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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33417-8.txt b/33417-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e790fb3 --- /dev/null +++ b/33417-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7023 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Later Poems, by Bliss Carman + +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: Later Poems + +Author: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: August 12, 2010 [EBook #33417] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: cover art] + + + + +[Illustration: front end papers] + + + + + Oh, well the world is dreaming + Under the April moon, + Her soul in love with beauty, + Her senses all a-swoon! + + Pure hangs the silver crescent + Above the twilight wood, + And pure the silver music + Wakes from the marshy flood. + + O Earth, with all thy transport, + How comes it life should seem + A shadow in the moonlight, + A murmur in a dream? + + + + +[Frontispiece: Bliss Carman] + + + + + +LATER POEMS + + +BY BLISS CARMAN + + +WITH AN APPRECIATION + +BY R. H. HATHAWAY + + + +_And decorations by J. E. H. MacDonald A.R.C.A_ + + + +MCCLELLAND & STEWART + +PUBLISHERS -- TORONTO + + + + +Copyright, Canada, 1921 + +By MCCLELLAND & STEWART, Limited, TORONTO + + + + First Printing 1921 + Second " 1922 + Third " 1922 + Fourth " 1923 + + +Printed in Canada + + + + +Publisher's Note + +The present volume is made up of poems from Mr. Carman's three latest +books, _The Rough Rider_, _Echoes from Vagabondia_, and _April Airs_, +together with a number of more recent poems which have not before been +issued in book form. + + + + +Bliss Carman: An Appreciation + +How many Canadians--how many even among the few who seek to keep +themselves informed of the best in contemporary literature, who are +ever on the alert for the new voices--realise, or even suspect, that +this Northern land of theirs has produced a poet of whom it may be +affirmed with confidence and assurance that he is of the great +succession of English poets? Yet such--strange and unbelievable though +it may seem--is in very truth the case, that poet being (to give him +his full name) William Bliss Carman. Canada has full right to be proud +of her poets, a small body though they are; but not only does Mr. +Carman stand high and clear above them all--his place (and time cannot +but confirm and justify the assertion) is among those men whose poetry +is the shining glory of that great English literature which is our +common heritage. + +If any should ask why, if what has been just said is so, there has +been--as must be admitted--no general recognition of the fact in the +poet's home land, I would answer that there are various and plausible, +if not good, reasons for it. + +First of all, the poet, as thousands more of our young men of ambition +and confidence have done, went early to the United States, and until +recently, except for rare and brief visits to his old home down by the +sea, has never returned to Canada--though for all that, I am able to +state, on his own authority, he is still a Canadian citizen. Then all +his books have had their original publication in the United States, and +while a few of them have subsequently carried the imprints of Canadian +publishers, none of these can be said ever to have made any special +effort to push their sale. Another reason for the fact above mentioned +is that Mr. Carman has always scorned to advertise himself, while his +work has never been the subject of the log-rolling and booming which +the work of many another poet has had--to his ultimate loss. A further +reason is that he follows a rule of his own in preparing his books for +publication. Most poets publish a volume of their work as soon as, +through their industry and perseverance, they have material enough on +hand to make publication desirable in their eyes. Not so with Mr. +Carman, however, his rule being not to publish until he has done +sufficient work of a certain general character or key to make a volume. +As a result, you cannot fully know or estimate his work by one book, or +two books, or even half a dozen; you must possess or be familiar with +every one of the score and more volumes which contain his output of +poetry before you can realise how great and how many-sided is his +genius. + +It is a common remark on the part of those who respond readily to the +vigorous work of Kipling, or Masefield, even our own Service, that +Bliss Carman's poetry has no relation to or concern with ordinary, +everyday life. One would suppose that most persons who cared for +poetry at all turned to it as a relief from or counter to the burdens +and vexations of the daily round; but in any event, the remark referred +to seems to me to indicate either the most casual acquaintance with Mr. +Carman's work, or a complete misunderstanding and misapprehension of +the meaning of it. I grant that you will find little or nothing in it +all to remind you of the grim realities and vexing social problems of +this modern existence of ours; but to say or to suggest that these +things do not exist for Mr. Carman is to say or to suggest something +which is the reverse of true. The truth is, he is aware of them as +only one with the sensitive organism of a poet can be; but he does not +feel that he has a call or mission to remedy them, and still less to +sing of them. He therefore leaves the immediate problems of the day to +those who choose, or are led, to occupy themselves therewith, and turns +resolutely away to dwell upon those things which for him possess +infinitely greater importance. + +"What are they?" one who knows Mr. Carman only as, say, a lyrist of +spring or as a singer of the delights of vagabondia probably will ask +in some wonder. Well, the things which concern him above all, I would +answer, are first, and naturally, the beauty and wonder of this world +of ours, and next the mystery of the earthly pilgrimage of the human +soul out of eternity and back into it again. + +The poems in the present volume--which, by the way, can boast the high +honor of being the very first regular Canadian edition of his +work--will be evidence ample and conclusive to every reader, I am sure, +of the place which + + The perennial enchanted + Lovely world and all its lore + +occupy in the heart and soul of Bliss Carman, as well as of the magical +power with which he is able to convey the deep and unfailing +satisfaction and delight which they possess for him. They, however, +represent his latest period (he has had three well-defined periods), +comprising selections from three of his last published volumes: _The +Rough Rider_, _Echoes from Vagabondia_, and _April Airs_, together with +a number of new poems, and do not show, except here and there and by +hints and flashes, how great is his preoccupation with the problem of +man's existence-- + + the hidden import + Of man's eternal plight. + + +This is manifest most in certain of his earlier books, for in these he +turns and returns to the greatest of all the problems of man almost +constantly, probing, with consummate and almost unrivalled use of the +art of expression, for the secret which surely, he clearly feels, lies +hidden somewhere, to be discovered if one could but pierce deeply +enough. Pick up _Behind the Arras_, and as you turn over page after +page you cannot but observe how incessantly the poet's mind--like the +minds of his two great masters, Browning and Whitman--works at this +problem. In "Behind the Arras," the title poem; "In the Wings," "The +Crimson House," "The Lodger," "Beyond the Gamut," "The Juggler"--yes, +in every poem in the book--he takes up and handles the strange thing we +know as, or call, life, turning it now this way, now that, in an effort +to find out its meaning and purpose. He comes but little nearer +success in this than do most of the rest of men, of course; but the +magical and ever-fresh beauty of his expression, the haunting melody of +his lines, the variety of his images and figures and the depth and +range of his thought, put his searchings and ponderings in a class by +themselves. + +Lengthy quotation from Mr. Carman's books is not permitted here, and I +must guide myself accordingly, though with reluctance, because I +believe that in a study such as this the subject should be allowed to +speak for himself as much as possible. In "Behind the Arras" the poet +describes the passage from life to death as + + A cadence dying down unto its source + In music's course, + +and goes on to speak of death as + + the broken rhythm of thought and man, + The sweep and span + Of memory and hope + About the orbit where they still must grope + For wider scope, + + To be through thousand springs restored, renewed, + With love imbrued, + With increments of will + Made strong, perceiving unattainment still + From each new skill. + + +Now follow some verses from "Behind the Gamut," to my mind the poet's +greatest single achievement; + + As fine sand spread on a disc of silver, + At some chord which bids the motes combine, + Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse, + Shifts and dances into curve and line, + + The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote, + Was set whirling her assigned sure way, + Round this little orb of her ecliptic + To some harmony she must obey. + +And what of man? + + Linked to all his half-accomplished fellows, + Through unfrontiered provinces to range-- + Man is but the morning dream of nature, + Roused to some wild cadence weird and strange. + + +Here, now, are some verses from "Pulvis et Umbra," which is to be found +in Mr. Carman's first book, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_, and in which the +poet addresses a moth which a storm has blown into his window: + + For man walks the world with mourning + Down to death and leaves no trace, + With the dust upon his forehead, + And the shadow on his face. + + Pillared dust and fleeing shadow + As the roadside wind goes by, + And the fourscore years that vanish + In the twinkling of an eye. + + +"Pillared dust and fleeing shadow." Where in all our English +literature will one find the life history of man summed up more briefly +and, at the same time, more beautifully, than in that wonderful line? +Now follows a companion verse to those just quoted, taken from "Lord of +My Heart's Elation," which stands in the forefront of _From the Green +Book of the Bards_. It may be remarked here that while the poet recurs +again and again to some favorite thought or idea, it is never in the +same words. His expression is always new and fresh, showing how deep +and true is his inspiration. Again it is man who is pictured: + + A fleet and shadowy column + Of dust and mountain rain, + To walk the earth a moment + And be dissolved again. + + +But while Mr. Carman's speculations upon life's meaning and the mystery +of the future cannot but appeal to the thoughtful-minded, it is as an +interpreter of nature that he makes his widest appeal. Bliss Carman, I +must say here, and emphatically, is no mere landscape-painter; he +never, or scarcely ever, paints a picture of nature for its own sake. +He goes beyond the outward aspect of things and interprets or +translates for us with less keen senses as only a poet whose feeling +for nature is of the deepest and profoundest, who has gone to her +whole-heartedly and been taken close to her warm bosom, can do. Is +this not evident from these verses from "The Great Return"--originally +called "The Pagan's Prayer," and for some inscrutable reason to be +found only in the limited _Collected Poems_, issued in two stately +volumes in 1905 (1904)? + + When I have lifted up my heart to thee, + Thou hast ever hearkened and drawn near, + And bowed thy shining face close over me, + Till I could hear thee as the hill-flowers hear. + + When I have cried to thee in lonely need, + Being but a child of thine bereft and wrung, + Then all the rivers in the hills gave heed; + And the great hill-winds in thy holy tongue-- + + That ancient incommunicable speech-- + The April stars and autumn sunsets know-- + Soothed me and calmed with solace beyond reach + Of human ken, mysterious and low. + + +Who can read or listen to those moving lines without feeling that Mr. +Carman is in very truth a poet of nature--nay, Nature's own poet? But +how could he be other when, in "The Breath of the Reed" (_From the +Green Book of the Bards_), he makes the appeal? + + Make me thy priest, O Mother, + And prophet of thy mood, + With all the forest wonder + Enraptured and imbued. + + +As becomes such a poet, and particularly a poet whose birth-month is +April, Mr. Carman sings much of the early spring. Again and again he +takes up his woodland pipe, and lo! Pan himself and all his train troop +joyously before us. Yet the singer's notes for all his singing never +become wearied or strident; his airs are ever new and fresh; his latest +songs are no less spontaneous and winning than were his first, written +how many years ago, while at the same time they have gained in beauty +and melody. What heart will not stir to the vibrant music of his +immortal "Spring Song," which was originally published in the first +_Songs from Vagabondia_, and the opening verses of which follow? + + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + When thy flowery hand delivers + All the mountain-prisoned rivers, + And thy great heart beats and quivers + To revive the days that were, + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + + Take my dust and all my dreaming, + Count my heart-beats one by one, + Send them where the winters perish; + Then some golden noon recherish + And restore them in the sun, + Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, + With their heart-beats every one! + + +That poem is sufficient in itself to prove that Bliss Carman has full +right and title to be called Spring's own lyrist, though it may be +remarked here that not all his spring poems are so unfeignedly joyous. +Many of them indeed, have a touch, or more than a touch, of +wistfulness, for the poet knows well that sorrow lurks under all joy, +deep and well hidden though it may be. + +Mr. Carman sings equally finely, though perhaps not so frequently, of +summer and the other seasons; but as he has other claims upon our +attention, I shall forbear to labor the fact, particularly as the +following collection demonstrates it sufficiently. One of those other +claims is as a writer of sea poetry. Few poets, it may be said, have +pictured the majesty and the mystery, the beauty and the terror of the +sea, better than he. His _Ballads of Lost Haven_ is a veritable +treasure-house for those whose spirits find kinship in wide expanses of +moving waters. One of the best known poems in this volume is "The +Gravedigger," which opens thus: + + Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, + And well his work is done. + With an equal grave for lord and knave, + He buries them every one. + + Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, + He makes for the nearest shore; + And God, who sent him a thousand ship, + Will send him a thousand more; + But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, + And shoulder them in to shore-- + Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, + Shoulder them in to shore. + + +In "The City of the Sea" (_Last Songs from Vagabondia_) Mr. Carman +speaks of the seabells sounding + + The eternal cadence of sea sorrow + For Man's lot and immemorial wrong-- + The lost strains that haunt the human dwelling + With the ghost of song. + + +Elsewhere he speaks of + + The great sea, mystic and musical. + +And here from another poem is a striking picture: + + ... the old sea + Seems to whimper and deplore + Mourning like a childless crone + With her sorrow left alone-- + The eternal human cry + To the heedless passer-by. + + +I have said above that Mr. Carman has had three distinct periods, and +intimated that the poems in the following collection are of his third +period. The first period may be said to be represented by the _Low +Tide_ and _Behind the Arras_ volumes, while the second is displayed in +the three volumes of _Songs from Vagabondia_, which he published in +association with his friend Richard Hovey. Bliss Carman was from the +first too original and individual a poet to be directly influenced by +anyone else; but there can be no doubt that his friendship with Hovey +helped to turn him from over-preoccupation with mysteries which, for +all their greatness, are not for man to solve, to an intenser +realisation of the beauty and loveliness of the world about him and of +the joys of human fellowship. The result is seen in such poems as +"Spring Song," quoted in part above, and his perhaps equally well-known +"The Joys of the Road," which appeared in the same volume with that +poem, and a few verses from which follow: + + Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: + A crimson touch on the hardwood trees; + + A vagrant's morning wide and blue, + In early fall, when the wind walks, too; + + A shadowy highway cool and brown, + Alluring up and enticing down + + From rippled waters and dappled swamp, + From purple glory to scarlet pomp; + + The outward eye, the quiet will, + And the striding heart from hill to hill. + + +Some of the finest of Mr. Carman's work is contained in his elegiac or +memorial poems, in which he commemorates Keats, Shelley, William Blake, +Lincoln, Stevenson, and other men for whom he has a kindred feeling, +and also friends whom he has loved and lost. Listen to these moving +lines from "Non Omnis Moriar," written in memory of Gleeson White, and +to be found in _Last Songs from Vagabondia_: + + There is a part of me that knows, + Beneath incertitude and fear, + I shall not perish when I pass + Beyond mortality's frontier; + + But greatly having joyed and grieved, + Greatly content, shall hear the sigh + Of the strange wind across the lone + Bright lands of taciturnity. + + In patience therefore I await + My friend's unchanged benign regard,-- + Some April when I too shall be + Spilt water from a broken shard. + + +In "The White Gull," written for the centenary of the birth of Shelley +in 1892, and included in _By the Aurelian Wall_, he thus apostrophizes +that clear and shining spirit: + + O captain of the rebel host, + Lead forth and far! + Thy toiling troopers of the night + Press on the unavailing fight; + The sombre field is not yet lost, + With thee for star. + + Thy lips have set the hail and haste + Of clarions free + To bugle down the wintry verge + Of time forever, where the surge + Thunders and trembles on a waste + And open sea. + + +In "A Seamark," a threnody for Robert Louis Stevenson, which appears in +the same volume, the poet hails "R.L.S." (of whose tribe he may be said +to be truly one) as + + The master of the roving kind, + +and goes on: + + O all you hearts about the world + In whom the truant gypsy blood, + Under the frost of this pale time, + Sleeps like the daring sap and flood + That dreams of April and reprieve! + You whom the haunted vision drives, + Incredulous of home and ease. + Perfection's lovers all your