my limbs;
+  The heavy tramp of water shakes the night;
+  I cross the naked hills,
+  Where the thin dawn lifts and fills;
+  All the black woods wail behind me--
+  They cannot stay my flight
+  Till the sun's red stain
+  Dyes the world again
+  And winds beyond the heavens are dancing in the light.
+
+
+
+
+One Morning when the Rain-Birds Call
+
+  The snows have joined the little streams and slid into the sea;
+    The mountain sides are damp and black and steaming in the sun;
+  But Spring, who should be with us now, is waiting timidly
+    For Winter to unbar the gates and let the rivers run.
+
+  It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold,
+    How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough,
+  That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold,
+    And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now.
+
+  For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
+    And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
+  Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
+    And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.
+
+  One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
+    And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
+  The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills--
+    An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,
+
+  Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
+    With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
+  The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
+    And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.
+
+
+
+
+Spring's Singing
+
+    Spring once more is here--
+    Joyous, sweet, and clear--
+  Singing down the leafless aisles
+    To the budding year.
+
+    Her chanting is the thrush
+    Through the twilight hush,
+  And the silver tongues of waters
+    Where the willows blush;
+
+    Stir of lifting heads
+    Over violet beds;
+  Piping of the first glad robin
+    Through the greens and reds;
+
+    Croak of sullen crows
+    When the south wind blows,
+  Sighing in the shaggy spruces
+    Wet with melted snows;
+
+    Whisper of the rain
+    Down the hills again,
+  And the heavy feet of waters
+    Tramping on the plain.
+
+    Now the Goddess Spring
+    Makes the woodlands ring,
+  Bringing with a hundred voices
+    Joy to everything.
+
+
+
+
+The Flutes of the Frogs
+
+  'Tis not the notes of the homing birds through the first warm April rain,
+  Or the scarlet buds and the rising green come back to the land again,
+  That stirs my heart from its winter sleep to pulse to the old refrain;
+
+  But when from the miles of bubbling marsh and
+          the valley's steaming floor,
+  Shrilling keen with a million flutes the ancient spring-time lore,
+  I hear the myriad emerald frogs awake in the world once more.
+
+  All day when the clouds drive overhead and the shadows run below,
+  Crossing the wind-swept pasture lots where the thin, red willows glow,
+  There's not a throat in the joyous host that does not swell and blow.
+
+  And all night long to the march of stars the wild mad music thrills,
+  Voicing the birth of the glad wet spring in a thousand stops and trills,
+  Till the pale sun lifts through the rosy mists
+          and floats from the harbour hills.
+
+
+
+
+Miss Pixie
+
+  _Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Spruces?
+    Did you ever glimpse her mocking elfin face?
+  Did you ever hear her calling while the whip-poor-wills were calling,
+    And slipped your pack and taken up the chase?_
+
+  Her feet are clad in moccasins and beads.
+    Her dress?  Oh, next to nothing.  Though undressed,
+  Her slender arms are circled round with vine
+    And dusky locks cling close about her breast.
+
+  Red berries droop below each pointed ear;
+    Her nut-brown legs are criss-crossed white with scratches;
+  Her merry laughter sifts among the pines;
+    Her eager face gleams pale from milk-weed patches.
+
+  And though I never yet have reached her hand--
+    God knows I've tried with all my heart's desire;--
+  One morning just at dawn she caught me sleeping
+    And with her soft lips touched my soul with fire.
+
+  And once when camping near a foaming rip,
+    Lying wide-eyed beneath the milky stars,
+  Sudden I heard her voice ring sweet and clear,
+    Calling my soul beyond the river bars.
+
+  Dear, dancing Pixie of the wind and weather,
+    Aglow with love and merriment and sun,
+  I chase thee down my dreams, but catch thee never--
+    God grant I catch thee ere the trail is done!
+
+  _Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Thickets,
+    Where the scarlet leaves leap tinkling from your feet?
+  Have you ever heard her calling while a million feet were falling,
+    And a million lights were crowding all the street?_
+
+
+
+
+A-Fishing
+
+  Now is the time for the luring fly
+  Spring is awake and the waters high,
+  Hackle and Doctor and Montreal,
+  Bend to your cast that a king may die.
+
+  Armed with a gaff and a clicking reel,
+  High jack-boots and an empty creel,
+  A yard of gut, a split bamboo,
+  Beginner's luck and a fisherman's zeal.
+
+  Over the hills at the rise of day,
+  Through a sea of mist when the world is grey
+  I hie me down to the river's bend,
+  Where the shadows gloom and the ripples play.
+
+  Then all the length of an afternoon,
+  The light reel sings to a thrilling tune,
+  Till the basket sags with the speckled trout,
+  And I wander home by an April moon.
+
+
+
+
+The Berry Pickers
+
+  When summer winds like scented waves bear fluffy flakes
+          of cruising seeds,
+  Above the stems of tawny grass and pale white wreaths of flowered weeds,
+  And berries splash their scarlet stains across the dipping hills of sun,
+  Their laughter lifts like silver bells and tinkling echoes sweetly run.
+
+  Their faces far below the crests of rippling gold and shadowed green,
+  They hear the dreams of drowsy bees and watch those buccaneers unseen
+  Cling yellow to the clover masts and trailing ropes of wild blue pea,
+  And breathe the brine of daisy froth that drifts
+          between the walls of sea.
+
+  Their fingers pluck the glowing fruit, their lips and cheeks
+          are smeared and dyed;
+  Their snowy bonnets brush the grass like lifting top-sails on a tide;
+  And when their little pails brim red and rosy hands will hold no more,
+  They steer long shadows down the waves that float
+          their tired feet to shore.
+
+
+
+
+The Wood Trail
+
+  Down between the branches drops a low, soft wind.
+    Where the narrow trail begins there start I.
+  Yellow sun and shadow are spinning gold behind,
+    Long brakes are clutching as my knees brush by.
+
+  Hidden glades are pink with the twin linnaea,
+    Sweet with scented fronds and the warm, wet fern;
+  Flute the far-off rain-birds sad and clear,
+    Flash the pigeon blossoms at each sharp turn.
+
+  Pungent breathe the balsams by the stream's low banks;
+    Rotting wood and violets lie side by side;
+  Glows the scarlet fungus through the alder ranks,
+    Burning like a light on a still, green tide.
+
+  Hilltops bid me linger where the winds run cool;
+    Hollows hold my feet in the deep, black loam,
+  But marking purple shadows in the purring pool,
+    I lift my silent feet on the long trail home.