lives! + + You whom the wander-spirit loves + To lead by some forgotten clue + Forever vanishing beyond + Horizon brinks forever new; + Our restless loved adventurer, + On secret orders come to him, + Has slipped his cable, cleared the reef, + And melted on the white sea-rim. + + +"Perfection's lovers all your lives." Of these, it may be said without +qualification, is Bliss Carman himself. + +No summary of Mr. Carman's work, however cursory, would be worthy of +the name if it omitted mention of his ventures in the realm of Greek +myth. _From the Book of Myths_ is made up of work of that sort, every +poem in it being full of the beauty of phrase and melody of which Mr. +Carman alone has the secret. The finest poems in the book, barring the +opening one, "Overlord," are "Daphne," "The Dead Faun," "Hylas," and +"At Phĉdra's Tomb," but I can do no more here than name them, for +extracts would fail to reveal their full beauty. And beauty, after all +is said, is the first and last thing with Mr. Carman. As he says +himself somewhere: + + The joy of the hand that hews for beauty + Is the dearest solace under the sun. + +And again + + The eternal slaves of beauty + Are the masters of the world. + +A slave--a happy, willing slave--to beauty is the poet himself, and the +world can never repay him for the message of beauty which he has +brought it. + +Kindred to _From the Book of Myths_, but much more important, is +_Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics_, one of the most successful of the +numerous attempts which have been made to recapture the poems by that +high priestess of song which remain to us only in fragments. Mr. +Carman, as Charles G. D. Roberts points out in an introduction to the +volume, has made no attempt here at translation or paraphrasing; his +venture has been "the most perilous and most alluring in the whole +field of poetry"--that of imaginative and, at the same time, +interpretive construction. Brief quotation again would fail to convey +an adequate idea of the exquisiteness of the work, and all I can do, +therefore, is to urge all lovers of real poetry to possess themselves +of _Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics_, for it is literally a storehouse of +lyric beauty. + +I must not fail here to speak of _From the Book of Valentines_, which +contains some lovely things, notably "At the Great Release." This is +not only one of the finest of all Mr. Carman's poems, but it is also +one of the finest poems of our time. It is a love poem, and no one +possessing any real feeling for poetry can read it without experiencing +that strange thrill of the spirit which only the highest form of poetry +can communicate. "Morning and Evening," "In an Iris Meadow," and "A +letter from Lesbos" must be also mentioned. In the last named poem, +Sappho is represented as writing to Gorgo, and expresses herself in +these moving words: + + If the high gods in that triumphant time + Have calendared no day for thee to come + Light-hearted to this doorway as of old, + Unmoved I shall behold their pomps go by-- + The painted seasons in their pageantry, + The silvery progressions of the moon, + And all their infinite ardors unsubdued, + Pass with the wind replenishing the earth + + Incredulous forever I must live + And, once thy lover, without joy behold, + The gradual uncounted years go by, + Sharing the bitterness of all things made. + + +Mention must be now made of _Songs of the Sea Children_, which can be +described only as a collection of the sweetest and tenderest love +lyrics written in our time-- + + the lyric songs + The earthborn children sing, + When wild-wood laughter throngs + The shy bird-throats of spring; + When there's not a joy of the heart + But flies like a flag unfurled, + And the swelling buds bring back + The April of the world. + + +So perfect and complete are these lyrics that it would be almost +sacrilege to quote any of them unless entire. Listen however, to these +verses: + + The day is lost without thee, + The night has not a star. + Thy going is an empty room + Whose door is left ajar. + + Depart: it is the footfall + Of twilight on the hills. + Return: and every rood of ground + Breaks into daffodils. + + +There are those who will have it that Bliss Carman has been away from +Canada so long that he has ceased to be, in a real sense, a Canadian. +Such assume rather than know, for a very little study of his work would +show them that it is shot through and through with the poet's feeling +for the land of his birth. Memories of his childhood and youthful +years down by the sea are still fresh in Mr. Carman's mind, and inspire +him again and again in his writing. "A Remembrance," at the beginning +of the present collection, may be pointed to as a striking instance of +this, but proof positive is the volume, _Songs from a Northern Garden_, +for it could have been written only by a Canadian, born and bred, one +whose heart and soul thrill to the thought of Canada. I would single +out from this volume for special mention as being "Canadian" in the +fullest sense "In a Grand Pré Garden," "The Keeper's Silence," "At Home +and Abroad," "Killoleet," and "Above the Gaspereau," but have no space +to quote from them. + +But Mr. Carman is not only a Canadian, he is also a Briton; and +evidence of this is his _Ode on the Coronation_, written on the +occasion of the crowning of King Edward VII in 1902. This poem--the +very existence of which is hardly known among us--ought to be put in +the hands of every child and youth who speaks the English tongue, for +no other, I dare maintain--nothing by Kipling, or Newbolt, or any other +of our so-called "Imperial singers"--expresses more truly and more +movingly the deep feeling of love and reverence which the very thought +of England evokes in every son of hers, even though it may never have +been his to see her white cliffs rise or to tread her storied ground: + + O England, little mother by the sleepless Northern tide, + Having bred so many nations to devotion, trust, and pride, + Very tenderly we turn + With welling hearts that yearn + Still to love you and defend you,--let the sons of men discern + Wherein your right and title, might and majesty, reside. + + +In concluding this, I greatly fear, lamentably inadequate study, I come +to the collection which follows, and which, as intimated above, +represents the work of Mr. Carman's latest period. I must say at once +that, while I yield to no one in admiration for _Low Tide_ and the +other books of that period, or for the work of the second period, as +represented by the _Songs from Vagabondia_ volumes, I have no +hesitation in declaring that I regard the poet's work of the past few +years with even higher admiration. It may not possess the force and +vigor of the work which preceded it; but anything seemingly missing in +that respect is more than made up for me by increased beauty and +clarity of expression. The mysticism--verging, or more than verging, +at times on symbolism--which marked his earlier poems, and which hung, +as it were, as a veil between them and the reader, has gone, and the +poet's thought or theme now lies clearly before us as in a mirror. +What--to take a verse from the following pages at random--could be more +pellucid, more crystal clear in expression--what indeed, could come +closer to that achieving of the impossible at which every real poet +must aim--than this from "In Gold Lacquer" (page 12)? + + Gold are the great trees overhead, + And gold the leaf-strewn grass, + As though a cloth of gold were spread + To let a seraph pass. + And where the pageant should go by, + Meadow and wood and stream, + The world is all of lacquered gold, + Expectant as a dream. + + +The poet, happily, has fully recovered from the serious illness which +laid him low some two years ago, and which for a time caused his +friends and admirers the gravest concern, and so we may look forward +hopefully to seeing further volumes of verse come from the press to +make certain his name and fame. But if, for any reason, this should +not be--which the gods forfend!--_Later Poems_, I dare affirm, must and +will be regarded as the fine flower and crowning achievement of the +genius and art of Bliss Carman. + +R. H. HATHAWAY. + +Toronto, 1921. + + + + +THE BOOKS OF BLISS CARMAN: POETRY AND PROSE + + +LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ: A BOOK OF LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1893 + +SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH RICHARD HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . 1894 + +BEHIND THE ARRAS: A BOOK OF THE UNSEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1895 + +A SEAMARK: A THRENODY FOR ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON . . . . . . . . 1895 + +MORE SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1896 + +BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN: A BOOK OF THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . . . 1897 + +BY THE AURELIAN WALL, AND OTHER ELEGIES . . . . . . . . . . . . 1898 + +A WINTER HOLIDAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1899 + +LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1901 + +BALLADS AND LYRICS (A SELECTION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +ODE ON THE CORONATION OF KING EDWARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE BOOK OF MYTHS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. I.) . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. II.) . . . 1903 + +THE KINSHIP OF NATURE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. III.) . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS FROM A NORTHERN GARDEN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. IV.) . . . . . 1904 + +THE FRIENDSHIP OF ART (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SAPPHO: ONE HUNDRED LYRICS (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +FROM THE BOOK OF VALENTINES ("PIPES OF PAN," No. V.) . . . . . . 1905 + +THE POETRY OF LIFE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +COLLECTED POEMS, 2 VOLS. (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . 1905 (1904) + +THE PIPES OF PAN (DEFINITIVE EDITION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1906 + +THE MAKING OF PERSONALITY (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1908 + +THE ROUGH RIDER, AND OTHER POEMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1909 + +ECHOES FROM VAGABONDIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1912 + +DAUGHTERS OF DAWN: A LYRICAL PAGEANT (WITH MARY PERRY KING) . . 1913 + +EARTH DEITIES, AND OTHER RYTHMIC MASQUES (WITH MARY PERRY KING) 1914 + +APRIL AIRS: A BOOK OF NEW ENGLAND LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1916 + + + + +Contents + + + BLISS CARMAN: AN APPRECIATION + VESTIGIA + A REMEMBRANCE + THE SHIPS OF YULE + THE SHIPS OF SAINT JOHN + THE GARDEN OF DREAMS + GARDEN MAGIC + IN GOLD LACQUER + APRILIAN + GARDEN SHADOWS + IN THE DAY OF BATTLE + TREES + THE GIVERS OF LIFE + A FIRESIDE VISION + A WATER COLOR + THRENODY FOR A POET + DUST OF THE STREET + TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY + THE GIFT + THE CRY OF THE HILLBORN + A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY + MORNING IN THE HILLS + A WOODPATH + WEATHER OF THE SOUL + HERE AND NOW + THE ANGEL OF JOY + THE HOMESTEAD + "THE STARRY MIDNIGHT WHISPERS" + A LYRIC + "APRIL NOW IN MORNING CLAD" + NIKE + THE ENCHANTED TRAVELLER + SPRING'S SARABAND + TRIUMPHALIS + "NOW THE LENGTHENING TWILIGHTS HOLD" + THE SOUL OF APRIL + AN APRIL MORNING + EARTH VOICES + RESURGAM + EASTER EVE + NOW IS THE TIME OF YEAR + THE REDWING + THE RAINBIRD + LAMENT + UNDER THE APRIL MOON + THE FLUTE OF SPRING + SPRING NIGHT + BLOODROOT + DAFFODIL'S RETURN + NOW THE LILAC TREE'S IN BUD + WHITE IRIS + THE TREE OF HEAVEN + PEONY + THE URBAN PAN + THE SAILING OF THE FLEETS + "'TIS MAY NOW IN NEW ENGLAND" + IN EARLY MAY + FIREFLIES + THE PATH TO SANKOTY + OFF MONOMOY + IN ST GERMAIN STREET + PAN IN THE CATSKILLS + A NEW ENGLAND JUNE + THE TENT OF NOON + CHILDREN OF DREAM + ROADSIDE FLOWERS + THE GARDEN OF SAINT ROSE + THE WORLD VOICE + SONGS OF THE GRASS + THE CHORISTERS + THE WEED'S COUNSEL + THE BLUE HERON + WOODLAND RAIN + SUMMER STORM + DANCE OF THE SUNBEAMS + THE CAMPFIRE OF THE SUN + SUMMER STREAMS + THE GOD OF THE WOODS + AT SUNRISE + AT TWILIGHT + MOONRISE + THE QUEEN OF NIGHT + NIGHT LYRIC + THE HEART OF NIGHT + PEACE + THE OLD GRAY WALL + TE DEUM + IN OCTOBER + BY STILL WATERS + LINES FOR A PICTURE + THE DESERTED PASTURE + AUTUMN + NOVEMBER TWILIGHT + THE GHOSTYARD OF THE GOLDENROD + BEFORE THE SNOW + WINTER + A WINTER PIECE + WINTER STREAMS + WINTER TWILIGHT + THE TWELFTH NIGHT STAR + A CHRISTMAS EVE CHORAL + CHRISTMAS SONG + THE WISE MEN FROM THE EAST + THE SENDING OF THE MAGI + THE ANGELS OF MAN + AT THE MAKING OF MAN + ST. MICHAEL'S STAR + THE DREAMERS + EL DORADO + ON THE PLAZA + A PAINTER'S HOLIDAY + MIRAGE + THE WINGED VICTORY + THE GATE OF PEACE + + + + +Later Poems + + + + Vestigia. + + _I took a day to search for God, + And found Him not. But as I trod + By rocky ledge, through woods untamed, + Just where one scarlet lily flamed, + I saw His footprint in the sod._ + + _Then suddenly, all unaware, + Far off in the deep shadows, where + A solitary hermit thrush + Sang through the holy twilight hush-- + I heard His voice upon the air._ + + _And even as I marvelled how + God gives us Heaven here and now, + In a stir of wind that hardly shook + The poplar leaves beside the brook-- + His hand was light upon my brow._ + + _At last with evening as I turned + Homeward, and thought what I had learned + And all that there was still to probe-- + I caught the glory of His robe + Where the last fires of sunset burned._ + + _Back to the world with quickening start + I looked and longed for any part + In making saving Beauty be.... + And from that kindling ecstasy + I knew God dwelt within my heart._ + + + + + A Remembrance. + + Here in lovely New England + When summer is come, a sea-turn + Flutters a page of remembrance + In the volume of long ago. + + Soft is the wind over Grand Pré, + Stirring the heads of the grasses, + Sweet is the breath of the orchards + White with their apple-blow. + + There at their infinite business + Of measuring time forever, + Murmuring songs of the sea, + The great tides come and go. + + Over the dikes and the uplands + Wander the great cloud shadows, + Strange as the passing of sorrow, + Beautiful, solemn, and slow. + + For, spreading her old enchantment + Of tender ineffable wonder, + Summer is there in the Northland! + How should my heart not know? + + + + + The Ships of Yule + + When I was just a little boy, + Before I went to school, + I had a fleet of forty sail + I called the Ships of Yule; + + Of every rig, from rakish brig + And gallant barkentine, + To little Fundy fishing boats + With gunwales painted green. + + They used to go on trading trips + Around the world for me, + For though I had to stay on shore + My heart was on the sea. + + They stopped at every port to call + From Babylon to Rome, + To load with all the lovely things + We never had at home; + + With elephants and ivory + Bought from the King of Tyre, + And shells and silk and sandal-wood + That sailor men admire; + + With figs and dates from Samarcand, + And squatty ginger-jars, + And scented silver amulets + From Indian bazaars; + + With sugar-cane from Port of Spain, + And monkeys from Ceylon, + And paper lanterns from Pekin + With painted dragons on; + + With cocoanuts from Zanzibar, + And pines from Singapore; + And when they had unloaded these + They could go back for more. + + And even after I was big + And had to go to school, + My mind was often far away + Aboard the Ships of Yule. + + + + + The Ships of Saint John + + Where are the ships I used to know, + That came to port on the Fundy tide + Half a century ago, + In beauty and stately pride? + + In they would come past the beacon light, + With the sun on gleaming sail and spar, + Folding their wings like birds in flight + From countries strange and far. + + Schooner and brig and barkentine, + I watched them slow as the sails were furled, + And wondered what cities they must have seen + On the other side of the world. + + Frenchman and Britisher and Dane, + Yankee, Spaniard and Portugee, + And many a home ship back again + With her stories of the sea. + + Calm and victorious, at rest + From the relentless, rough sea-play, + The wild duck on the river's breast + Was not more sure than they. + + The creatures of a passing race, + The dark spruce forests made them strong, + The sea's lore gave them magic grace, + The great winds taught them song. + + And God endowed them each with life-- + His blessing on the craftsman's skill-- + To meet the blind unreasoned strife + And dare the risk of ill. + + Not mere insensate wood and paint + Obedient to the helm's command, + But often restive as a saint + Beneath the Heavenly hand. + + All the beauty and mystery + Of life were there, adventure bold, + Youth, and the glamour of the sea + And all its sorrows old. + + And many a time I saw them go + Out on the flood at morning brave, + As the little tugs had them in tow, + And the sunlight danced on the wave. + + There all day long you could hear the sound + Of the caulking iron, the ship's bronze bell, + And the clank of the capstan going round + As the great tides rose and fell. + + The sailors' songs, the Captain's shout, + The boatswain's whistle piping shrill, + And the roar as the anchor chain runs out,-- + I often hear them still. + + I can see them still, the sun on their gear, + The shining streak as the hulls careen, + And the flag at the peak unfurling,--clear + As a picture on a screen. + + The fog still hangs on the long tide-rips, + The gulls go wavering to and fro, + But where are all the beautiful ships + I knew so long ago? + + + + + The Garden of Dreams + + My heart is a garden of dreams + Where you walk when day is done, + Fair as the royal flowers, + Calm as the lingering sun. + + Never a drouth comes there, + Nor any frost that mars, + Only the wind of love + Under the early stars,-- + + The living breath that moves + Whispering to and fro, + Like the voice of God in the dusk + Of the garden long ago. + + + + + Garden Magic + + Within my stone-walled garden + (I see her standing now, + Uplifted in the twilight, + With glory on her brow!) + + I love to walk at evening + And watch, when winds are low, + The new moon in the tree-tops, + Because she loved it so! + + And there entranced I listen, + While flowers and winds confer, + And all their conversation + Is redolent of her. + + I love the trees that guard it, + Upstanding and serene, + So noble, so undaunted, + Because that was her mien. + + I love the brook that bounds it, + Because its silver voice + Is like her bubbling laughter + That made the world rejoice. + + I love the golden jonquils, + Because she used to say, + If soul could choose a color + It would be clothed as they. + + I love the blue-gray iris, + Because her eyes were blue, + Sea-deep and heaven-tender + In meaning and in hue. + + I love the small wild roses, + Because she used to stand + Adoringly above them + And bless them with her hand. + + These were her boon companions. + But more than all the rest + I love the April lilac, + Because she loved it best. + + Soul of undying rapture! + How love's enchantment clings, + With sorcery and fragrance, + About familiar things! + + + + + In Gold Lacquer + + Gold are the great trees overhead, + And gold the leaf-strewn grass, + As though a cloth of gold were spread + To let a seraph pass. + And where the pageant should go by, + Meadow and wood and stream, + The world is all of lacquered gold, + Expectant as a dream. + + Against the sunset's burning gold, + Etched in dark monotone + Behind its alley of grey trees + And gateposts of grey stone, + Stands the Old Manse, about whose eaves + An air of mystery clings, + Abandoned to the lonely peace + Of bygone ghostly things. + + In molten gold the river winds + With languid sweep and turn, + Beside the red-gold wooded hill + Yellowed with ash and fern. + The streets are tiled with gold-green shade + And arched with fretted gold, + Ecstatic aisles that richly thread + This minster grim and old. + + The air is flecked with filtered gold,-- + The shimmer of romance + Whose ageless glamour still must hold + The world as in a trance, + Pouring o'er every time and place + Light of an amber sea, + The spell of all the gladsome things + That have been or shall be. + + + + + Aprilian + + When April came with sunshine + And showers and lilac bloom, + My heart with sudden gladness + Was like a fragrant room. + + Her eyes were heaven's own azure, + As deep as God's own truth. + Her soul was made of rapture + And mystery and youth. + + She knew the sorry burden + Of all the ancient years, + Yet could not dwell with sadness + And memory and tears. + + With her there was no shadow + Of failure nor despair, + But only loving joyance. + O Heart, how glad we were! + + + + + Garden Shadows + + When the dawn winds whisper + To the standing corn, + And the rose of morning + From the dark is born, + All my shadowy garden + Seems to grow aware + Of a fragrant presence, + Half expected there. + + In the golden shimmer + Of the burning noon, + When the birds are silent + And the poppies swoon, + Once more I behold her + Smile and turn her face, + With its infinite regard, + Its immortal grace. + + When the twilight silvers + Every nodding flower, + And the new moon hallows + The first evening hour, + Is it not her footfall + Down the garden walks, + Where the drowsy blossoms + Slumber on their stalks? + + In the starry quiet, + When the soul is free, + And a vernal message + Stirs the lilac tree, + Surely I have felt her + Pass and brush my cheek, + With the eloquence of love + That does not need to speak! + + + + + In The Day of Battle + + In the day of battle, + In the night of dread, + Let one hymn be lifted, + Let one prayer be said. + + Not for pride of conquest, + Not for vengeance wrought, + Nor for peace and safety + With dishonour bought! + + Praise for faith in freedom, + Our fighting fathers' stay, + Born of dreams and daring, + Bred above dismay. + + Prayer for cloudless vision, + And the valiant hand, + That the right may triumph + To the last demand. + + + + + Trees + + In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, + There were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- + + Trees of beauty and height and grace, + To stand in splendor before His face. + + Apple and hickory, ash and pear, + Oak and beech and the tulip rare, + + The trembling aspen, the noble pine, + The sweeping elm by the river line; + + Trees for the birds to build and sing, + And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; + + Trees to turn at the frosty call + And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall; + + Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, + Trees for the cunning builder's trade; + + Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, + The keel and the mast of the daring sail; + + He made them of every grain and girth + For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. + + Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes + From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, + + On the crown of a hill, for all to see, + God planted a scarlet maple tree. + + + + + The Givers of Life + + I + + Who called us forth out of darkness and gave us the gift of life, + Who set our hands to the toiling, our feet in the field of strife? + + Darkly they mused, predestined to knowledge of viewless things, + Sowing the seed of wisdom, guarding the living springs. + + Little they reckoned privation, hunger or hardship or cold, + If only the life might prosper, and the joy that grows not old. + + With sorceries subtler than music, with knowledge older than speech, + Gentle as wind in the wheat-field, strong as the tide on the beach, + + Out of their beauty and longing, out of their raptures and tears, + In patience and pride they bore us, to war with the warring years. + + + II + + Who looked on the world before them, and summoned and chose + our sires, + Subduing the wayward impulse to the will of their deep desires? + + Sovereigns of ultimate issues under the greater laws, + Theirs was the mystic mission of the eternal cause; + + Confident, tender, courageous, leaving the low for the higher, + Lifting the feet of the nations out of the dust and the mire; + Luring civilization on to the fair and new, + Given God's bidding to follow, having God's business to do. + + + III + + Who strengthened our souls with courage, and taught us the ways + of Earth? + Who gave us our patterns of beauty, our standards of flawless worth? + + Mothers, unmilitant, lovely, moulding our manhood then, + Walked in their woman's glory, swaying the might of men. + + They schooled us to service and honor, modest and clean and fair,-- + The code of their worth of living, taught with the sanction + of prayer. + They were our sharers of sorrow, they were our makers of joy, + Lighting the lamp of manhood in the heart of the lonely boy. + + Haloed with love and with wonder, in sheltered ways they trod, + Seers of sublime divination, keeping the truce of God. + + + IV + + Who called us from youth and dreaming, and set ambition alight, + And made us fit for the contest,--men, by their tender rite? + + Sweethearts above our merit, charming our strength and skill + To be the pride of their loving, to be the means of their will. + + If we be the builders of beauty, if we be the masters of art, + Theirs were the gleaming ideals, theirs the uplift of the heart. + + Truly they measure the lightness of trappings and ease and fame, + For the teeming desire of their yearning is ever and ever the same: + + To crown their lovers with gladness, to clothe their sons + with delight, + And see the men of their making lords in the best man's right. + + Lavish of joy and labor, broken only by wrong, + These are the guardians of being, spirited, sentient and strong. + + Theirs is the starry vision, theirs the inspiriting hope, + Since Night, the brooding enchantress, promised that day + should ope. + + + V + + Lo, we have built and invented, reasoned, discovered and planned, + To rear us a palace of splendor, and make us a heaven by hand. + + We are shaken with dark misgiving, as kingdoms rise and fall; + But the women who went to found them are never counted at all. + + Versed in the soul's traditions, skilled in humanity's lore, + They wait for their crown of rapture, and weep for the sins of war. + + And behold they turn from our triumphs, as it was in the first + of days, + For a little heaven of ardor and a little heartening of praise. + + These are the rulers of kingdoms beyond the domains of state, + Martyrs of all men's folly, over-rulers of fate. + These we will love and honor, these we will serve and defend, + Fulfilling the pride of nature, till nature shall have an end. + + + VI + + This is the code unwritten, this is the creed we hold, + Guarding the little and lonely, gladdening the helpless and old,-- + + Apart from the brunt of the battle our wondrous women shall bide, + For the sake of a tranquil wisdom and the need of a spirit's guide. + + Come they into assembly, or keep they another door, + Our makers of life shall lighten the days as the years of yore. + + The lure of their laughter shall lead us, the lilt of their words + shall sway. + Though life and death should defeat us, their solace shall be + our stay. + + Veiled in mysterious beauty, vested in magical grace, + They have walked with angels at twilight and looked upon glory's face. + + Life we will give for their safety, care for their fruitful ease, + Though we break at the toiling benches or go down in the smoky seas. + + This is the gospel appointed to govern a world of men. + Till love has died, and the echoes have whispered the last Amen. + + + + + A Fireside Vision + + Once I walked the world enchanted + Through the scented woods of spring, + Hand in hand with Love, in rapture + Just to hear a bluebird sing. + + Now the lonely winds of autumn + Moan about my gusty eaves, + As I sit beside the fire + Listening to the flying leaves. + + As the dying embers settle + And the twilight falls apace, + Through the gloom I see a vision + Full of ardor, full of grace. + + When the Architect of Beauty + Breathed the lyric soul in man, + Lo, the being that he fashioned + Was of such a mould and plan! + + Bravely through the deepening shadows + Moves that figure half divine, + With its tenderness of bearing, + With its dignity of line. + + Eyes more wonderful than evening + With the new moon on the hill, + Mouth with traces of God's humor + In its corners lurking still. + + Ah, she smiles, in recollection; + Lays a hand upon my brow; + Rests this head upon Love's bosom! + Surely it is April now! + + + + + A Water Color + + There's a picture in my room + Lightens many an hour of gloom,-- + + Cheers me under fortune's frown + And the drudgery of town. + + Many and many a winter day + When my soul sees all things gray, + + Here is veritable June, + Heart's content and spirit's boon. + + It is scarce a hand-breadth wide, + Not a span from side to side, + + Yet it is an open door + Looking back to joy once more, + + Where the level marshes lie, + A quiet journey of the eye, + + And the unsubstantial blue + Makes the fine illusion true. + + So I forth and travel there + In the blessed light and air, + + Miles of green tranquillity + Down the river to the sea. + + Here the sea-birds roam at will, + And the sea-wind on the hill + + Brings the hollow pebbly roar + From the dim and rosy shore, + + With the very scent and draft + Of the old sea's mighty craft. + + I am standing on the dunes, + By some charm that must be June's, + + When the magic of her hand + Lays a sea-spell on the land. + + And the old enchantment falls + On the blue-gray orchard walls + + And the purple high-top boles, + While the orange orioles + + Flame and whistle through the green + Of that paradisal scene. + + Strolling idly for an hour + Where the elder is in flower, + + I can hear the bob-white call + Down beyond the pasture wall. + + Musing in the scented heat, + Where the bayberry is sweet, + + I can see the shadows run + Up the cliff-side in the sun. + + Or I cross the bridge and reach + The mossers' houses on the beach, + + Where the bathers on the sand + Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned. + + Thus I pass the gates of time + And the boundaries of clime, + + Change the ugly man-made street + For God's country green and sweet. + + Fag of body, irk of mind, + In a moment left behind, + + Once more I possess my soul + With the poise and self-control + + Beauty gives the free of heart + Through the sorcery of art. + + + + + Threnody for a Poet + + Not in the ancient abbey, + Nor in the city ground, + Not in the lonely mountains, + Nor in the blue profound, + Lay him to rest when his time is come + And the smiling mortal lips are dumb; + + But here in the decent quiet + Under the whispering pines, + Where the dogwood breaks in blossom + And the peaceful sunlight shines, + Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold, + When spring comes back in her green and gold. + + And when that mortal likeness + Has been dissolved by fire, + Say not above the ashes, + "Here ends a man's desire." + For every year when the bluebirds sing, + He shall be part of the lyric spring. + + Then dreamful-hearted lovers + Shall hear in wind and rain + The cadence of his music, + The rhythm of his refrain, + For he was a blade of the April sod + That bowed and blew with the whisper of God. + + + + + Dust of the Street + + This cosmic dust beneath our feet + Rising to hurry down the street, + + Borne by the wind and blown astray + In its erratic, senseless way, + + Is the same stuff as you and I-- + With knowledge and desire put by. + + Thousands of times since time began + It has been used for making man, + + Freighted like us with every sense + Of spirit and intelligence, + + To walk the world and know the fine + Large consciousness of things divine. + + These wandering atoms in their day + Perhaps have passed this very way, + + With eager step and flowerlike face, + With lovely ardor, poise, and grace, + + On what delightful errands bent, + Passionate, generous, and intent,-- + + An angel still, though veiled and gloved, + Made to love us and to be loved. + + Friends, when the summons comes for me + To turn my back (reluctantly) + + On this delightful play, I claim + Only one thing in friendship's name; + + And you will not decline a task + So slight, when it is all I ask: + + Scatter my ashes in the street + Where avenue and crossway meet. + + I beg you of your charity, + No granite and cement for me, + + To needlessly perpetuate + An unimportant name and date. + + Others may wish to lay them down + On some fair hillside far from town, + + Where slim white birches wave and gleam + Beside a shadowy woodland stream, + + Or in luxurious beds of fern, + But I would have my dust return + + To the one place it loved the best + In days when it was happiest. + + + + + To a Young Lady on Her Birthday + + The marching years go by + And brush your garment's hem. + The bandits by and by + Will bid you go with them. + + Trust not that caravan! + Old vagabonds are they; + They'll rob you if they can, + And make believe it's play. + + Make the old robbers give + Of all the spoils they bear,-- + Their truth, to help you live,-- + Their joy, to keep you fair. + + Ask not for gauds nor gold, + Nor fame that falsely rings; + The foolish world grows old + Caring for all these things. + + Make all your sweet demands + For happiness alone, + And the years will fill your hands + With treasures rarely known. + + + + + The Gift + + I said to Life, "How comes it, + With all this wealth in store, + Of beauty, joy, and knowledge, + Thy cry is still for more? + + "Count all the years of striving + To make thy burden less,-- + The things designed and fashioned + To gladden thy success! + + "The treasures sought and gathered + Thy lightest whim to please,-- + The loot of all the ages, + The spoil of all the seas! + + "Is there no end of labor, + No limit to thy need? + Must man go bowed forever + In bondage to thy greed?" + + With tears of pride and passion + She answered, "God above! + I only wait the asking, + To spend it all for love!" + + + + + The Cry of the Hillborn + + I am homesick for the mountains-- + My heroic mother hills-- + And the longing that is on me + No solace ever stills. + + I would climb to brooding summits + With their old untarnished dreams, + Cool my heart in forest shadows + To the lull of falling streams; + + Hear the innocence of aspens + That babble in the breeze, + And the fragrant sudden showers + That patter on the trees. + + I am lonely for my thrushes + In their hermitage withdrawn, + Toning the quiet transports + Of twilight and of dawn. + + I need the pure, strong mornings, + When the soul of day is still, + With the touch of frost that kindles + The scarlet on the hill; + + Lone trails and winding woodroads + To outlooks wild and high, + And the pale moon waiting sundown + Where ledges cut the sky. + + I dream of upland clearings + Where cones of sumac burn, + And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders + Lie deep in beds of fern; + + The gray and mottled beeches, + The birches' satin sheen, + The majesty of hemlocks + Crowning the blue ravine. + + My eyes dim for the skyline + Where purple peaks aspire, + And the forges of the sunset + Flare up in golden fire. + + There crests look down unheeding + And see the great winds blow, + Tossing the huddled tree-tops + In gorges far below; + + Where cloud-mists from the warm earth + Roll up about their knees, + And hang their filmy tatters + Like prayers upon the trees. + + I cry for night-blue shadows + On plain and hill and dome,-- + The spell of old enchantments, + The sorcery of home. + + + + + A Mountain Gateway + + I know a vale where I would go one day, + When June comes back and all the world once more + Is glad with summer. Deep in shade it lies + A mighty cleft between the bosoming hills, + A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart. + + On either side the wooded slopes come down, + Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there + Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, + Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness. + Among the sunlit shadows I can see + That still perfection from the world withdrawn, + As if the wood-gods had arrested there + Immortal beauty in her breathless flight. + + The road winds in from the broad river-lands, + Luring the happy traveller turn by turn + Up to the lofty mountains of the sky. + And as he marches with uplifted face, + Far overhead against the arching blue + Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, + Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. + + And where the road runs in the valley's foot, + Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down, + Singing and dancing all its youth away + Among the boulders and the shallow runs, + Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang + Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. + + There light of heart and footfree, I would go + Up to my home among the lasting hills. + Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road, + Turn to the left and take the steeper trail + That climbs among the hemlocks, and at last + In my own cabin doorway sit me down, + Companioned in that leafy solitude + By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, + While evening passes to absolve the day + And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars. + + And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, + Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, + The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn. + So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, + They well might be, in wisdom and in joy, + The seraphs singing at the birth of time + The unworn ritual of eternal things. + + + + + Morning in the Hills + + How quiet is the morning in the hills! + The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds + Trail through the cañon, and the mountain stream + Sounds his sonorous music far below + In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove. + + Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir + Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge, + While in the hollows of the dark ravine + See the red road emerge, then disappear + Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands. + + My forest cabin half-way up the glen + Is solitary, save for one wise thrush, + The sound of falling water, and the wind + Mysteriously conversing with the leaves. + + Here I abide unvisited by doubt, + Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair, + The race of men and love and fleeting time, + What life may be, or beauty, caught and held + For a brief moment at eternal poise. + + What impulse now shall quicken and make live + This outward semblance and this inward self? + One breath of being fills the bubble world, + Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change. + + Surely some God contrived so fair a thing + In a vast leisure of uncounted days, + And touched it with the breath of living joy, + Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so. + + + + + A Wood-path + + At evening and at morning + By an enchanted way + I walk the world in wonder, + And have no word to say. + + It is the path we traversed + One twilight, thou and I; + Thy beauty all a rapture, + My spirit all a cry. + + The red leaves fall upon it, + The moon and mist and rain, + But not the magic footfall + That made its meaning plain. + + + + + Weather of the Soul + + There is a world of being + We range from pole to pole, + Through seasons of the spirit + And weather of the soul. + + It has its new-born Aprils, + With gladness in the air, + Its golden Junes of rapture, + Its winters of despair. + + And in its tranquil autumns + We halt to re-enforce + Our tattered scarlet pennons + With valor and resource. + + From undiscovered regions + Only the angels know, + Great winds of aspiration + Perpetually blow, + + To free the sap of impulse + From torpor of distrust, + And into flowers of joyance + Quicken the sentient dust. + + From nowhere of a sudden + Loom sudden clouds of fault, + With thunders of oppression + And lightnings of revolt. + + With hush of apprehension + And quaking of the heart, + There breed the storms of anger, + And floods of sorrow start. + + And there shall fall,--how gently!