+
+
+
+
+The Fruit-Rancher
+
+  He sees the rosy apples cling like flowers to the bough;
+    He plucks the purple plums and spills the cherries on the grass;
+  He wanted peace and silence,--God gives him plenty now,--
+    His feet upon the mountain and his shadow on the pass.
+
+  He built himself a cabin from red cedars of his own;
+    He blasted out the stumps and twitched the boulders from the soil;
+  And with an axe and chisel he fashioned out a throne
+    Where he might dine in grandeur off the first-fruits of his toil.
+
+  His orchard is a treasure-house alive with song and sun,
+    Where currants ripe as rubies gleam and golden pippins glow;
+  His servants are the wind and rain whose work is never done,
+    Till winter rends the scarlet roof and banks the halls with snow.
+
+  He shouts across the valley, and the ranges answer back;
+    His brushwood smoke at evening lifts a column to the moon;
+  And dim beyond the distance, where the Kootenai winds black,
+    He hears the silence shattered by the laughter of the loon.
+
+
+
+
+From Exile
+
+  Call to me, call to me, fields of poppied wheat!
+    Purple thistles by the road call me to return!
+  Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street,
+    And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern.
+
+  Little leaves beside the trail dance your way to town,
+    Till you find your brother here who remembers yet;
+  For though a river runs between and the bridge is down,
+    I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget.
+
+  A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry;
+    A rain walks up and down the streets, but her voice is harsh--
+  Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly,
+    And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the marsh.
+
+  Once a thousand bending blades stoop to let me pass,
+    When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines--
+  Whisper to me gently in the language of the grass,
+    How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines.
+
+  Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
+    Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down--
+  Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,
+    So take a pale, familiar face out beyond the town.
+
+
+
+
+The Warm Green Sea
+
+  The winds run warm on the waves of the grass
+          that lifts like a scented sea.
+  No sound of the surf, no sob of the tides;
+          but the drone of the drowsy bee
+  Is drawing me out from the purple shades
+          to wade in the daffodils,
+  Where the long green billows go drifting by
+          to lap the feet of the hills.
+
+  Like the snow-white spume on the shattered waves
+          the daisies twist and cream,
+  Over their heads in a painted mist the myriad
+          insects gleam.
+  And the still sea sways in the sun's soft breath
+          and breaks on the green, green sand,
+  Till I bare my limbs to the noiseless surf
+          and wade from the silent land.
+
+  The pale stalks eddy from knee to waist and rise
+          to my sun-flecked face;
+  Cool on my lips is the daisy foam and the spray
+          of the Queen Anne's lace.
+  With half-shut eyes and outstretched arms I swim
+          through the scented heat.
+  Oh, never were broad sea winds so warm,
+          nor Southern seas so sweet?
+
+
+
+
+There's Music in My Heart To-day
+
+  There's music in my heart to-day;
+    The Master-hand is on the keys,
+  Calling me up to the windy hills
+    And down to the purple seas.
+
+  Let Time draw back when I hear that tune--
+    Old to the soul when the stars were new--
+  And swing the doors to the four great winds,
+    That my feet may wander through.
+
+  North or South, and East or West;
+    Over the rim with the bellied sails,
+  From the mountain's feet to the empty plains,
+    Or down the silent trails--
+
+  It matters not which door you choose;
+    The same clear tune blows through them all,
+  Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas
+    And one to the rain-bird's call.
+
+  However you hide in the city's din
+    And drown your ears with its siren songs,
+  Some day steal in those thin, wild notes,
+    And you leave the foolish throngs.
+
+  God grant that the day will find me not
+    When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain--
+  So long as the plains are red with sun,
+    And the woods are black with rain.
+
+
+
+
+August on the River
+
+    The swooning heat of August
+      Swims along the valley's bed.
+    The tall reeds burn and blacken,
+      While the gray elm droops its head,
+  And the smoky sun above the hills is glaring
+            hot and red.
+
+    Along the shrinking river,
+      Where the salmon-nets hang brown,
+    Piles the driftwood of the freshets,
+      And the naked logs move down
+  To the clanking chains and shrieking saws
+            of the mills above the town.
+
+    Outside the booms of cedar,
+      The fish-hawks drop at noon;
+    When night comes trailing up the stars,
+      We hear the ghostly loon;
+  And watch the herons swing their flight
+            against the crimson moon.
+
+
+
+
+The Wind Tongues
+
+  I wandered in the woodlands where the red glades begin,
+  And a wind in every tree-top was talking small and thin:
+  "The dead hand of Winter is knocking at the door,
+  And the white froth of flowers will float no more.
+
+  "The gray ranks of grasses are bared of their bees,
+  Their voices sound like falling spume between the leaden seas;
+  We hear beyond the alders where the long swamps lie
+  The creak of broken rushes and the last snipe's cry."
+
+  And I marked the poignant sorrow in each high tree tongue,
+  Conferring there above me where the blue moss hung;
+  Till anguish grew from far away and broke in sullen roar,
+  As when a smoking surf meets a rock-ribbed shore.
+
+
+
+
+Musk-Rats
+
+  When the mists move down from the barren hill,
+  To roll where the waters are black and chill,
+  When the moonlight gleams on the lily-pads
+  And even the winds are still.
+
+  The musk-rats slip from the clammy bank,
+  Where the tangled reeds are long and dank,
+  Where the dew lies white on the iris bed,
+  And the rushes stand in rank.
+
+  Their black heads furrow the stagnant stream,
+  While the water breaks in a silver gleam,
+  Till it joins the reeds where the night lies hid
+  And the purple herons dream.
+
+  Through the mist and the moon's mysterious light
+  They hear the honking geese take flight,
+  Threshing up from the arrow-heads
+  As the lonely East grows white.
+
+
+
+
+The Kill
+
+  Black and white the face of night,
+    And roar the rapids to the moon;
+  Dust of stars beyond the bars,
+    And mirthless laughter of the loon.
+
+  Swirling blades through inky shades,
+    And ghostly shadows slipping by;
+  Clogging beds of arrowheads,
+    And jagging spruce tops in the sky,
+
+  Rasping groans of birchen cones
+    Re-answering from shore to shore;
+  Through the hush the snapping brush--
+    Then silence, and the stars once more.
+
+  Mutters slow, appealing, low,
+    The throaty pleading of the bark;
+  Roar of might that rends the night--
+    His body bulking through the dark.
+
+  Then the white, cruel tongue of light
+    Leaps stinging in his startled eyes;
+  Red and black the night falls back,
+    The rocking echo drifts and dies.
+
+
+
+
+On the Marshes
+
+  Out on the marsh in the misty rain,
+  The air is full of the harsh refrain;
+  The long swamps echo the beat of wings;
+  The birds are back in the reeds again.
+
+  Down from the north they wing their way.
+  Out of the east they cross the bay.
+  From north and east they're steering home
+  To the inland ponds at the close of day.
+
+  Hid in the sea of reeds we lie,
+  And watch the wild geese driving by;
+  And listen to the plover's piping,--
+  The gray snipe's thin and lonely cry.
+
+  All day over the tangled mass,
+  The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass.
+  The smoke hangs white in the broken rice.
+  The feathers drift in the water-grass.
+
+
+
+
+The Scarlet Trails
+
+  Crimson and gold in the paling sky;
+  The rampikes black where they tower on high,--
+  And we follow the trails in the early dawn
+  Through the glades where the white frosts lie.
+
+  Down where the flaming maples meet;
+  Where the leaves are blood before our feet
+  We follow the lure of the twisting paths
+  While the air tastes thin and sweet
+
+  Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew
+  The long twin barrels are cold and blue;
+  But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins,
+  And our eyes and hands are true.
+
+  Where the sun drifts down from overhead
+  (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed),
+  Rush of wings through the forest aisle--
+  And the leaves are a brighter red.
+
+  Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh;
+  Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die.
+  There's blackened shell in the trampled fern
+  When the white moon swims the sky.
+
+
+
+
+At the Year's End
+
+  The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows.
+  The last gray feather to southward goes.
+  Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
+  When the lonely north-wind blows.
+
+  The harrow and sickle are laid away.
+  The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
+  While Death stalks free in the silent world,
+  Through the gloom of a winter's day.
+
+  In the creeping night the black winds cry.
+  The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
+  The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
+  Crawls up to a grayer sky.
+
+
+
+
+Winter Winds
+
+  Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds
+            are laid on the back of the land,
+    Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting
+            the feet of the plain,
+  Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe
+            at the lift of the hand,
+    And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore
+            moan and sob in their pain.
+
+  Never a sail on that sharp straight line
+            that marks the steel of the sky;
+    Never a wing flees in from death to crouch
+            in the rattling reeds;
+  In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines
+            the frozen spume drives high;
+    And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold
+            on the tattered weeds.
+
+  A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks
+            of gold,
+    With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists
+            and the daisies topped with bees;
+  And now the last of the year lies dead,
+            the world walks bent, and old,
+    And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps
+            in from the iron seas.
+
+
+
+
+Dead Days
+
+  The haws cling to the thorn,
+  Shrivelled and red;
+  The limbs long dead
+  Clutch at a leaf long torn--
+  It taps all day on the spikes
+  As the spume licks over the dikes.
+
+  The reeds creak in the dawn
+  By the dead pond;
+  Dry tongues respond
+  From grasses yellow and drawn;
+  And ever scourged by the wind,
+  The alders clatter and grind.
+
+  Vines furred with the frost
+  String from the wall:
+  Their bones recall
+  Summer leaves long lost,
+  Cricket and fly and bee
+  And their low melody.
+
+  No bird wails to the waste
+  Of scentless snow,
+  Where streaming low
+  The steel-blue shadows haste;
+  But through the hard night
+  The dead moon takes flight
+
+
+
+
+The Winter Harvest
+
+  Between the blackened curbs lie stacked the
+            harvest of the skies,
+    Long lines of frozen, grimy cocks befouled
+            by city feet;
+  On either side the racing throngs, the crowding
+            cliffs, the cries,
+    And ceaseless winds that eddy down to whip
+            the iron street.
+
+  The wagons whine beneath their loads, the
+            raw-boned horses strain;
+    A hundred sullen shovels claw and heave the
+            sodden mass--
+  There lifts no dust of scented moats, no cheery
+            call of swain,
+    Nor birds that pipe from border brush across
+            the yellow grass.
+
+  No cow-bells honk from upland fields, no sunset
+            thrushes call
+    To swarthy, bare-limbed harvesters beyond
+            the stubble roads;
+  But flanges grind on frosted steel, the weary
+            snow-picks fall,
+    And twisted, toiling backs are bent to pile the
+            bitter loads.
+
+  No shouting from the intervales, no singing from
+            the hill,
+    No scent of trodden tansy weeds among the
+            golden grain----,
+  Only the silent, cringing forms beneath the
+            aching chill.
+    Only the hungry eyes of want in haggard
+            cheeks of pain.
+
+
+
+
+Flowers of the Sky
+
+  The snow was four feet deep beyond my door.
+  (I never knew the cold so cruel before.)
+  The frost was white as death, and in the wood
+  Shattered the aching aisles of solitude.
+  Here lay the winter wrapped about with gloom;
+  But overhead God's flowers were in bloom!
+
+  At dawn, above the ink-black trunks and night,
+  A pale pink petal drifted with the light;
+  And presently the gates of sun swung wide,
+  And through them flowed a crimson, scented tide:
+  Roses that bloomed and bloomed again and died,
+  Staining the lonely hills on either side.
+
+  And scarce were God's fields swept of this warm glow,
+  When purest gold fell softly to the snow--
+  Petals of gold from where there rolled on high
+  A sea of tulips lapping all the sky.
+  The blossoms clung so close I could not see
+  One nook of empty blue where more could be.
+
+  Snow and the winds that eat into the bone,
+  Here where the sun lies cold and waters moan.
+  God's pastures still are bearing for His feet
+  A million purple blooms all dewy sweet:
+  Violets and asters, hyacinths and phlox,
+  And streaming shafts of starry hollyhocks.
+
+  Late in the day when I crawled up the hills,
+  Dogged by the cold that tortures ere it kills;
+  I needs must stand and stare beyond the rim,
+  And watch the garden once more laid for Him;
+  Until the moon's great dripping calyx came,
+  And all the myriad star-buds burst in flame.
+
+  Then bitter envy gnawed upon my heart.
+  Flowers in Heaven, and I stand here apart!
+  "O God," I cried, "take me from this place,
+  Where I may feel the warm grass brush my face!"
+  Then 'cross the snow a whisper caught my ear:
+  "Peace, for the Spring--the Spring once more is here."