-- + To make them fertile yet, + The rain of absolution + On acres of regret. + + Till snows of mercy cover + The dream that shall come true, + When time makes all things wondrous, + And life makes all things new. + + + + + Here and Now + + Where is Heaven? Is it not + Just a friendly garden plot, + Walled with stone and roofed with sun, + Where the days pass one by one, + Not too fast and not too slow, + Looking backward as they go + At the beauties left behind + To transport the pensive mind! + + Is it not a greening ground + With a river for its bound, + And a wood-thrush to prolong + Fragrant twilights with his song, + When the peonies in June + Wait the rising of the moon, + And the music of the stream + Voices its immortal dream! + + There each morning will renew + The miracle of light and dew, + And the soul may joy to praise + The Lord of roses and of days; + There the caravan of noon + Halts to hear the cricket's tune, + Fifing there for all who pass + The anthem of the summer grass! + + Does not Heaven begin that day + When the eager heart can say, + Surely God is in this place, + I have seen Him face to face + In the loveliness of flowers, + In the service of the showers, + And His voice has talked to me + In the sunlit apple tree. + + I can feel Him in my heart, + When the tears of knowledge start + For another's joy or woe, + Where the lonely soul must go. + Yea, I learned His very look, + When we walked beside the brook, + And you smiled and touched my hand. + God is love... I understand. + + + + + The Angel of Joy + + There is no grief for me + Nor sadness any more; + For since I first knew thee + Great Joy has kept my door. + + That angel of the calm + All-comprehending smile, + No menace can dismay, + No falsity beguile. + + Out of the house of life + Before him fled away + Languor, regret, and strife + And sorrow on that day. + + Grim fear, unmanly doubt, + And impotent despair + Went at his bidding forth + Among the things that were,-- + + Leaving a place all clean, + Resounding of the sea + And decked with forest green, + To be a home for thee. + + + + + The Homestead. + + Here we came when love was young. + Now that love is old, + Shall we leave the floor unswept + And the hearth acold? + + Here the hill-wind in the dusk. + Wandering to and fro, + Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost + Of the long ago. + + Here from every doorway looks + A remembered face, + Every sill and panel wears + A familiar grace. + + Let the windows smile again + To the morning light, + And the door stand open wide + When the moon is bright. + + Let the breeze of twilight blow + Through the silent hall, + And the dreaming rafters hear + How the thrushes call. + + Oh, be merciful and fond + To the house that gave + All its best to shelter love, + Built when love was brave! + + Here we came when love was young, + Now that love is old, + Never let its day be lone, + Nor its heart acold! + + + + + "The Starry Midnight Whispers" + + The starry midnight whispers, + As I muse before the fire + On the ashes of ambition + And the embers of desire, + + "Life has no other logic, + And time no other creed, + Than: 'I for joy will follow. + Where thou for love dost lead!'" + + + + + A Lyric + + Oh, once I could not understand + The sob within the throat of spring,-- + The shrilling of the frogs, nor why + The birds so passionately sing. + + That was before your beauty came + And stooped to teach my soul desire, + When on these mortal lips you laid + The magic and immortal fire. + + I wondered why the sea should seem + So gray, so lonely, and so old; + The sigh of level-driving snows + In winter so forlornly cold. + + I wondered what it was could give + The scarlet autumn pomps their pride. + And paint with colors not of earth + The glory of the mountainside. + + I could not tell why youth should dream + And worship at the evening star, + And yet must go with eager feet + Where danger and where splendor are. + + I could not guess why men at times, + Beholding beauty, should go mad + With joy or sorrow or despair + Or some unknown delight they had. + + I wondered what they had received + From Time's inexorable hand + So full of loveliness and doom. + But now, ah, now I understand! + + + + + "April now in Morning Clad" + + April now in morning clad + Like a gleaming oread, + With the south wind in her voice, + Comes to bid the world rejoice. + + With the sunlight on her brow, + Through her veil of silver showers, + April o'er New England now + Trails her robe of woodland flowers,-- + + Violet and anemone; + While along the misty sea, + Pipe at lip, she seems to blow + Haunting airs of long ago. + + + + + Nike + + What do men give thanks for? + I give thanks for one, + Lovelier than morning, + Dearer than the sun. + + Such a head the victors + Must have praised and known, + With that breast and bearing, + Nike's very own-- + + As superb, untrammeled, + Rhythmed and poised and free + As the strong pure sea-wind + Walking on the sea; + + Such a hand as Beauty + Uses with full heart, + Seeking for her freedom + In new shapes of art; + + Soft as rain in April, + Quiet as the days + Of the purple asters + And the autumn haze; + + With a soul more subtle + Than the light of stars, + Frailer than a moth's wing + To the touch that mars; + + Wise with all the silence + Of the waiting hills, + When the gracious twilight + Wakes in them and thrills; + + With a voice more tender + Than the early moon + Hears among the thrushes + In the woods of June; + + Delicate as grasses + When they lift and stir-- + One sweet lyric woman-- + I give thanks for her. + + + + + The Enchanted Traveller + + We travelled empty-handed + With hearts all fear above, + For we ate the bread of friendship, + We drank the wine of love. + + Through many a wondrous autumn, + Through many a magic spring, + We hailed the scarlet banners, + We heard the blue-bird sing. + + We looked on life and nature + With the eager eyes of youth, + And all we asked or cared for + Was beauty, joy, and truth. + + We found no other wisdom, + We learned no other way, + Than the gladness of the morning, + The glory of the day. + + So all our earthly treasure + Shall go with us, my dears, + Aboard the Shadow Liner, + Across the sea of years. + + + + + Spring's Saraband + + Over the hills of April + With soft winds hand in hand, + Impassionate and dreamy-eyed, + Spring leads her saraband. + Her garments float and gather + And swirl along the plain, + Her headgear is the golden sun, + Her cloak the silver rain. + + With color and with music, + With perfumes and with pomp, + By meadowland and upland, + Through pasture, wood, and swamp, + With promise and enchantment + Leading her mystic mime, + She comes to lure the world anew + With joy as old as time. + + Quick lifts the marshy chorus + To transport, trill on trill; + There's not a rod of stony ground + Unanswering on the hill. + The brooks and little rivers + Dance down their wild ravines, + And children in the city squares + Keep time, to tambourines. + + The bluebird in the orchard + Is lyrical for her, + The blackbird with his meadow pipe + Sets all the wood astir, + The hooded white spring-beauties + Are curtsying in the breeze, + The blue hepaticas are out + Under the chestnut trees. + + The maple buds make glamor, + Viburnum waves its bloom, + The daffodils and tulips + Are risen from the tomb. + The lances of Narcissus + Have pierced the wintry mold; + The commonplace seems paradise + Through veils of greening gold. + + O heart, hear thou the summons, + Put every grief away, + When all the motley masques of earth + Are glad upon a day. + Alack, that any mortal + Should less than gladness bring + Into the choral joy that sounds + The saraband of spring! + + + + + Triumphalis + + Soul, art thou sad again + With the old sadness? + Thou shalt be glad again + With a new gladness, + When April sun and rain + Mount to the teeming brain + With the earth madness. + + When from the mould again, + Spurning disaster, + Spring shoots unfold again, + Follow thou faster + Out of the drear domain + Of dark, defeat, and pain, + Praising the Master. + + Hope for thy guide again, + Ample and splendid; + Love at thy side again, + All doubting ended; + (Ah, by the dragon slain, + For nothing small or vain + Michael contended!) + + Thou shalt take heart again, + No more despairing; + Play thy great part again, + Loving and caring. + Hark, how the gold refrain + Runs through the iron strain, + Splendidly daring! + + Thou shalt grow strong again, + Confident, tender,-- + Battle with wrong again, + Be truth's defender,-- + Of the immortal train, + Born to attempt, attain, + Never surrender! + + + + + "Now the Lengthening Twilights Hold" + + Now the lengthening twilights hold + Tints of lavender and gold, + And the marshy places ring + With the pipers of the spring. + + Now the solitary star + Lays a path on meadow streams, + And I know it is not far + To the open door of dreams. + + Lord of April, in my hour + May the dogwood be in flower, + And my angel through the dome + Of spring twilight lead me home. + + + + + The Soul of April + + Over the wintry threshold + Who comes with joy to-day, + So frail, yet so enduring, + To triumph o'er dismay? + + Ah, quick her tears are springing, + And quickly they are dried, + For sorrow walks before her, + But gladness walks beside. + + She comes with gusts of laughter,-- + The music as of rills; + With tenderness and sweetness,-- + The wisdom of the hills. + + Her hands are strong to comfort, + Her heart is quick to heed. + She knows the signs of sadness, + She knows the voice of need. + + There is no living creature, + However poor or small, + But she will know its trouble, + And hasten to its call. + + Oh, well they fare forever, + By mighty dreams possessed, + Whose hearts have lain a moment + On that eternal breast. + + + + + An April Morning + + Once more in misted April + The world is growing green. + Along the winding river + The plumey willows lean. + + Beyond the sweeping meadows + The looming mountains rise, + Like battlements of dreamland + Against the brooding skies. + + In every wooded valley + The buds are breaking through, + As though the heart of all things + No languor ever knew. + + The golden-wings and bluebirds + Call to their heavenly choirs. + The pines are blued and drifted + With smoke of brushwood fires. + + And in my sister's garden + Where little breezes run, + The golden daffodillies + Are blowing in the sun. + + + + + Earth Voices + + I + + I heard the spring wind whisper + Above the brushwood fire, + "The world is made forever + Of transport and desire. + + I am the breath of being, + The primal urge of things; + I am the whirl of star dust, + I am the lift of wings. + + "I am the splendid impulse + That comes before the thought, + The joy and exaltation + Wherein the life is caught. + + "Across the sleeping furrows + I call the buried seed, + And blade and bud and blossom + Awaken at my need. + + "Within the dying ashes + I blow the sacred spark, + And make the hearts of lovers + To leap against the dark." + + + II + + I heard the spring light whisper + Above the dancing stream, + "The world is made forever + In likeness of a dream. + + "I am the law of planets, + I am the guide of man; + The evening and the morning + Are fashioned to my plan. + + "I tint the dawn with crimson, + I tinge the sea with blue; + My track is in the desert, + My trail is in the dew. + + "I paint the hills with color, + And in my magic dome + I light the star of evening + To steer the traveller home. + + "Within the house of being, + I feed the lamp of truth + With tales of ancient wisdom + And prophecies of youth." + + + III + + I heard the spring rain murmur + Above the roadside flower, + "The world is made forever + In melody and power. + + "I keep the rhythmic measure + That marks the steps of time, + And all my toil is fashioned + To symmetry and rhyme. + + "I plow the untilled upland, + I ripe the seeding grass, + And fill the leafy forest + With music as I pass. + + "I hew the raw, rough granite + To loveliness of line, + And when my work is finished, + Behold, it is divine! + + "I am the master-builder + In whom the ages trust. + I lift the lost perfection + To blossom from the dust." + + + IV + + Then Earth to them made answer, + As with a slow refrain + Born of the blended voices + Of wind and sun and rain, + + "This is the law of being + That links the threefold chain: + The life we give to beauty + Returns to us again." + + + + + Resurgam + + Lo, now comes the April pageant + And the Easter of the year. + Now the tulip lifts her chalice, + And the hyacinth his spear; + All the daffodils and jonquils + With their hearts of gold are here. + Child of the immortal vision, + What hast thou to do with fear? + + When the summons wakes the impulse, + And the blood beats in the vein, + Let no grief thy dream encumber, + No regret thy thought detain. + Through the scented bloom-hung valleys, + Over tillage, wood and plain, + Comes the soothing south wind laden + With the sweet impartial rain. + + All along the roofs and pavements + Pass the volleying silver showers, + To unfold the hearts of humans + And the frail unanxious flowers. + Breeding fast in sunlit places, + Teeming life puts forth her powers, + And the migrant wings come northward + On the trail of golden hours. + + Over intervale and upland + Sounds the robin's interlude + From his tree-top spire at evening + Where no unbeliefs intrude. + Every follower of beauty + Finds in the spring solitude + Sanctuary and persuasion + Where the mysteries still brood. + + Now the bluebird in the orchard, + A warm sighing at the door, + And the soft haze on the hillside, + Lure the houseling to explore + The perennial enchanted + Lovely world and all its lore; + While the early tender twilight + Breathes of those who come no more. + + By full brimming river margins + Where the scents of brush fires blow, + Through the faint green mist of springtime, + Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go, + Touched with such immortal madness + Not a thing they care to know + More than those who caught life's secret + Countless centuries ago. + + In old Egypt for Osiris, + Putting on the green attire, + With soft hymns and choric dancing + They went forth to greet the fire + Of the vernal sun, whose ardor + His earth children could inspire; + And the ivory flutes would lead them + To the slake of their desire. + + In remembrance of Adonis + Did the Dorian maidens sing + Linus songs of joy and sorrow + For the coming back of spring,-- + Sorrow for the wintry death + Of each irrevocable thing, + Joy for all the pangs of beauty + The returning year could bring. + + Now the priests and holy women + With sweet incense, chant and prayer, + Keep His death and resurrection + Whose new love bade all men share + Immortality of kindness, + Living to make life more fair. + Wakened to such wealth of being, + Who would not arise and dare? + + Seeing how each new fulfilment + Issues at the call of need + From infinitudes of purpose + In the core of soul and seed, + Who shall set the bounds of puissance + Or the formulas of creed? + Truth awaits the test of beauty, + Good is proven in the deed. + + Therefore, give thy spring renascence,-- + Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,-- + To make perfect and replenish + All the sorry fault and dearth + Of the life from whose enrichment + Thine aspiring will had birth; + Take thy part in the redemption + Of thy kind from bonds of earth. + + So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty, + Even in this mortal clime + Share the life that is eternal, + Brother to the lords of time,-- + Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,-- + Builders of the world sublime. + Yesterday was not earth's evening + Every morning is our prime. + + All that can be worth the rescue + From oblivion and decay,-- + Joy and loveliness and wisdom,-- + In thyself, without dismay + Thou shalt save and make enduring + Through each word and act, to sway + The hereafter to a likeness + Of thyself in other clay. + + Still remains the peradventure, + Soul pursues an orbit here + Like those unreturning comets, + Sweeping on a vast career, + By an infinite directrix, + Focussed to a finite sphere,-- + Nurtured in an earthly April, + In what realm to reappear? + + + + + Easter Eve + + If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows + of Silvermine, + Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began + to shine; + Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking + in Ponus Street; + You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of + enough red meat!" + + Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating + on Wampanaw, + Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard black + ice I saw + An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house + to rights, + Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare + for the winter nights. + + And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm + as you please. + But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden, + who kept the keys? + Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the + lily roots, + And then in the first warm days of April--out to the sun + with the greening shoots? + + By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails + of air, + The spring express--but who despatched it, equipped with speed + and cunning care? + Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant + of the happy heart, + As full of light as a theme of Mozart's--but where did he learn + that more than art? + + Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as the + south wind brings the rain, + Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back + to his nest again. + Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose + of natural fact; + Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures, + that bids them act." + + Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that + of the beasts and birds, + Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic, + too vague for words. + No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty + is somewhere born; + No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow + as the growing corn. + + Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days + of earth. + To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import + and lovely worth. + If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit + of will and power, + To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and the + waiting hour, + + It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me + and sorrows scar, + Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the + evening star. + The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the + wind, my friend. + Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare + ill in the end? + + + + + Now is the Time of Year + + Now is the time of year + When all the flutes begin,-- + The redwing bold and clear, + The rainbird far and thin. + + In all the waking lands + There's not a wilding thing + But knows and understands + The burden of the spring. + + Now every voice alive + By rocky wood and stream + Is lifted to revive + The ecstasy, the dream. + + For Nature, never old, + But busy as of yore, + From sun and rain and mould + Is making spring once more. + + She sounds her magic note + By river-marge and hill, + And every woodland throat + Re-echoes with a thrill. + + O mother of our days, + Hearing thy music call. + Teach us to know thy ways + And fear no more at all! + + + + + The Redwing + + I hear you, Brother, I hear you, + Down in the alder swamp, + Springing your woodland whistle + To herald the April pomp! + + First of the moving vanguard, + In front of the spring you come, + Where flooded waters sparkle + And streams in the twilight hum. + + You sound the note of the chorus + By meadow and woodland pond, + Till, one after one up-piping, + A myriad throats respond. + + I see you, Brother, I see you, + With scarlet under your wing, + Flash through the ruddy maples, + Leading the pageant of spring. + + Earth has put off her raiment + Wintry and worn and old, + For the robe of a fair young sibyl. + Dancing in green and gold. + + I heed you, Brother. To-morrow + I, too, in the great employ, + Will shed my old coat of sorrow + For a brand-new garment of joy. + + + + + The Rainbird + + I hear a rainbird singing + Far off. How fine and clear + His plaintive voice comes ringing + With rapture to the ear! + + Over the misty wood-lots, + Across the first spring heat, + Comes the enchanted cadence, + So clear, so solemn-sweet. + + How often I have hearkened + To that high pealing strain + Across wild cedar barrens, + Under the soft gray rain! + + How often I have wondered, + And longed in vain to know + The source of that enchantment, + That touch of human woe! + + O brother, who first taught thee + To haunt the teeming spring + With that sad mortal wisdom + Which only age can bring? + + + + + Lament + + When you hear the white-throat pealing + From a tree-top far away, + And the hills are touched with purple + At the borders of the day; + + When the redwing sounds his whistle + At the coming on of spring, + And the joyous April pipers + Make the alder marshes ring; + + When the wild new breath of being + Whispers to the world once more, + And before the shrine of beauty + Every spirit must adore; + + When long thoughts come back with twilight, + And a tender deepened mood + Shows the eyes of the beloved + Like the hepaticas in the wood; + + Ah, remember, when to nothing + Save to love your heart gives heed, + And spring takes you to her bosom,-- + So it was with Golden Weed! + + + + + Under the April Moon + + Oh, well the world is dreaming + Under the April moon, + Her soul in love with beauty, + Her senses all a-swoon! + + Pure hangs the silver crescent + Above the twilight wood, + And pure the silver music + Wakes from the marshy flood. + + O Earth, with all thy transport, + How comes it life should seem + A shadow in the moonlight, + A murmur in a dream? + + + + + The Flute of Spring + + I know a shining meadow stream + That winds beneath an Eastern hill, + And all year long in sun or gloom + Its murmuring voice is never still. + + The summer dies more gently there, + The April flowers are earlier,-- + The first warm rain-wind from the Sound + Sets all their eager hearts astir. + + And there when lengthening twilights fall + As softly as a wild bird's wing, + Across the valley in the dusk + I hear the silver flute of spring. + + + + + Spring Night + + In the wondrous star-sown night, + In the first sweet warmth of spring, + I lie awake and listen + To hear the glad earth sing. + + I hear the brook in the wood + Murmuring, as it goes, + The song of the happy journey + Only the wise heart knows. + + I hear the trilling note + Of the tree-frog under the hill, + And the clear and watery treble + Of his brother, silvery shrill. + + And then I wander away + Through the mighty forest of Sleep, + To follow the fairy music + To the shore of an endless deep. + + + + + Bloodroot + + When April winds arrive + And the soft rains are here, + Some morning by the roadside + These Fairy folk appear. + + We never see their coming, + However sharp our eyes; + Each year as if by magic + They take us by surprise. + + Along the ragged woodside + And by the green spring-run, + Their small white heads are nodding + And twinkling in the sun. + + They crowd across the meadow + In innocence and mirth, + As if there were no sorrow + In all this wondrous earth. + + So frail, so unregarded, + And yet about them clings + A sorcery of welcome,-- + The joy of common things. + + Perhaps their trail of beauty + Across the pasture sod + In jubilant procession + Is where an angel trod. + + + + + Daffodil's Return + + What matter if the sun be lost? + What matter though the sky be gray? + There's joy enough about the house, + For Daffodil comes home to-day. + + There's news of swallows on the air, + There's word of April on the way, + They're calling flowers within the street, + And Daffodil comes home to-day. + + O who would care what fate may bring, + Or what the years may take away! + There's life enough within the hour, + For Daffodil comes home to-day. + + + + + Now the Lilac Tree's in Bud + + Now the lilac tree's in bud, + And the morning birds are loud. + Now a stirring in the blood + Moves the heart of every crowd. + + Word has gone abroad somewhere + Of a great impending change. + There's a message in the air + Of an import glad and strange. + + Not an idler in the street, + But is better off to-day. + Not a traveller you meet, + But has something wise to say. + + Now there's not a road too long, + Not a day that is not good, + Not a mile but hears a song + Lifted from the misty wood. + + Down along the Silvermine + That's the blackbird's cheerful note! + You can see him flash and shine + With the scarlet on his coat. + + Now the winds are soft with rain, + And the twilight has a spell, + Who from gladness could refrain + Or with olden sorrows dwell? + + + + + White Iris + + White Iris was a princess + In a kingdom long ago, + Mysterious as moonlight + And silent as the snow. + + She drew the world in wonder + And swayed it with desire, + Ere Babylon was builded + Or a stone laid in Tyre. + + Yet here within my garden + Her loveliness appears, + Undimmed by any sorrow + Of all the tragic years. + + How kind that earth should treasure + So beautiful a thing-- + All mystical enchantment, + To stir our hearts in spring! + + + + + The Tree of Heaven + + Young foreign-born Ailanthus, + Because he grew so fast, + We scorned his easy daring + And doubted it would last. + + But lo, when autumn gathers + And all the woods are old, + He stands in green and salmon, + A glory to behold! + + Among the ancient monarchs + His airy tent is spread. + His robe of coronation + Is tasseled rosy red. + + With something strange and Eastern, + His height and grace proclaim + His lineage and title + Is that celestial name. + + This is the Tree of Heaven, + Which seems to say to us, + "Behold how rife is beauty, + And how victorious!" + + + + + Peony + + "_Pionia virtutem habet occultam._" + Arnoldus Villanova--1235-1313. + + _Arnoldus Villanova + Six hundred years ago + Said Peonies have magic, + And I believe it so. + There stands his learned dictum + Which any boy may read, + But he who learns the secret + Will be made wise indeed._ + + _Astrologer and doctor + In the science of his day, + Have we so far outstripped him? + What more is there to say? + His medieval Latin + Records the truth for us, + Which I translate--virtutem + Habet occultam--thus:_ + + She hath a deep-hid virtue + No other flower hath. + When summer comes rejoicing + A-down my garden path, + In opulence of color, + In robe of satin sheen, + She casts o'er all the hours + Her sorcery serene. + + A subtile, heartening fragrance + Comes piercing the warm hush, + And from the greening woodland + I hear the first wild thrush. + They move my heart to pity + For all the vanished years, + With ecstasy of longing + And tenderness of tears. + + By many names we call her,-- + Pale exquisite Aurore, + Luxuriant Gismonda + Or sunny Couronne D'Or. + What matter,--Grandiflora, + A queen in some proud book, + Or sweet familiar Piny + With her old-fashioned look? + + The crowding Apple blossoms + Above the orchard wall; + The Moonflower in August + When eerie nights befall; + Chrysanthemum in autumn, + Whose pageantries appear + With mystery and silence + To deck the dying year; + + And many a mystic flower + Of the wildwood I have known, + But Pionia Arnoldi + Hath a transport all her own. + For Peony, my Peony, + Hath strength to make me whole,-- + She gives her heart of beauty + For the healing of my soul. + + _Arnoldus Villanova, + Though earth is growing old, + As long as life has longing + Your guess at truth will hold. + Still works the hidden power + After a thousand springs,-- + The medicine for heartache + That lurks in lovely things._ + + + + + The Urban Pan + + Once more the magic days are come + With stronger sun and milder air; + The shops are full of daffodils; + There's golden leisure everywhere. + I heard my Lou this morning shout: + "Here comes the hurdy-gurdy man!" + And through the open window caught + The piping of the urban Pan. + + I laid my wintry task aside, + And took a day to follow joy: + The trail of beauty and the call + That lured me when I was a boy. + I looked, and there looked up at me + A smiling, swarthy, hairy man + With kindling eye--and well I knew + The piping of the urban Pan. + + He caught my mood; his hat was off; + I tossed the ungrudged silver down. + The cunning vagrant, every year + He casts his spell upon the town! + And we must fling him, old and young, + Our dimes or coppers, as we can; + And every heart must leap to hear + The piping of the urban Pan. + + The music swells and fades again, + And I in dreams am far away, + Where a bright river sparkles down + To meet a blue Aegean bay. + There, in the springtime of the world, + Are dancing fauns, and in their van, + Is one who pipes a deathless tune-- + The earth-born and the urban Pan. + + And so he follows down the block, + A troop of children in his train, + The light-foot dancers of the street + Enamored of the reedy strain. + I hear their laughter rise and ring + Above the noise of truck and van, + As down the mellow wind fades out + The piping of the urban Pan. + + + + + The Sailing of the Fleets + + Now the spring is in the town, + Now the wind is in the tree, + And the wintered keels go down + To the calling of the sea. + + Out from mooring, dock, and slip, + Through the harbor buoys they glide, + Drawing seaward till they dip + To the swirling of the tide. + + One by one and two by two, + Down the channel turns they go, + Steering for the open blue + Where the salty great airs blow; + + Craft of many a build and trim, + Every stitch of sail unfurled, + Till they hang upon the rim + Of the azure ocean world. + + Who has ever, man or boy, + Seen the sea all flecked with gold, + And not longed to go with joy + Forth upon adventures bold? + + Who could bear to stay indoor, + Now the wind is in the street, + For the creaking of the oar + And the tugging of the sheet! + + Now the spring is in the town, + Who would not a rover be, + When the wintered keels go down + To the calling of the sea? + + + + + 'Tis May now in New England + + 'Tis May now in New England + And through the open door + I see the creamy breakers, + I hear the hollow roar. + + Back to the golden marshes + Comes summer at full tide, + But not the golden comrade + Who was the summer's pride. + + + + + In Early May + + O my dear, the world to-day + Is more lovely than a dream! + Magic hints from far away + Haunt the woodland, and the stream + Murmurs in his rocky bed + Things that never can be said. + + Starry dogwood is in flower, + Gleaming through the mystic woods. + It is beauty's perfect hour + In the wild spring solitudes. + Now the orchards in full blow + Shed their petals white as snow. + + All the air is honey-sweet + With the lilacs white and red, + Where the blossoming branches meet + In an arbor overhead. + And the laden cherry trees + Murmur with the hum of bees. + + All the earth is fairy green, + And the sunlight filmy gold, + Full of ecstasies unseen, + Full of mysteries untold. + Who would not be out-of-door, + Now the spring is here once more! + + + + + Fireflies + + The fireflies across the dusk + Are flashing signals through the gloom-- + Courageous messengers of light + That dare immensities of doom. + + About the seeding meadow-grass, + Like busy watchmen in the street, + They come and go, they turn and pass, + Lighting the way for Beauty's feet. + + Or up they float on viewless wings + To twinkle high among the trees, + And rival with soft glimmerings + The shining of the Pleiades. + + The stars that wheel above the hill + Are not more wonderful to see, + Nor the great tasks that they fulfill + More needed in eternity. + + + + + The Path to Sankoty + + It winds along the headlands + Above the open sea-- + The lonely moorland footpath + That leads to Sankoty. + + The crooning sea spreads sailless + And gray to the world's rim, + Where hang the reeking fog-banks + Primordial and dim. + + There fret the ceaseless currents, + And the eternal tide + Chafes over hidden shallows + Where the white horses ride. + + The wistful fragrant moorlands + Whose smile bids panic cease, + Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed + In grave and lonely peace. + + Across their flowering bosom, + From the far end of day + Blow clean the great soft moor-winds + All sweet with rose and bay. + + A world as large and simple + As first emerged for man, + Cleared for the human drama, + Before the play began. + + O well the soul must treasure + The calm that sets it free-- + The vast and tender skyline, + The sea-turn's wizardry, + + Solace of swaying grasses, + The friendship of sweet-fern-- + And in the world's confusion + Remembering, must yearn + + To tread the moorland footpath + That leads to Sankoty, + Hearing the field-larks shrilling + Beside the sailless sea. + + + + + Off Monomoy + + Have you sailed Nantucket Sound + By lightship, buoy, and bell, + And lain becalmed at noon + On an oily summer swell? + + Lazily drooped the sail, + Moveless the pennant hung, + Sagging over the rail + Idle the main boom swung; + + The sea, one mirror of shine + A single breath would destroy, + Save for the far low line + Of treacherous Monomoy. + + Yet eastward there toward Spain, + What castled cities rise + From the Atlantic plain, + To our enchanted eyes! + + Turret and spire and roof + Looming out of the sea, + Where the prosy chart gives proof + No cape nor isle can be! + + Can a vision shine so clear + Wherein no substance dwells? + One almost harks to hear + The sound of the city's bells. + + And yet no pealing notes + Within those belfries be, + Save echoes from the throats + Of ship-bells lost at sea. + + For none shall anchor there + Save those who long of yore, + When tide and wind were fair, + Sailed and came back no more. + + And none shall climb the stairs + Within those ghostly towers, + Save those for whom sad prayers + Went up through fateful hours. + + O image of the world, + O mirage of the sea, + Cloud-built and foam-impearled. + What sorcery fashioned thee? + + What architect of dream, + What painter of desire, + Conceived that fairy scheme + Touched with fantastic fire? + + Even so our city of hope + We mortal dreamers rear + Upon the perilous slope + Above the deep of fear; + + Leaving half-known the good + Our kindly earth bestows, + For the feigned beatitude + Of a future no man knows. + + Lord of the summer sea, + Whose tides are in thy hand, + Into immensity + The vision at thy command + + Fades now, and leaves no sign,-- + No light nor bell nor buoy,-- + Only the faint low line + Of dangerous Monomoy. + + + + + In St. Germain Street + + Through the street of St. Germain + March the tattered hosts of rain, + + While the wind with vagrant fife + Whips their chilly ranks to life. + + From the window I can see + Their ghostly banners blowing free, + + As they pass to where the ships + Crowd about the wharves and slips. + + There at day's end they embark + To invade the realms of dark, + + And the sun comes out again + In the street of St. Germain. + + + + + Pan in the Catskills + + They say that he is dead, and now no more + The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, + When the long summer heat is on the land. + But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, + And therefore am incredulous of death, + Of pain and sorrow and mortality. + + In these blue cañons, deep with hemlock