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14782 ***
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+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
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+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #14782 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14782)
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, England over Seas
, by Lloyd Roberts
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: England over Seas

+
+Author: Lloyd Roberts
+
+Release Date: January 24, 2005  [eBook #14782]
+
+Language: English

+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND OVER SEAS
***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Al Haines
+
+
+
+ENGLAND OVER SEAS
+
+by
+
+LLOYD ROBERTS
+
+London
+Elkin Mathews, Cork Street
+
+M CM XIV
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+HOPE
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+  ENGLAND'S FIELDS
+  THE MADNESS OF WINDS
+  YOUNG BLOOD
+  THE HOMESTEADER
+  HUSBANDS OVER SEAS
+  THE COUNTRY GOES TO TOWN
+  THE TRAIL FROM NAPOLI
+  THE CHANGING YEAR
+  RUNNERS OF THE RAIN
+  SPRING MADNESS
+  ONE MORNING WHEN THE RAIN-BIRDS CALL
+  SPRING'S SINGING
+  THE FLUTES OF THE FROGS
+  MISS PIXIE
+  A-FISHING
+  THE BERRY PICKERS
+  THE WOOD TRAIL
+  THE FRUIT-RANCHER
+  FROM EXILE
+  THE WARM GREEN SEA
+  THERE'S MUSIC IN MY HEART TO-DAY
+  AUGUST ON THE RIVER
+  THE WIND TONGUES
+  MUSK-RATS
+  THE KILL
+  ON THE MARSHES
+  THE SCARLET TRAILS
+  AT THE YEAR'S END
+  WINTER WINDS
+  DEAD DAYS
+  THE WINTER HARVEST
+  FLOWERS OF THE SKY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+England's Fields
+
+    England's cliffs are white like milk,
+      But England's fields are green;
+    The grey fogs creep across the moors,
+      But warm suns stand between.
+  And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
+  A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.
+
+    Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
+      The hedges are aglow;
+    The daisies climb the windy hills
+      Till all grow white like snow.
+  And when the slim, pale moon slides up, and dreamy night is near,
+  There's a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.
+
+    Poppies burn in Italy,
+      And suns grow round and high;
+    The black pines of Posilipo
+      Are gaunt upon the sky--
+  And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
+  That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.
+
+    Tell me why the meadow-lands
+      Become so warm in June;
+    Why the tangled roses breathe
+      So softly to the moon;
+  And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
+  Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?
+
+    Weary, we have wandered back--
+      And we have travelled far--
+    Above the storms and over seas
+      Gleamed ever one bright star--
+  O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
+  We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round,
+           green fields of home.
+
+
+
+
+The Madness of Winds
+
+  On all the upland pastures the strong winds gallop free,
+    Trampling down the flowered stalks sleepy in the sun,
+  Whirl away in blue and gold all their finery,
+    Till naked crouch the gentle hosts where the winds have run.
+
+  Along the rocking hillsides shaggy heads are bent;
+    Out upon the tawny plains tortured dust leaps high;
+  The red roof of the sunset is torn away and rent,
+    And chaos lifts the heavy sea and bends the hollow sky.
+
+  The winds are drunk with freedom--the crowded valleys roar;
+    The madness surges through their veins, and when they gallop out
+  The black rain follows close behind, the pale sun flees before,
+    And recklessly across the world goes all the broken rout.
+
+  I was striding on the uplands when the host was running mad,
+    I saw them threshing through the leaves and daisy tops below,
+  And as their feet came up the hill, my tired heart grew glad--
+    Till at the music of their throats I knew that I must go.
+
+  So the winds are now my brothers, they have joined me to their ranks,
+    And when their rampant strength wells up and drives them singing forth,
+  I am with them when they roll the fog across the oily banks,
+    And tumble out the sleeping bergs that crowd beyond the north.
+
+  The woods are drenched with moonlight and every leafs awake;
+    The little beads of dew sit white on every twig and blade;
+  A thousand stars are scattered thick beneath the forest lake;
+    We pass--with only laughter for the havoc we have made.
+
+  There's not a wind that brushes the long bright fields of corn,
+    Or, shrieking, drives the broken wreck beneath a blackened sea,
+  There's not a wind that draws the rain across the face of morn
+    That does not rise when I arise and sink again with me.
+
+
+
+
+Young Blood
+
+  They took me from the forests and they put me in the town;
+  They bid me learn the wisdom the wise men have laid down,
+    To put by my childish ways
+    And forget my Golden Days,
+  With my feet upon the ladder that runs up to high renown.
+
+  So I would not hear the voices that were calling day and night,
+  And I would not see the visions that were ever in my sight;
+    But I mingled with the throngs,
+    Heard their curses and their songs,
+  And raised the brimming glass on high to catch the yellow light.
+
+  But I was not meant to wander where the wild things never came,
+  Where the night-time was like day-time and the seasons were the same;
+    Where the city's sullen roar
+    Ever surged against my door,
+  And the only peace was battle and the only goal was fame.
+
+  For my blood pulsed hot within me and the prize seemed wondrous small;
+  And my soul cried out for freedom in a world beyond a wall.
+    Oh, fame can well be sung
+    By those no longer young,
+  By wisdom, age and learning; but youth transcends them all!
+
+  So I'll let the spring of life well up and drown the empty quest;
+  And I'll watch the stars more bright than fame gleam red along the crest;
+    And taste the driving rain
+    Between my lips again,
+  And know that to the blood of youth the open road is best.
+
+  With Spring-time in the woodlands will my pulses stir and thrill;
+  I'll run below the wet young moon where myriad frogs pipe shrill;
+    I'll forget the world of strife,
+    Where fame is more than life;
+  And I'll mate with youth and beauty when the sun is on the hill.
+
+
+
+
+The Homesteader
+
+  Mother England, I am coming, cease your calling for a season,
+    For the plains of wheat need reaping, and the thrasher's at the door.
+  All these long years I have loved you, but you cannot call it treason
+    If I loved my shack of shingles and my little baby more.
+
+  Now my family have departed--for the good Lord took them early--
+    And I turn to thee, O England, as a son that seeks his home.
+  Now younger folk may plough and plant the plains I love so dearly,
+    Whose acres stretch too wide for feet that can no longer roam.
+
+  If the western skies are bluer and the western snows are whiter,
+    And the flowers of the prairie-lands are bright and honey-sweet,
+  'Tis the scent of English primrose makes my weary heart beat lighter
+    As I count the days that part me from your little cobble street.
+
+  For the last time come the reapers (you can hear the knives ring cheery
+    As they pitch the bearded barley in a thousand tents of gold);
+  For I see the cliffs of Devon bulking dark beyond the prairie,
+    And hear the skylarks calling to a heart that's growing old.
+
+  When the chaff-piles cease their burning and the frost is closing over
+    All the barren leagues of stubble that my lonely feet have passed,
+  I shall spike the door and journey towards the Channel lights of Dover--
+    That England may receive my dreams and bury them at last!
+
+
+
+
+Husbands Over Seas
+
+  Each morning they sit down to their little bites of bread,
+    To six warm bowls of porridge and a broken mug or two.
+  And each simple soul is happy and each hungry mouth is fed--
+    Then why should she be smiling as the weary-hearted do?
+
+  All day the house has echoed to their tiny, treble laughter
+    (Six little rose-faced cherubs who trip shouting through the day),
+  Till the candle lights the cradle and runs dark along the rafter--
+    Then why should she be watching while the long night wastes away?
+
+  She tells them how their daddy has sailed out across the seas,
+    And they'll be going after when the May begins to bloom.
+  Oh, they clap their hands together as they cluster round her knees--
+    Then why should she be weeping as they tumble from the room?
+
+  The May has bloomed and withered and the haws are clinging red,
+    The winter winds are talking in the dead ranks of the trees;
+  And still she tells of daddy as she tucks each tot in bed--
+    God pity all dear women who have husbands over seas!
+
+
+
+
+The Country Goes to Town
+
+  The Country walked to Town, and what did she find there?
+  Not a bird nor flower, the trees forsaken were;
+  The folk were walking two-and-two in every lane and street--
+  You scarce could hear your neighbour for the racket of their feet.
+
+  She could not see the sun shine for dust about the sky;
+  She could not hear the winds call, the walls went up so high;
+  And even when the night came to brush aside the day,
+  She found about the city they were driving it away.
+
+  "Then what have you got here?" the Country asked the Town.
+  "There's not a green leaf anywhere, the world is bleak and brown,
+  I haven't seen a red cheek nor heard a woman's laughter;
+  I'm going back to Bird Land, but won't you follow after?"
+
+  The Town rode to the Country, and what did she find there?
+  Just a lot of emptiness, with flowers everywhere.
+  The birds were screaming overhead, the sun was on her face,
+  The fences were untidy, and the brambles a disgrace.
+
+  "Then what have you got here?" the Town cried in her scorn.
+  "I haven't met a four-in-hand nor heard a motor horn.
+  It'll cost a pretty penny to restore my riding clothes,
+  While my beauty is nigh ruined for the freckles on my nose."
+
+  "What have I got here?  Just azure hills and peace,
+  Green moss and green fern on roads that never cease.
+  And if my heart grows weary of such pleasurings as these,
+  There's a baby who comes romping through the nursery of the trees!"
+
+
+
+
+The Trail from Napoli
+
+  From Capo di Sorrento, its poppies and its clover,
+    The headlands of Fosilipo, the wharves of Napoli,
+  A wide blue trail runs westward to the ocean rim and over
+    To where there lies a little town with lights along the sea.
+
+  Here pink and blue the villas crowd beside the yellow sand,
+    And sweet and hot, the scented winds puff sultry to the bay,
+  The shadow of Vesuvius lies gray across the land--
+    And on my heart a loneliness that calls me far away.
+
+  My restless feet are weary of these hills of purple vines,
+    These crooked groves of olive trees that scrawl the crooked lanes
+  The walnuts shoulder weakly round the tall Italian pines,
+    That whisper like the waves of wheat across the yellow plains.
+
+  All day beneath the ruins of Donn' Anna gaunt and black,
+    The boats of fisher-folk go by with song and trailing net;
+  And dim the cloud of Capri where the red feluccas tack--
+    But still the belching funnels smirch the trail I can't forget.
+
+  Virgil's tomb gapes empty where the oranges are bright,
+    Above the Roman corridors that goats and beggars tread;
+  Soft voices and thin music and laughter all the night--
+    I only see a thousand leagues the Channel lights burn red;
+
+  I only hear dear English tongues forever calling me,
+    Across the high white English cliffs and flowers of the foam;
+  I only breathe sweet lilac bloom a-blowing out to sea--
+    A-blowing down the long sea-lanes to lead a lover home!
+
+
+
+
+The Changing Year
+
+  Summer, autumn, winter, spring--
+  Back and forth the seasons swing;
+    Sun and snows returning ever,
+  Like the wild geese on the wing.
+
+  When the clean sap climbs the tree,
+  When the strong winds groan and flee--
+    Dance the daisies on the hill-tops
+  To the thin tune of the bee.
+
+  When the golden noons hang still,
+  Crimson flames run down the hill,
+    And the musk-rats in the bayou
+  Feel the waters growing chill.
+
+  Wood-smoke mists the naked moor;
+  Dead leaves shroud the forest floor;
+    When the white frosts cross the threshold,
+  Summer softly shuts the door.
+
+  Like cold love and empty pain,
+  Fades the sun and drifts the rain.
+    Tips the world and slips the season,
+  Swinging wide the doors again.
+
+
+
+
+Runners of the Rain
+
+  Gaunt and black the naked pines are scrawled across the sky;
+    The wild wet winds are clinging where the hard peaks lift and soar;
+  They watch our long gray hosts of rain forever marching by,
+    While up through all the canyons we send our sullen roar.
+
+  From every sodden meadow we've trodden out the sun;
+    We've ground the pale green stalks of grass
+             that lifted through the hills;
+  Across the yelping torrents a thousand feet have run,
+    Till waters scream in anger and the wide-mouthed valley fills.
+
+  Among the moaning spruces we threshed our heedless way;
+    And out upon the barrens where the lonely spaces hide,
+  We stamped the miles of mosses and blackened out the day,
+    And waked the awful silence where all the winds have died.
+
+  The stars flamed brave before us and the greater light hung still
+    When the white smoke of our breath blew up
+          and drowned the hollow night.
+  We crushed them out beneath our feet and leapt from hill to hill,
+    Till east to east the sweep of space was rocking with our flight.
+
+  The little walls of man uprose like shields beneath our feet;
+    We beat upon their hollow cells a million shafts of rain;
+  Our wild song of freedom was loud in every street,
+    While down along the slimy wharves the great ships lift and strain.
+
+  The dawn pushed pale thin fingers above the flattened sea,
+    Groping blind white fingers that clawed the shroud of night;
+  'Till from the straining eddies the pale forms turned to flee,
+    And a million tongues of madness rose singing through the fight.
+
+  Across the quaking marshes we turned and wandered back;
+    The trapper in the clearing heard the wan thin hosts of rain.
+  We moved between the steaming trails where all the woods dripped black,
+    And high among the empty hills we pitched our tents again.
+
+
+
+
+Spring Madness
+
+  I stoop and tear the sandals from my feet
+  While the green fires glimmer in the gloom;
+  The hot roar of madness
+  Swells my veins with gladness;
+  I smell the rotting wood-stuff
+  And the drift of willow-bloom,
+  And the moon's wet face
+  Lifts above the place
+  Till gaunt and black the shadows are crowding close for room.
+
+  The alder thickets brush against my limbs;
+  The heavy tramp of water shakes the night;
+  I cross the naked hills,
+  Where the thin dawn lifts and fills;
+  All the black woods wail behind me--
+  They cannot stay my flight
+  Till the sun's red stain
+  Dyes the world again
+  And winds beyond the heavens are dancing in the light.
+
+
+
+
+One Morning when the Rain-Birds Call
+
+  The snows have joined the little streams and slid into the sea;
+    The mountain sides are damp and black and steaming in the sun;
+  But Spring, who should be with us now, is waiting timidly
+    For Winter to unbar the gates and let the rivers run.
+
+  It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold,
+    How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough,
+  That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold,
+    And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now.
+
+  For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
+    And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
+  Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
+    And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.
+
+  One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
+    And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
+  The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills--
+    An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,
+
+  Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
+    With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
+  The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
+    And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.
+
+
+
+
+Spring's Singing
+
+    Spring once more is here--
+    Joyous, sweet, and clear--
+  Singing down the leafless aisles
+    To the budding year.
+
+    Her chanting is the thrush
+    Through the twilight hush,
+  And the silver tongues of waters
+    Where the willows blush;
+
+    Stir of lifting heads
+    Over violet beds;
+  Piping of the first glad robin
+    Through the greens and reds;
+
+    Croak of sullen crows
+    When the south wind blows,
+  Sighing in the shaggy spruces
+    Wet with melted snows;
+
+    Whisper of the rain
+    Down the hills again,
+  And the heavy feet of waters
+    Tramping on the plain.
+
+    Now the Goddess Spring
+    Makes the woodlands ring,
+  Bringing with a hundred voices
+    Joy to everything.
+
+
+
+
+The Flutes of the Frogs
+
+  'Tis not the notes of the homing birds through the first warm April rain,
+  Or the scarlet buds and the rising green come back to the land again,
+  That stirs my heart from its winter sleep to pulse to the old refrain;
+
+  But when from the miles of bubbling marsh and
+          the valley's steaming floor,
+  Shrilling keen with a million flutes the ancient spring-time lore,
+  I hear the myriad emerald frogs awake in the world once more.
+
+  All day when the clouds drive overhead and the shadows run below,
+  Crossing the wind-swept pasture lots where the thin, red willows glow,
+  There's not a throat in the joyous host that does not swell and blow.
+
+  And all night long to the march of stars the wild mad music thrills,
+  Voicing the birth of the glad wet spring in a thousand stops and trills,
+  Till the pale sun lifts through the rosy mists
+          and floats from the harbour hills.
+
+
+
+
+Miss Pixie
+
+  _Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Spruces?
+    Did you ever glimpse her mocking elfin face?
+  Did you ever hear her calling while the whip-poor-wills were calling,
+    And slipped your pack and taken up the chase?_
+
+  Her feet are clad in moccasins and beads.
+    Her dress?  Oh, next to nothing.  Though undressed,
+  Her slender arms are circled round with vine
+    And dusky locks cling close about her breast.
+
+  Red berries droop below each pointed ear;
+    Her nut-brown legs are criss-crossed white with scratches;
+  Her merry laughter sifts among the pines;
+    Her eager face gleams pale from milk-weed patches.
+
+  And though I never yet have reached her hand--
+    God knows I've tried with all my heart's desire;--
+  One morning just at dawn she caught me sleeping
+    And with her soft lips touched my soul with fire.
+
+  And once when camping near a foaming rip,
+    Lying wide-eyed beneath the milky stars,
+  Sudden I heard her voice ring sweet and clear,
+    Calling my soul beyond the river bars.
+
+  Dear, dancing Pixie of the wind and weather,
+    Aglow with love and merriment and sun,
+  I chase thee down my dreams, but catch thee never--
+    God grant I catch thee ere the trail is done!
+
+  _Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Thickets,
+    Where the scarlet leaves leap tinkling from your feet?
+  Have you ever heard her calling while a million feet were falling,
+    And a million lights were crowding all the street?_
+
+
+
+
+A-Fishing
+
+  Now is the time for the luring fly
+  Spring is awake and the waters high,
+  Hackle and Doctor and Montreal,
+  Bend to your cast that a king may die.
+
+  Armed with a gaff and a clicking reel,
+  High jack-boots and an empty creel,
+  A yard of gut, a split bamboo,
+  Beginner's luck and a fisherman's zeal.
+
+  Over the hills at the rise of day,
+  Through a sea of mist when the world is grey
+  I hie me down to the river's bend,
+  Where the shadows gloom and the ripples play.
+
+  Then all the length of an afternoon,
+  The light reel sings to a thrilling tune,
+  Till the basket sags with the speckled trout,
+  And I wander home by an April moon.
+
+
+
+
+The Berry Pickers
+
+  When summer winds like scented waves bear fluffy flakes
+          of cruising seeds,
+  Above the stems of tawny grass and pale white wreaths of flowered weeds,
+  And berries splash their scarlet stains across the dipping hills of sun,
+  Their laughter lifts like silver bells and tinkling echoes sweetly run.
+
+  Their faces far below the crests of rippling gold and shadowed green,
+  They hear the dreams of drowsy bees and watch those buccaneers unseen
+  Cling yellow to the clover masts and trailing ropes of wild blue pea,
+  And breathe the brine of daisy froth that drifts
+          between the walls of sea.
+
+  Their fingers pluck the glowing fruit, their lips and cheeks
+          are smeared and dyed;
+  Their snowy bonnets brush the grass like lifting top-sails on a tide;
+  And when their little pails brim red and rosy hands will hold no more,
+  They steer long shadows down the waves that float
+          their tired feet to shore.
+
+
+
+
+The Wood Trail
+
+  Down between the branches drops a low, soft wind.
+    Where the narrow trail begins there start I.
+  Yellow sun and shadow are spinning gold behind,
+    Long brakes are clutching as my knees brush by.
+
+  Hidden glades are pink with the twin linnaea,
+    Sweet with scented fronds and the warm, wet fern;
+  Flute the far-off rain-birds sad and clear,
+    Flash the pigeon blossoms at each sharp turn.
+
+  Pungent breathe the balsams by the stream's low banks;
+    Rotting wood and violets lie side by side;
+  Glows the scarlet fungus through the alder ranks,
+    Burning like a light on a still, green tide.
+
+  Hilltops bid me linger where the winds run cool;
+    Hollows hold my feet in the deep, black loam,
+  But marking purple shadows in the purring pool,
+    I lift my silent feet on the long trail home.
+
+
+
+
+The Fruit-Rancher
+
+  He sees the rosy apples cling like flowers to the bough;
+    He plucks the purple plums and spills the cherries on the grass;
+  He wanted peace and silence,--God gives him plenty now,--
+    His feet upon the mountain and his shadow on the pass.
+
+  He built himself a cabin from red cedars of his own;
+    He blasted out the stumps and twitched the boulders from the soil;
+  And with an axe and chisel he fashioned out a throne
+    Where he might dine in grandeur off the first-fruits of his toil.
+
+  His orchard is a treasure-house alive with song and sun,
+    Where currants ripe as rubies gleam and golden pippins glow;
+  His servants are the wind and rain whose work is never done,
+    Till winter rends the scarlet roof and banks the halls with snow.
+
+  He shouts across the valley, and the ranges answer back;
+    His brushwood smoke at evening lifts a column to the moon;
+  And dim beyond the distance, where the Kootenai winds black,
+    He hears the silence shattered by the laughter of the loon.
+
+
+
+
+From Exile
+
+  Call to me, call to me, fields of poppied wheat!
+    Purple thistles by the road call me to return!
+  Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street,
+    And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern.
+
+  Little leaves beside the trail dance your way to town,
+    Till you find your brother here who remembers yet;
+  For though a river runs between and the bridge is down,
+    I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget.
+
+  A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry;
+    A rain walks up and down the streets, but her voice is harsh--
+  Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly,
+    And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the marsh.
+
+  Once a thousand bending blades stoop to let me pass,
+    When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines--
+  Whisper to me gently in the language of the grass,
+    How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines.
+
+  Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
+    Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down--
+  Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,
+    So take a pale, familiar face out beyond the town.
+
+
+
+
+The Warm Green Sea
+
+  The winds run warm on the waves of the grass
+          that lifts like a scented sea.
+  No sound of the surf, no sob of the tides;
+          but the drone of the drowsy bee
+  Is drawing me out from the purple shades
+          to wade in the daffodils,
+  Where the long green billows go drifting by
+          to lap the feet of the hills.
+
+  Like the snow-white spume on the shattered waves
+          the daisies twist and cream,
+  Over their heads in a painted mist the myriad
+          insects gleam.
+  And the still sea sways in the sun's soft breath
+          and breaks on the green, green sand,
+  Till I bare my limbs to the noiseless surf
+          and wade from the silent land.
+
+  The pale stalks eddy from knee to waist and rise
+          to my sun-flecked face;
+  Cool on my lips is the daisy foam and the spray
+          of the Queen Anne's lace.
+  With half-shut eyes and outstretched arms I swim
+          through the scented heat.
+  Oh, never were broad sea winds so warm,
+          nor Southern seas so sweet?
+
+
+
+
+There's Music in My Heart To-day
+
+  There's music in my heart to-day;
+    The Master-hand is on the keys,
+  Calling me up to the windy hills
+    And down to the purple seas.
+
+  Let Time draw back when I hear that tune--
+    Old to the soul when the stars were new--
+  And swing the doors to the four great winds,
+    That my feet may wander through.
+
+  North or South, and East or West;
+    Over the rim with the bellied sails,
+  From the mountain's feet to the empty plains,
+    Or down the silent trails--
+
+  It matters not which door you choose;
+    The same clear tune blows through them all,
+  Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas
+    And one to the rain-bird's call.
+
+  However you hide in the city's din
+    And drown your ears with its siren songs,
+  Some day steal in those thin, wild notes,
+    And you leave the foolish throngs.
+
+  God grant that the day will find me not
+    When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain--
+  So long as the plains are red with sun,
+    And the woods are black with rain.
+
+
+
+
+August on the River
+
+    The swooning heat of August
+      Swims along the valley's bed.
+    The tall reeds burn and blacken,
+      While the gray elm droops its head,
+  And the smoky sun above the hills is glaring
+            hot and red.
+
+    Along the shrinking river,
+      Where the salmon-nets hang brown,
+    Piles the driftwood of the freshets,
+      And the naked logs move down
+  To the clanking chains and shrieking saws
+            of the mills above the town.
+
+    Outside the booms of cedar,
+      The fish-hawks drop at noon;
+    When night comes trailing up the stars,
+      We hear the ghostly loon;
+  And watch the herons swing their flight
+            against the crimson moon.
+
+
+
+
+The Wind Tongues
+
+  I wandered in the woodlands where the red glades begin,
+  And a wind in every tree-top was talking small and thin:
+  "The dead hand of Winter is knocking at the door,
+  And the white froth of flowers will float no more.
+
+  "The gray ranks of grasses are bared of their bees,
+  Their voices sound like falling spume between the leaden seas;
+  We hear beyond the alders where the long swamps lie
+  The creak of broken rushes and the last snipe's cry."
+
+  And I marked the poignant sorrow in each high tree tongue,
+  Conferring there above me where the blue moss hung;
+  Till anguish grew from far away and broke in sullen roar,
+  As when a smoking surf meets a rock-ribbed shore.
+
+
+
+
+Musk-Rats
+
+  When the mists move down from the barren hill,
+  To roll where the waters are black and chill,
+  When the moonlight gleams on the lily-pads
+  And even the winds are still.
+
+  The musk-rats slip from the clammy bank,
+  Where the tangled reeds are long and dank,
+  Where the dew lies white on the iris bed,
+  And the rushes stand in rank.
+
+  Their black heads furrow the stagnant stream,
+  While the water breaks in a silver gleam,
+  Till it joins the reeds where the night lies hid
+  And the purple herons dream.
+
+  Through the mist and the moon's mysterious light
+  They hear the honking geese take flight,
+  Threshing up from the arrow-heads
+  As the lonely East grows white.
+
+
+
+
+The Kill
+
+  Black and white the face of night,
+    And roar the rapids to the moon;
+  Dust of stars beyond the bars,
+    And mirthless laughter of the loon.
+
+  Swirling blades through inky shades,
+    And ghostly shadows slipping by;
+  Clogging beds of arrowheads,
+    And jagging spruce tops in the sky,
+
+  Rasping groans of birchen cones
+    Re-answering from shore to shore;
+  Through the hush the snapping brush--
+    Then silence, and the stars once more.
+
+  Mutters slow, appealing, low,
+    The throaty pleading of the bark;
+  Roar of might that rends the night--
+    His body bulking through the dark.
+
+  Then the white, cruel tongue of light
+    Leaps stinging in his startled eyes;
+  Red and black the night falls back,
+    The rocking echo drifts and dies.
+
+
+
+
+On the Marshes
+
+  Out on the marsh in the misty rain,
+  The air is full of the harsh refrain;
+  The long swamps echo the beat of wings;
+  The birds are back in the reeds again.
+
+  Down from the north they wing their way.
+  Out of the east they cross the bay.
+  From north and east they're steering home
+  To the inland ponds at the close of day.
+
+  Hid in the sea of reeds we lie,
+  And watch the wild geese driving by;
+  And listen to the plover's piping,--
+  The gray snipe's thin and lonely cry.
+
+  All day over the tangled mass,
+  The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass.
+  The smoke hangs white in the broken rice.
+  The feathers drift in the water-grass.
+
+
+
+
+The Scarlet Trails
+
+  Crimson and gold in the paling sky;
+  The rampikes black where they tower on high,--
+  And we follow the trails in the early dawn
+  Through the glades where the white frosts lie.
+
+  Down where the flaming maples meet;
+  Where the leaves are blood before our feet
+  We follow the lure of the twisting paths
+  While the air tastes thin and sweet
+
+  Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew
+  The long twin barrels are cold and blue;
+  But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins,
+  And our eyes and hands are true.
+
+  Where the sun drifts down from overhead
+  (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed),
+  Rush of wings through the forest aisle--
+  And the leaves are a brighter red.
+
+  Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh;
+  Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die.
+  There's blackened shell in the trampled fern
+  When the white moon swims the sky.
+
+
+
+
+At the Year's End
+
+  The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows.
+  The last gray feather to southward goes.
+  Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
+  When the lonely north-wind blows.
+
+  The harrow and sickle are laid away.
+  The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
+  While Death stalks free in the silent world,
+  Through the gloom of a winter's day.
+
+  In the creeping night the black winds cry.
+  The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
+  The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
+  Crawls up to a grayer sky.
+
+
+
+
+Winter Winds
+
+  Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds
+            are laid on the back of the land,
+    Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting
+            the feet of the plain,
+  Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe
+            at the lift of the hand,
+    And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore
+            moan and sob in their pain.
+
+  Never a sail on that sharp straight line
+            that marks the steel of the sky;
+    Never a wing flees in from death to crouch
+            in the rattling reeds;
+  In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines
+            the frozen spume drives high;
+    And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold
+            on the tattered weeds.
+
+  A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks
+            of gold,
+    With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists
+            and the daisies topped with bees;
+  And now the last of the year lies dead,
+            the world walks bent, and old,
+    And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps
+            in from the iron seas.
+
+
+
+
+Dead Days
+
+  The haws cling to the thorn,
+  Shrivelled and red;
+  The limbs long dead
+  Clutch at a leaf long torn--
+  It taps all day on the spikes
+  As the spume licks over the dikes.
+
+  The reeds creak in the dawn
+  By the dead pond;
+  Dry tongues respond
+  From grasses yellow and drawn;
+  And ever scourged by the wind,
+  The alders clatter and grind.
+
+  Vines furred with the frost
+  String from the wall:
+  Their bones recall
+  Summer leaves long lost,
+  Cricket and fly and bee
+  And their low melody.
+
+  No bird wails to the waste
+  Of scentless snow,
+  Where streaming low
+  The steel-blue shadows haste;
+  But through the hard night
+  The dead moon takes flight
+
+
+
+
+The Winter Harvest
+
+  Between the blackened curbs lie stacked the
+            harvest of the skies,
+    Long lines of frozen, grimy cocks befouled
+            by city feet;
+  On either side the racing throngs, the crowding
+            cliffs, the cries,
+    And ceaseless winds that eddy down to whip
+            the iron street.
+
+  The wagons whine beneath their loads, the
+            raw-boned horses strain;
+    A hundred sullen shovels claw and heave the
+            sodden mass--
+  There lifts no dust of scented moats, no cheery
+            call of swain,
+    Nor birds that pipe from border brush across
+            the yellow grass.
+
+  No cow-bells honk from upland fields, no sunset
+            thrushes call
+    To swarthy, bare-limbed harvesters beyond
+            the stubble roads;
+  But flanges grind on frosted steel, the weary
+            snow-picks fall,
+    And twisted, toiling backs are bent to pile the
+            bitter loads.
+
+  No shouting from the intervales, no singing from
+            the hill,
+    No scent of trodden tansy weeds among the
+            golden grain----,
+  Only the silent, cringing forms beneath the
+            aching chill.
+    Only the hungry eyes of want in haggard
+            cheeks of pain.
+
+
+
+
+Flowers of the Sky
+
+  The snow was four feet deep beyond my door.
+  (I never knew the cold so cruel before.)
+  The frost was white as death, and in the wood
+  Shattered the aching aisles of solitude.
+  Here lay the winter wrapped about with gloom;
+  But overhead God's flowers were in bloom!
+
+  At dawn, above the ink-black trunks and night,
+  A pale pink petal drifted with the light;
+  And presently the gates of sun swung wide,
+  And through them flowed a crimson, scented tide:
+  Roses that bloomed and bloomed again and died,
+  Staining the lonely hills on either side.
+
+  And scarce were God's fields swept of this warm glow,
+  When purest gold fell softly to the snow--
+  Petals of gold from where there rolled on high
+  A sea of tulips lapping all the sky.
+  The blossoms clung so close I could not see
+  One nook of empty blue where more could be.
+
+  Snow and the winds that eat into the bone,
+  Here where the sun lies cold and waters moan.
+  God's pastures still are bearing for His feet
+  A million purple blooms all dewy sweet:
+  Violets and asters, hyacinths and phlox,
+  And streaming shafts of starry hollyhocks.
+
+  Late in the day when I crawled up the hills,
+  Dogged by the cold that tortures ere it kills;
+  I needs must stand and stare beyond the rim,
+  And watch the garden once more laid for Him;
+  Until the moon's great dripping calyx came,
+  And all the myriad star-buds burst in flame.
+
+  Then bitter envy gnawed upon my heart.
+  Flowers in Heaven, and I stand here apart!
+  "O God," I cried, "take me from this place,
+  Where I may feel the warm grass brush my face!"
+  Then 'cross the snow a whisper caught my ear:
+  "Peace, for the Spring--the Spring once more is here."
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND OVER SEAS
***
+
+
+******* This file should be named 14782.txt or 14782.zip *******
+
+
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/7/8/14782
+
+
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
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