shade, + In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, + I have been rapt away from time and care + By the enchantment of a golden strain + As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, + Filling the listener with a mute surmise. + + At evening and at morning I have gone + Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, + And heard the haunting music of the wood + Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, + Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy + And all the ardors of creation old. + + And then within my pagan heart awoke + Remembrance of far-off and fabled years + In the untarnished sunrise of the world, + When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard + A slow mysterious piping wild and keen + Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!" + + + + + A New England June + + _These things I remember + Of New England June, + Like a vivid day-dream + In the azure noon, + While one haunting figure + Strays through every scene, + Like the soul of beauty + Through her lost demesne._ + + Gardens full of roses + And peonies a-blow + In the dewy morning, + Row on stately row, + Spreading their gay patterns, + Crimson, pied and cream, + Like some gorgeous fresco + Or an Eastern dream. + + Nets of waving sunlight + Falling through the trees; + Fields of gold-white daisies + Rippling in the breeze; + Lazy lifting groundswells, + Breaking green as jade + On the lilac beaches, + Where the shore-birds wade. + + Orchards full of blossom, + Where the bob-white calls + And the honeysuckle + Climbs the old gray walls; + Groves of silver birches, + Beds of roadside fern, + In the stone-fenced pasture + At the river's turn. + + _Out of every picture + Still she comes to me + With the morning freshness + Of the summer sea,-- + A glory in her bearing, + A sea-light in her eyes, + As if she could not forget + The spell of Paradise._ + + Thrushes in the deep woods, + With their golden themes, + Fluting like the choirs + At the birth of dreams. + Fireflies in the meadows + At the gate of Night, + With their fairy lanterns + Twinkling soft and bright. + + Ah, not in the roses, + Nor the azure noon, + Nor the thrushes' music, + Lies the soul of June. + It is something finer, + More unfading far, + Than the primrose evening + And the silver star; + + Something of the rapture + My beloved had, + When she made the morning + Radiant and glad,-- + Something of her gracious + Ecstasy of mien, + That still haunts the twilight, + Loving though unseen. + + _When the ghostly moonlight + Walks my garden ground, + Like a leisurely patrol + On his nightly round, + These things I remember + Of the long ago, + While the slumbrous roses + Neither care nor know._ + + + + + The Tent of Noon + + Behold, now, where the pageant of high June + Halts in the glowing noon! + The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; + The bannered hosts are still, + While over forest crown and mountain head + The azure tent is spread. + + The song is hushed in every woodland throat; + Moveless the lilies float; + Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea + Sighs only fitfully; + The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; + Peace on the world is laid. + + It is the hour when Nature's caravan, + That bears the pilgrim Man + Across the desert of uncharted time + To his far hope sublime, + Rests in the green oasis of the year, + As if the end drew near. + + Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise + For these fleet halcyon days?-- + No courage to uplift thee from despair + Born with the breath of prayer? + Then turn thee to the lilied field once more! + God stands in his tent door. + + + + + Children of Dream + + The black ash grows in the swampy ground, + The white ash in the dry; + The thrush he holds to the woodland bound, + The hawk to the open sky. + + The trout he runs to the mountain brook, + The swordfish keeps the sea; + The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows. + The clover calls the bee. + + The locust sings in the August noon, + The frog in the April night; + The iris loves the meadow-land, + The laurel loves the height. + + And each will hold his tenure old + Of earth and sun and stream, + For all are creatures of desire + And children of a dream. + + + + + Roadside Flowers + + We are the roadside flowers, + Straying from garden grounds,-- + Lovers of idle hours, + Breakers of ordered bounds. + + If only the earth will feed us, + If only the wind be kind, + We blossom for those who need us, + The stragglers left behind. + + And lo, the Lord of the Garden, + He makes his sun to rise, + And his rain to fall with pardon + On our dusty paradise. + + On us he has laid the duty,-- + The task of the wandering breed,-- + To better the world with beauty, + Wherever the way may lead. + + Who shall inquire of the season, + Or question the wind where it blows? + We blossom and ask no reason. + The Lord of the Garden knows. + + + + + The Garden of Saint Rose + + This is a holy refuge, + The garden of Saint Rose, + A fragrant altar to that peace + The world no longer knows. + + Below a solemn hillside, + Within the folding shade + Of overhanging beech and pine + Its walls and walks are laid. + + Cool through the heat of summer, + Still as a sacred grove, + It has the rapt unworldly air + Of mystery and love. + + All day before its outlook + The mist-blue mountains loom, + And in its trees at tranquil dusk + The early stars will bloom. + + Down its enchanted borders + Glad ranks of color stand, + Like hosts of silent seraphim + Awaiting love's command. + + Lovely in adoration + They wait in patient line, + Snow-white and purple and deep gold + About the rose-gold shrine. + + And there they guard the silence, + While still from her recess + Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down + In mellow loveliness. + + She seems to say, "O stranger, + Behold how loving care + That gives its life for beauty's sake, + Makes everything more fair! + + "Then praise the Lord of gardens + For tree and flower and vine, + And bless all gardeners who have wrought + A resting place like mine!" + + + + + The World Voice + + I heard the summer sea + Murmuring to the shore + Some endless story of a wrong + The whole world must deplore. + + I heard the mountain wind + Conversing with the trees + Of an old sorrow of the hills, + Mysterious as the sea's. + + And all that haunted day + It seemed that I could hear + The echo of an ancient speech + Ring in my listening ear. + + And then it came to me, + That all that I had heard + Was my own heart in the sea's voice + And the wind's lonely word. + + + + + Songs of the Grass + + I + + ON THE DUNES. + + Here all night on the dunes + In the rocking wind we sleep, + Watched by sentry stars, + Lulled by the drone of the deep. + + Till hark, in the chill of the dawn + A field lark wakes and cries, + And over the floor of the sea + We watch the round sun rise. + + The world is washed once more + In a tide of purple and gold, + And the heart of the land is filled + With desires and dreams untold. + + + II + + LORD OF MORNING. + + Lord of morning, light of day, + Sacred color-kindling sun, + We salute thee in the way,-- + Pilgrims robed in rose and dun. + + For thou art a pilgrim too, + Overlord of all our band. + In thy fervor we renew + Quests we do not understand. + + At thy summons we arise, + At thy touch put glory on. + And with glad unanxious eyes + Take the journey thou hast gone. + + + III + + THE TRAVELLER. + + Before the night-blue fades + And the stars are quite gone, + I lift my head + At the noiseless tread + Of the angel of dawn. + + I hear no word, yet my heart + Is beating apace; + Then in glory all still + On the eastern hill + I behold his face. + + All day through the world he goes, + Making glad, setting free; + Then his day's work done, + On the galleon sun + He sinks in the sea. + + + + + The Choristers + + When earth was finished and fashioned well, + There was never a musical note to tell + How glad God was, save the voice of the rain + And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain + And the rivers among the hills. + And so God made the marvellous birds + For a choir of joy transcending words, + That the world might hear and comprehend + How rhythm and harmony can mend + The spirits' hurts and ills. + + He filled their tiny bodies with fire, + He taught them love for their chief desire, + And gave them the magic of wings to be + His celebrants over land and sea, + Wherever man might dwell. + And to each he apportioned a fragment of song-- + Those broken melodies that belong + To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn + The healing of gladness and discern + In beauty how all is well. + + So music dwells in the glorious throats + Forever, and the enchanted notes + Fall with rapture upon our ears, + Moving our hearts to joy and tears + For things we cannot say. + In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain + His pure, serene, half-wistful strain; + And when twilight falls the sleeping hills + Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills + In the blue dusk far away. + + In the great white heart of the winter storm + The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm, + And his note is brave to rally the soul + From doubt and panic to self-control + And elation that knows no fear. + The bluebird comes with the winds of March, + Like a shred of sky on the naked larch; + The redwing follows the April rain + To whistle contentment back again + With his sturdy call of cheer. + + The orioles revel through orchard boughs + In their coats of gold for spring's carouse; + In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call, + And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall + Under the evening star. + On the verge of June when peonies blow + And joy comes back to the world we know, + The bobolinks fill the fields of light + With a tangle of music silver-bright + To tell how glad they are. + + The tiny warblers fill summer trees + With their exquisite lesser litanies; + The tanager in his scarlet coat + In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat + His canticle of the sun. + The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky, + And the sea-gull--each has a piercing cry, + Like outposts set in the lonely vast + To cry "all's well" as Time goes past + And another hour is gone. + + But of all the music in God's plan + Of a mystical symphony for man, + I shall remember best of all-- + Whatever hereafter may befall + Or pass and cease to be-- + The hermit's hymn in the solitudes + Of twilight through the mountain woods, + And the field-larks crying about our doors + On the soft sweet wind across the moors + At morning by the sea. + + + + + The Weed's Counsel + + _Said a traveller by the way + Pausing, "What hast thou to say, + Flower by the dusty road, + That would ease a mortal's load?"_ + + Traveller, hearken unto me! + I will tell thee how to see + Beauties in the earth and sky + Hidden from the careless eye. + I will tell thee how to hear + Nature's music wild and clear,-- + Songs of midday and of dark + Such as many never mark, + Lyrics of creation sung + Ever since the world was young. + + And thereafter thou shalt know + Neither weariness nor woe. + + Thou shalt see the dawn unfold + Artistries of rose and gold, + And the sunbeams on the sea + Dancing with the wind for glee. + The red lilies of the moors + Shall be torches on the floors, + Where the field-lark lifts his cry + To rejoice the passer-by, + In a wide world rimmed with blue + Lovely as when time was new. + + And thereafter thou shalt fare + Light of foot and free from care. + + I will teach thee how to find + Lost enchantments of the mind + All about thee, never guessed + By indifferent unrest. + Thy distracted thought shall learn + Patience from the roadside fern, + And a sweet philosophy + From the flowering locust tree,-- + While thy heart shall not disdain + The consolation of the rain. + + Not an acre but shall give + Of its strength to help thee live. + + With the many-wintered sun + Shall thy hardy course be run. + And the bright new moon shall be + A lamp to thy felicity. + When green-mantled spring shall come + Past thy door with flute and drum, + And when over wood and swamp + Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, + No misgiving shalt thou know, + Passing glad to rise and go. + + So thy days shall be unrolled + Like a wondrous cloth of gold. + + When gray twilight with her star + Makes a heaven that is not far, + Touched with shadows and with dreams, + Thou shalt hear the woodland streams + Singing through the starry night + Holy anthems of delight. + So the ecstasy of earth + Shall refresh thee as at birth, + And thou shalt arise each morn + Radiant with a soul reborn. + + And this wisdom of a day + None shall ever take away. + + What the secret, what the clew + The wayfarer must pursue? + Only one thing he must have + Who would share these transports brave. + Love within his heart must dwell + Like a bubbling roadside well, + For a spring to quicken thought, + Else my counsel comes to naught. + For without that quickening trust + We are less than roadside dust. + + This, O traveller, is my creed,-- + All the wisdom of the weed! + + _Then the traveller set his pack + Once more on his dusty back, + And trudged on for many a mile + Fronting fortune with a smile._ + + + + + The Blue Heron + + I see the great blue heron + Rising among the reeds + And floating down the wind, + Like a gliding sail + With the set of the stream. + + I hear the two-horse mower + Clacking among the hay, + In the heat of a July noon, + And the driver's voice + As he turns his team. + + I see the meadow lilies + Flecked with their darker tan, + The elms, and the great white clouds; + And all the world + Is a passing dream. + + + + + Woodland Rain + + Shining, shining children + Of the summer rain, + Racing down the valley, + Sweeping o'er the plain! + + Rushing through the forest, + Pelting on the leaves, + Drenching down the meadow + With its standing sheaves; + + Robed in royal silver, + Girt with jewels gay, + With a gust of gladness + You pass upon your way. + + Fresh, ah, fresh behind you, + Sunlit and impearled, + As it was in Eden, + Lies the lovely world! + + + + + Summer Storm + + The hilltop trees are bowing + Under the coming of storm. + The low, gray clouds are trailing + Like squadrons that sweep and form, + With their ammunition of rain. + + Then the trumpeter wind gives signal + To unlimber the viewless guns; + The cattle huddle together; + Indoors the farmer runs; + And the first shot lashes the pane. + + They charge through the quiet orchard; + One pear tree is snapped like a wand; + As they sweep from the shattered hillside, + Ruffling the blackened pond, + Ere the sun takes the field again. + + + + + Dance of the Sunbeams + + When morning is high o'er the hilltops, + On river and stream and lake, + Wherever a young breeze whispers, + The sun-clad dancers wake. + + One after one up-springing, + They flash from their dim retreat. + Merry as running laughter + Is the news of their twinkling feet. + + Over the floors of azure + Wherever the wind-flaws run, + Sparkling, leaping, and racing, + Their antics scatter the sun. + + As long as water ripples + And weather is clear and glad, + Day after day they are dancing, + Never a moment sad. + + But when through the field of heaven + The wings of storm take flight, + At a touch of the flying shadows + They falter and slip from sight. + + Until at the gray day's ending, + As the squadrons of cloud retire, + They pass in the triumph of sunset + With banners of crimson fire. + + + + + The Campfire of the Sun + + Lo, now, the journeying sun, + Another day's march done, + Kindles his campfire at the edge of night! + And in the twilight pale + Above his crimson trail, + The stars move out their cordons still and bright. + + Now in the darkening hush + A solitary thrush + Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep; + While brooding on her best, + The wandering soul has rest, + And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep. + + + + + Summer Streams + + All day long beneath the sun + Shining through the fields they run, + + Singing in a cadence known + To the seraphs round the throne. + + And the traveller drawing near + Through the meadow, halts to hear + + Anthems of a natural joy + No disaster can destroy. + + All night long from set of sun + Through the starry woods they run, + + Singing through the purple dark + Songs to make a traveller hark. + + All night long, when winds are low, + Underneath my window go + + The immortal happy streams, + Making music through my dreams. + + + + + The God of the Wood + + Here all the forces of the wood + As one converge, + To make the soul of solitude + Where all things merge. + + The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, + The visiting moon, + The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, + Each with its boon. + + Here power attains perfection still + In mighty ease, + That the great earth may have her will + Of joy and peace. + + And so through me, the mortal born + Of plasmic clay, + Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, + And glad, have sway. + + Eternal passions, ardors fine, + And monstrous fears, + Rule and rebel, serene, malign, + Or loosed in tears; + + Until at last they shall evolve + From griefs and joys + Some steady light, some firm resolve, + Some Godlike poise. + + + + + At Sunrise + + Now the stars have faded + In the purple chill, + Lo, the sun is kindling + On the eastern hill. + + Tree by tree the forest + Takes the golden tinge, + As the shafts of glory + Pierce the summit's fringe. + + Rock by rock the ledges + Take the rosy sheen, + As the tide of splendor + Floods the dark ravine. + + Like a shining angel + At my cabin door, + Shod with hope and silence, + Day is come once more. + + Then, as if in sorrow + That you are not here, + All his magic beauties + Gray and disappear. + + + + + At Twilight + + Now the fire is lighted + On the chimney stone, + Day goes down the valley, + I am left alone. + + Now the misty purple + Floods the darkened vale, + And the stars come out + On the twilight trail. + + The mountain river murmurs + In his rocky bed, + And the stealthy shadows + Fill the house with dread. + + Then I hear your laughter + At the open door,-- + Brightly burns the fire, + I need fear no more. + + + + + Moonrise + + At the end of the road through the wood + I see the great moon rise. + The fields are flooded with shine, + And my soul with surmise. + + What if that mystic orb + With her shadowy beams, + Should be the revealer at last + Of my darkest dreams! + + What if this tender fire + In my heart's deep hold + Should be wiser than all the lore + Of the sages of old! + + + + + The Queen of Night + + Mortal, mortal, have you seen + In the scented summer night, + Great Astarte, clad in green + With a veil of mystic light, + Passing on her silent way, + Pale and lovelier than day? + + Mortal, mortal, have you heard, + On an odorous summer eve, + Rumors of an unknown word + Bidding sorrow not to grieve,-- + Echoes of a silver voice + Bidding every heart rejoice? + + Mortal, when the slim new moon + Hangs above the western hill, + When the year comes round to June + And the leafy world is still, + Then, enraptured, you shall hear + Secrets for a poet's ear. + + Mortal, mortal, come with me, + When the moon is rising large, + Through the wood or from the sea, + Or by some lone river marge. + There, entranced, you shall behold + Beauty's self, that grows not old. + + + + + Night Lyric + + In the world's far edges + Faint and blue, + Where the rocky ledges + Stand in view, + + Fades the rosy, tender + Evening light; + Then in starry splendor + Comes the night. + + So a stormy lifetime + Comes to close, + Spirit's mortal strifetime + Finds repose. + + Faith and toil and vision + Crowned at last, + Failure and derision + Overpast,-- + + All the daylight splendor + Far above, + Calm and sure and tender + Comes thy love. + + + + + The Heart of Night + + When all the stars are sown + Across the night-blue space, + With the immense unknown, + In silence face to face. + + We stand in speechless awe + While Beauty marches by, + And wonder at the Law + Which wears such majesty. + + How small a thing is man + In all that world-sown vast, + That he should hope or plan + Or dream his dream could last! + + O doubter of the light, + Confused by fear and wrong, + Lean on the heart of night + And let love make thee strong! + + The Good that is the True + Is clothed with Beauty still. + Lo, in their tent of blue, + The stars above the hill! + + + + + Peace + + The sleeping tarn is dark + Below the wooded hill. + Save for its homing sounds, + The twilit world grows still. + + And I am left to muse + In grave-eyed mystery, + And watch the stars come out + As sandalled dusk goes by. + + And now the light is gone, + The drowsy murmurs cease, + And through the still unknown + I wonder whence comes peace. + + Then softly falls the word + Of one beyond a name, + "Peace only comes to him + Who guards his life from shame,-- + + "Who gives his heart to love, + And holding truth for guide, + Girds him with fearless strength, + That freedom may abide." + + + + + The Old Gray Wall + + Time out of mind I have stood + Fronting the frost and the sun, + That the dream of the world might endure, + And the goodly will be done. + + Did the hand of the builder guess, + As he laid me stone by stone, + A heart in the granite lurked, + Patient and fond as his own? + + Lovers have leaned on me + Under the summer moon, + And mowers laughed in my shade + In the harvest heat at noon. + + Children roving the fields + With early flowers in spring, + Old men turning to look, + When they heard a bluebird sing, + + Have seen me a thousand times + Standing here in the sun, + Yet never a moment dreamed + Whose likeness they gazed upon. + + Ah, when will ye understand, + Mortals who strive and plod,-- + Who rests on this old gray wall + Lays a hand on the shoulder of God! + + + + + Te Deum + + If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all + things laid, + The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade, + When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush + of its glory now, + That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and + the head to bow. + + I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, + too,-- + The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from + line and hue; + I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth + of ours, + Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with + all her powers. + + See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside + of hardwood trees, + A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries. + A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion + and dun, + Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue + of the sun! + + The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves + are Etruscan gold, + And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for + a signal bold; + The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass + In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring + is brought to pass. + + Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and + softer picture lies, + As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream + of paradise,-- + Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and + luring the mind + With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap + are left behind. + + So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and + endless joy, + Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine + employ, + Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear, + Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides--our + privilege here. + + Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is + here and now, + Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by + somewhere, somehow? + I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for + a journey hence + Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made + for spirit and sense. + + "Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit + filled from a blighted flower? + Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy + beatified hour? + Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our + command, + Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of + heaven at hand." + + So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to + feed my soul. + With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for + a further dole? + In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain + of truth, + Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor + of dreamful youth. + + The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun + shall lend me poise. + I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth + and all her joys. + Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my + veins like wine; + While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge + with the life divine. + + + + + In October + + Now come the rosy dogwoods, + The golden tulip-tree, + And the scarlet yellow maple, + To make a day for me. + + The ash-trees on the ridges, + The alders in the swamp, + Put on their red and purple + To join the autumn pomp. + + The woodbine hangs her crimson + Along the pasture wall, + And all the bannered sumacs + Have heard the frosty call. + + Who then so dead to valor + As not to raise a cheer, + When all the woods are marching + In triumph of the year? + + + + + By Still Waters + + "_He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth + my soul._" + + "My tent stands in a garden + Of aster and goldenrod, + Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, + And sown by the hand of God,-- + An old New England pasture + Abandoned to peace and time, + And by the magic of beauty + Reclaimed to the sublime. + + About it are golden woodlands + Of tulip and hickory; + On the open ridge behind it + You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- + The far-off, blue, Homeric + Rim of the world's great shield, + A border of boundless glamor + For the soul's familiar field. + + In purple and gray-wrought lichen + The boulders lie in the sun; + Along its grassy footpath + The white-tailed rabbits run. + The crickets work and chirrup + Through the still afternoon; + And the owl calls from the hillside + Under the frosty moon. + + The odorous wild grape clambers + Over the tumbling wall, + And through the autumnal quiet + The chestnuts open and fall. + Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, + Part of the earth's great soul, + Here man's spirit may ripen + To wisdom serene and whole. + + Shall we not grow with the asters-- + Never reluctant nor sad, + Not counting the cost of being, + Living to dare and be glad? + Shall we not lift with the crickets + A chorus of ready cheer, + Braving the frost of oblivion, + Quick to be happy here? + + Is my will as sweet as the wild grape, + Spreading delight on the air + For the passer-by's enchantment, + Subtle and unaware? + Have I as brave a spirit, + Sprung from the self-same mould, + As this weed from its own contentment + Lifting its shaft of gold? + + The deep red cones of the sumach + And the woodbine's crimson's sprays + Have bannered the common roadside + For the pageant of passing days. + These are the oracles Nature + Fills with her holy breath, + Giving them glory of color, + Transcending the shadow of death. + + Here in the sifted sunlight + A spirit seems to brood + On the beauty and worth of being, + In tranquil, instinctive mood; + And the heart, filled full of gladness + Such as the wise earth knows, + Wells with a full thanksgiving + For the gifts that life bestows: + + For the ancient and virile nurture + Of the teeming primordial ground, + For the splendid gospel of color, + The rapt revelations of sound; + For the morning-blue above us + And the rusted gold of the fern, + For the chickadee's call of valor + Bidding the faint-heart turn; + + For fire and running water, + Snowfall and summer rain; + For sunsets and quiet meadows, + The fruit and the standing grain; + For the solemn hour of moonrise + Over the crest of trees, + When the mellow lights are kindled + In the lamps of the centuries; + + For those who wrought aforetime, + Led by the mystic strain + To strive for the larger freedom, + And live for the greater gain; + For plenty of peace and playtime, + The homely goods of earth, + And for rare immaterial treasures + Accounted of little worth; + + For art and learning and friendship, + Where beneficent truth is supreme,-- + Those everlasting cities + Built on the hills of dream; + For all things growing and goodly + That foster this life, and breed + The immortal flower of wisdom + Out of the mortal seed. + + But most of all for the spirit + That cannot rest nor bide + In stale and sterile convenience, + Nor safety proven and tried, + But still inspired and driven, + Must seek what better may be, + And up from the loveliest garden + Must climb for a glimpse of sea. + + + + + Lines for a Picture + + When the leaves are flying + Across the azure sky, + Autumn on the hill top + Turns to say good-by; + + In her gold-red tunic, + Like an Eastern queen, + With untarnished courage + In her wilding mien. + + All the earth below her + Answers to her gaze, + And her eyes are pensive + With remembered days. + + Yet, with cheek ensanguined, + Gay at heart she goes + On the great adventure + Where the north wind blows. + + + + + The Deserted Pasture + + I love the stony pasture + That no one else will have. + The old gray rocks so friendly seem, + So durable and brave. + + In tranquil contemplation + It watches through the year. + Seeing the frosty stars arise, + The slender moons appear. + + Its music is the rain-wind, + Its choristers the birds, + And there are secrets in its heart + Too wonderful for words. + + It keeps the bright-eyed creatures + That play about its walls, + Though long ago its milking herds + Were banished from their stalls. + + Only the children come there, + For buttercups in May, + Or nuts in autumn, where it lies + Dreaming the hours away. + + Long since its strength was given + To making good increase, + And now its soul is turned again + To beauty and to peace. + + There in the early springtime + The violets are blue, + And adder-tongues in coats of gold + Are garmented anew. + + There bayberry and aster + Are crowded on its floors, + When marching summer halts to praise + The Lord of Out-of-doors. + + And there October passes + In gorgeous livery,-- + In purple ash, and crimson oak, + And golden tulip tree. + + And when the winds of winter + Their bugle blasts begin, + The snowy hosts of heaven arrive + And pitch their tents therein. + + + + + Autumn + + Now when the time of fruit and grain is come, + When apples hang above the orchard wall, + And from the tangle by the roadside stream + A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air, + Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan, + Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay + And tattered colors of the Orient, + Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills. + The woods of Wilton at her coming wear + Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand: + The maples glow with their Pompeian red, + The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold; + And while the crickets fife along her march, + Behind her banners burns the crimson sun. + + + + + November Twilight + + Now Winter at the end of day + Along the ridges takes her way, + + Upon her twilight round to light + The faithful candles of the night. + + As quiet as the nun she goes + With silver lamp in hand, to close + + The silent doors of dusk that keep + The hours of memory and sleep. + + She pauses to tread out the fires + Where Autumn's festal train retires. + + The last red embers smoulder down + Behind the steeples of the town. + + Austere and fine the trees stand bare + And moveless in the frosty air, + + Against the pure and paling light + Before the threshold of the night. + + On purple valley and dim wood + The timeless hush of solitude + + Is laid, as if the time for some + Transcending mystery were come, + + That shall illumine and console + The penitent and eager soul, + + Setting her free to stand before + Supernal beauty and adore. + + Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico + It is the hour of prayer. And lo, + + Above the earth, serene and still, + One star--our star--o'er Lonetree Hill! + + + + + The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod + + When the first silent frost has trod + The ghost-yard of the goldenrod, + + And laid the blight of his cold hand + Upon the warm autumnal land, + + And all things wait the subtle change + That men call death, is it not strange + + That I--without a care or need, + Who only am an idle weed-- + + Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, + The coming of the final cold! + + + + + Before the Snow + + Now soon, ah, very soon, I know + The trumpets of the north will blow, + And the great winds will come to bring + The pale, wild riders of the snow. + + Darkening the sun with level flight, + At arrowy speed, they will alight, + Unnumbered as the desert sands, + To bivouac on the edge of night. + + Then I, within their somber ring, + Shall hear a voice that seems to sing, + Deep, deep within my tranquil heart, + The valiant prophecy of spring. + + + + + Winter + + When winter comes along the river line + And Earth has put away her green attire, + With all the pomp of her autumnal pride, + The world is made a sanctuary old, + Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray, + And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest + Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine, + Showing the sunset glory through the chinks. + There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul, + Uplift in adoration, sees the world + Transfigured to a temple of her Lord; + While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow + Night, like a sacristan with silent step, + Passes to light the tapers of the stars. + + + + + A Winter Piece + + Over the rim of a lacquered bowl, + Where a cold blue water-color stands, + I see the wintry breakers roll + And heave their froth up the freezing sands. + + Here in immunity safe and dull, + Soul treads her circuit of trivial things. + There soul's brother, a shining gull, + Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings. + + + + + Winter Streams + + Now the little rivers go + Muffled safely under snow, + + And the winding meadow streams + Murmur in their wintry dreams, + + While a tinkling music wells + Faintly from there icy bells, + + Telling how their hearts are bold + Though the very sun be cold. + + Ah, but wait until the rain + Comes a-sighing once again, + + Sweeping softly from the Sound + Over ridge and meadow ground! + + Then the little streams will hear + April calling far and near,-- + + Slip their snowy bands and run + Sparkling in the welcome sun. + + + + + Winter Twilight + + Along the wintry skyline, + Crowning the rocky crest, + Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees + Against the saffron west,-- + Its gray and purple network + Of branching tracery + Outspread upon the lucent air, + Like weed within the sea. + + The scarlet robe of autumn + Renounced and put away, + The mystic Earth is fairer still,-- + A Puritan in gray. + The spirit of the winter, + How tender, how austere! + Yet all the ardor of the spring + And summer's dream are here. + + Fear not, O timid lover, + The touch of frost and rime! + This is the virtue that sustained + The roses in their prime. + The anthem of the northwind + Shall hallow thy despair, + The benediction of the snow + Be answer to thy prayer. + + And now the star of evening + That is the pilgrim's sign, + Is lighted in the primrose dusk,-- + A lamp before a shrine. + Peace fills the mighty minster, + Tranquil and gray and old, + And all the chancel of the west + Is bright with paling gold. + + A little wind goes sifting + Along the meadow floor,-- + Like steps of lovely penitents + Who sighingly adore. + Then falls the twilight curtain, + And fades the eerie light, + And frost and silence turn the keys + In the great doors of night. + + + + + The Twelfth Night Star + + It is the bitter time of year + When iron is the ground, + With hasp and sheathing of black ice + The forest lakes are bound, + The world lies snugly under snow, + Asleep without a sound. + + All the night long in trooping squares + The sentry stars go by, + The silent and unwearying hosts + That bear man company, + And with their pure enkindling fires + Keep vigils lone and high. + + Through the dead hours before the dawn, + When the frost snaps the sill, + From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea + The earth lies dark and still, + Till one great silver planet shines + Above the eastern hill. + + It is the star of Gabriel, + The herald of the Word + In days when messengers of God + With sons of men conferred, + Who brought the tidings of great joy + The watching shepherds heard; + + The mystic light that moved to lead + The wise of long ago, + Out of the great East where they dreamed + Of truths they could not know, + To seek some good that should assuage + The world's most ancient woe. + + O well, believe, they loved their dream, + Those children of the star, + Who saw the light and followed it, + Prophetical, afar,-- + Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior, + And eager Balthasar. + + Another year slips to the void, + And still with omen bright + Above the sleeping doubting world + The day-star is alight,-- + The waking signal flashed of old + In the blue Syrian night. + + But who are now as wise as they + Whose faith could read the sign + Of the three gifts that shall suffice + To honor the divine, + And show the tread of common life + Ineffably benign? + + Whoever wakens on a day + Happy to know and be, + To enjoy the air, to love his kind, + To labor, to be free,-- + Already his enraptured soul + Lives in eternity. + + For him with every rising sun + The year begins anew; + The fertile earth receives her lord, + And prophecy comes true, + Wondrously as a fall of snow, + Dear as a drench of dew. + + Who gives his life for beauty's need, + King Caspar could no more; + Who serves the truth with single mind + Shall stand with Melchior; + And love is all that Balthasar + In crested censer bore. + + + + + A Christmas Eve Choral + + _Halleluja! + What sound is this across the dark + While all the earth is sleeping? Hark! + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why are thy tender eyes so bright, + Mary, Mary? + On the prophetic deep of night + Joseph, Joseph, + I see the borders of the light, + And in the day that is to be + An aureoled man-child I see, + Great love's son, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + He hears not, but she hears afar, + The Minstrel Angel of the star. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy gentle smile so deep, + Mary, Mary? + It is the secret I must keep, + Joseph, Joseph,-- + The joy that will not let me sleep, + The glory of the coming days, + When all the world shall turn to praise + God's goodness, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Clear as the bird that brings the morn + She hears the heavenly music borne. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy radiant face so calm, + Mary, Mary? + His strength is like a royal palm, + Joseph, Joseph; + His beauty like the victor's psalm. + He moves like morning o'er the lands + And there is healing in his hands + For sorrow, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Tender as dew-fall on the earth + She hears the choral of love's birth. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + What is the message come to thee, + Mary, Mary? + I hear like wind within the tree, + Joseph, Joseph, + Or like a far-off melody + His deathless voice proclaiming peace, + And bidding ruthless wrong to cease, + For love's sake, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Moving as rain-wind in the spring + She hears the angel chorus ring. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why are thy patient hands so still, + Mary, Mary? + I see the shadow on the hill, + Joseph, Joseph, + And wonder if it is God's will + That courage, service, and glad youth + Shall perish in the cause of truth + Forever, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Her heart in that celestial chime + Has heard the harmony of time. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy voice so strange and far, + Mary, Mary? + I see the glory of the star, + Joseph, Joseph; + And in its light all things that are, + Made glad and wise beyond the sway + Of death and darkness and dismay, + In God's time Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + To every heart in love 'tis given + To hear the ecstasy of heaven. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja._ + + + + + Christmas Song + + Above the weary waiting world, + Asleep in chill despair, + There breaks a sound of joyous bells + Upon the frosted air. + And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo, + A star is dancing on the snow. + + What makes the yellow star to dance + Upon the brink of night? + What makes the breaking dawn to glow + So magically bright,-- + And all the earth to be renewed + With infinite beatitude? + + The singing bells, the throbbing star, + The sunbeams on the snow, + And the awakening heart that leaps + New ecstasy to know,-- + They all are dancing in the morn + Because a little child is born. + + + + + The Wise Men from the East + + (A LITTLE BOY'S CHRISTMAS LESSON) + + _Why were the Wise Men three, + Instead of five or seven?"_ + They had to match, you see, + The archangels in Heaven. + + God sent them, sure and swift, + By his mysterious presage, + To bear the threefold gift + And take the threefold message. + + Thus in their hands were seen + The gold of purest Beauty, + The myrrh of Truth all-clean, + The frankincense of Duty. + + And thus they bore away + The loving heart's great treasure, + And knowledge clear as day, + To be our life's new measure. + + They went back to the East + To spread the news of gladness. + There one became a priest + To the new word of sadness; + + And one a workman, skilled + Beyond the old earth's fashion; + And one a scholar, filled + With learning's endless passion. + + God sent them for a sign + He would not change nor alter + His good and fair design, + However man may falter. + + He meant that, as He chose + His perfect plan and willed it, + They stood in place of those + Who elsewhere had fulfilled it; + + Whoso would mark and reach + The height of man's election, + Must still achieve and teach + The triplicate perfection. + + For since the world was made, + One thing was needed ever, + To keep man undismayed + Through failure and endeavor-- + + A faultless trinity + Of body, mind, and spirit, + And each with its own three + Strong angels to be near it; + + Strength to arise and go + Wherever dawn is breaking, + Poise like the tides that flow, + Instinct for beauty-making; + + Imagination bold + To cross the mystic border, + Reason to seek and hold, + Judgment for law and order; + + Joy that makes all things well, + Faith that is all-availing + Each terror to dispel, + And Love, ah, Love unfailing. + + These are the flaming Nine + Who walk the world unsleeping, + Sent forth by the Divine + With manhood in their keeping. + + These are the seraphs strong + His mighty soul had need of, + When He would right the wrong + And sorrow He took heed of. + + And that, I think, is why + The Wise Men knelt before Him, + And put their kingdoms by + To serve Him and adore Him; + + So that our Lord, unknown, + Should not be unattended, + When He was here alone + And poor and unbefriended; + + That still He might have three + (Rather than five or seven) + To stand in their degree, + Like archangels in Heaven. + + + + + The Sending of the Magi + + In a far Eastern country + It happened long of yore, + Where a lone and level sunrise + Flushes the desert floor, + That three kings sat together + And a spearman kept the door. + + Caspar, whose wealth was counted + By city and caravan; + With Melchior, the seer + Who read the starry plan; + And Balthasar, the blameless, + Who loved his fellow man. + + There while they talked, a sudden + Strange rushing sound arose, + And as with startled faces + They thought upon their foes, + Three figures stood before them + In imperial repose. + + One in flame-gold and one in blue + And one in scarlet clear, + With the almighty portent + Of sunrise they drew near! + And the kings made obeisance + With hand on breast, in fear. + + "Arise," said they, "we bring you + Good tidings of great peace! + To-day a power is wakened + Whose working must increase, + Till fear and greed and malice + And violence shall cease." + + The messengers were Michael, + By whom all things are wrought + To shape and hue; and Gabriel + Who is the lord of thought; + And Rafael without whose love + All toil must come to nought. + + Then Rafael said to Balthasar, + "In a country west from here + A lord is born in lowliness, + In love without a peer. + Take grievances and gifts to him + And prove his kingship clear! + + "By this sign ye shall know him; + Within his mother's arm + Among the sweet-breathed cattle + He slumbers without harm, + While wicked hearts are troubled + And tyrants take alarm." + + And Gabriel said to Melchior, + "My comrade, I will send + My star to go before you, + That ye may comprehend + Where leads your mystic learning + In a humaner trend." + + And Michael said to Gaspar, + "Thou royal builder, go + With tribute of thy riches! + Though time shall overthrow + Thy kingdom, no undoing + His gentle might shall know." + + Then while the kings' hearts greatened + And all the chamber shone, + As when the hills at sundown + Take a new glory on + And the air thrills with purple, + Their visitors were gone. + + Then straightway up rose Gaspar, + Melchior and Balthasar, + And passed out through the murmur + Of palace and bazar, + To make without misgiving + The journey of the Star. + + + + + The Angels of Man + + The word of the Lord of the outer worlds + Went forth on the deeps of space, + That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael, + Should stand before his face, + The seraphs of his threefold will, + Each in his ordered place. + + Brave Michael, the right hand of God, + Strong Gabriel, his voice, + Fair Rafael, his holy breath + That makes the world rejoice,-- + Archangels of omnipotence, + Of knowledge, and of choice; + + Michael, angel of loveliness + In all things that survive, + And Gabriel, whose part it is + To ponder and contrive, + And Rafael, who puts the heart + In every thing alive. + + Came Rafael, the enraptured soul, + Stainless as wind or fire, + The urge within the flux of things, + The life that must aspire, + With whom is the beginning, + The worth, and the desire; + + And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind, + Bringer of truth and light, + Who lays the courses of the stars + In their stupendous flight, + And calls the migrant flocks of spring + Across the purple night; + + And Michael, the artificer + Of beauty, shape, and hue, + Lord of the forges of the sun, + The crucible of the dew, + And driver of the plowing rain + When the flowers are born anew. + + Then said the Lord: "Ye shall account + For the ministry ye hold, + Since ye have been my sons to keep + My purpose from of old. + How fare the realms within your sway + To perfections still untold?" + + Answered each as he had the word. + And a great silence fell + On all the listening hosts of heaven + To hear their captains tell,-- + With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird. + And the cry of a mighty bell. + + Then the Lord said: "The time is ripe + For finishing my plan, + And the accomplishment of that + For which all time began. + Therefore on you is laid the task + Of the fashioning of man; + + "In your own likeness shall he be, + To triumph in the end. + I only give him Michael's strength + To guard him and defend, + With Gabriel to be his guide, + And Rafael his friend. + + "Ye shall go forth upon the earth, + And make there Paradise, + And be the angels of that place + To make men glad and wise, + With loving-kindness in their hearts, + And knowledge in their eyes. + + "And ye shall be man's counsellors + That neither rest nor sleep, + To cheer the lonely, lift the frail, + And solace them that weep. + And ever on his wandering trail + Your watch-fires ye shall keep; + + "Till in the far years he shall find + The country of his quest, + The empire of the open truth, + The vision of the best, + Foreseen by every mother saint + With her new-born on her breast." + + + + + At the Making of Man + + _First all the host of Raphael + In liveries of gold, + Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm + The spinning spheres are rolled,-- + The Seraphs of the morning calm + Whose hearts are never cold._ + + He shall be born a spirit, + Part of the soul that yearns, + The core of vital gladness + That suffers and discerns, + The stir that breaks the budding sheath + When the green spring returns,-- + + The gist of power and patience + Hid in the plasmic clay, + The calm behind the senses, + The passionate essay + To make his wise and lovely dream + Immortal on a day. + + The soft, Aprilian ardors + That warm the waiting loam + Shall whisper in his pulses + To bid him overcome, + And he shall learn the wonder-cry + Beneath the azure dome. + + And though all-dying nature + Should teach him to deplore, + The ruddy fires of autumn + Shall lure him but the more + To pass from joy to stronger joy, + As through an open door. + + He shall have hope and honor, + Proud trust and courage stark, + To hold him to his purpose + Through the unlighted dark, + And love that sees the moon's full orb + In the first silver arc. + + And he shall live by kindness + And the heart's certitude, + Which moves without misgiving + In ways not understood, + Sure only of the vast event,-- + The large and simple good. + + _Then Gabriel's host in silver gear + And vesture twilight blue, + The spirits of immortal mind, + The warders of the true, + Took up the theme that gives the world + Significance anew._ + + He shall be born to reason, + And have the primal need + To understand and follow + Wherever truth may lead,-- + To grow in wisdom like a tree + Unfolding from a seed. + + A watcher by the sheepfolds, + With wonder in his eyes, + He shall behold the seasons, + And mark the planets rise, + Till all the marching firmament + Shall rouse his vast surmise. + + Beyond the sweep of vision, + Or utmost reach of sound, + This cunning fire-maker, + This tiller of the ground, + Shall learn the secrets of the suns + And fathom the profound. + + For he must prove all being + Sane, beauteous, benign, + And at the heart of nature + Discover the divine,-- + Himself the type and symbol + Of the eternal trine. + + He shall perceive the kindling + Of knowledge, far and dim, + As of the fire that brightens + Below the dark sea-rim, + When ray by ray the splendid sun + Floats to the world's wide brim. + + And out of primal instinct, + The lore of lair and den, + He shall emerge to question + How, wherefore, whence, and when, + Till the last frontier of the truth + Shall lie within his ken. + + _Then Michael's scarlet-suited host + Took up the word and sang; + As though a trumpet had been loosed + In heaven, the arches rang; + For these were they who feel the thrill + Of beauty like a pang._ + + He shall be framed and balanced + For loveliness and power, + Lithe as the supple creatures, + And colored as a flower, + Sustained by the all-feeding earth, + Nurtured by wind and shower, + + To stand within the vortex + Where surging forces play, + A poised and pliant figure + Immutable as they, + Till time and space and energy + Surrenders to his sway. + + He shall be free to journey + Over the teeming earth, + An insatiable seeker, + A wanderer from his birth, + Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, + With fortitude for girth. + + His hands shall have dominion + Of all created things, + To fashion in the likeness + Of his imaginings, + To make his will and thought survive + Unto a thousand springs. + + The world shall be his province, + The princedom of his skill; + The tides shall wear his harness, + The winds obey his will; + Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, + Shall work to do him ill. + + A creature fit to carry + The pure creative fire, + Whatever truth inform him, + Whatever good inspire, + He shall make lovely in all things + To the end of his desire. + + + + + St. Michael's Star + + In the pure solitude of dusk + One star is set to shine + Above the sundown's dying rose, + A lamp before a shrine. + It is the star of Michael lit + In the minster of the sun, + That every toiling hand may give + Thanks for the day's work done. + + For when the almighty word went forth + To bid creation be,-- + The glimmering star-tracks on the blue, + The tide-belts on the sea,-- + Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand + The lasting hills arose, + Their bases on the poppied plain, + Their peaks in bannered snows. + + Cedar and thorn and oak were born; + Green fiddleheads uncurled + In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues + Came forth to glad the world;-- + The magic of the punctual seeds, + Each with its pregnant powers, + As the lord Michael fashioned them + To keep their days and hours. + + Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide, + Soft wings to poise and gleam, + He formed the pageant tribe by tribe + As vivid as a dream. + And still must his beneficence + Renew, create, sustain, + Sorcery of the wind and sun, + Alchemy of the rain. + + Teeming with God, the kindly sod + Yearns through the summer days + With the mute eloquence of flowers, + Its only means of praise. + At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills + Throb to the song of birds, + And all the dim blue silence thrills + To transport not of words. + + For earth must breed to spirit's need, + Clay to the finer clay, + That soul through sense find recompense + And rapture on her way. + And man, from dust and dreaming wrought, + To all things must impart + The trend and likeness of his thought, + The passion of his heart. + + The love and lore he shall acquire + To word and deed must dare; + Resemblances of God his sire + His voice and mien must bear. + His children's children shall portray + The skill which he bestows + On living; and what life must mean + His craftsman's instinct knows. + + Line upon line and tone by tone, + The visioned form he gives + To sound and color, wood and stone, + Takes loveliness and lives. + He sees his project's soaring hope + Grow substance, and expand + To measure a diviner scope + Beneath his patient hand. + + To pencil, brush, and burnisher + His wizardry he lends, + And to the care of lathe and loom + His secret he commends. + In hues and forms and cadences + New beauty he instills, + A brother by the right of craft + To Michael of the hills. + + + + + The Dreamers + + Charlemagne with knight and lord, + In the hill at Ingelheim, + Slumbers at the council board, + Seated waiting for the time. + + With their swords across their knees + In that chamber dimly lit, + Chin on breast life effigies + Of the dreaming gods, they sit. + + Long ago they went to sleep, + While great wars above them hurled. + Taking counsel how to keep + Giant evil from the world. + + Golden-armored, iron-crowned, + There in silence they await + The last war,--in war renowned, + Done with doubting and debate. + + What is all our clamor for? + Petty virtue, puny crime, + Beat in vain against the door + Of the hill at Ingelheim. + + When at last shall dawn the day + For the saving of the world, + They will forth in war array, + Iron-armored, golden-curled. + + In the hill at Ingelheim, + Still, they say, the Emperor, + Like a warrior in his prime, + Waits the message at the door. + + Shall the long enduring fight + Break above our heads in vain, + Plunged in lethargy and night, + Like the men of Charlemagne? + + Comrades, through the Council Hall + Of the heart, inert and dumb, + Hear ye not the summoning call, + "Up, my lords, the hour is come!" + + + + + El Dorado + + This is the story + Of Santo Domingo, + The first established + Permanent city + Built in the New World. + + Miguel Dias, + A Spanish sailor + In the fleet of Columbus, + Fought with a captain, + Wounded him, then in fear + Fled from his punishment. + + Ranging the wilds, he came + On a secluded + Indian village + Of the peace-loving + Comely Caguisas. + There he found shelter, + Food, fire, and hiding,-- + Welcome unstinted. + + Over this tribe ruled-- + No cunning chieftain + Grown gray in world-craft, + But a young soft-eyed + Girl, tender-hearted, + Loving, and regal + Only in beauty, + With no suspicion + Of the perfidious + Merciless gold-lust + Of the white sea-wolves,-- + Roving, rapacious, + Conquerors, destroyers. + Strongly the stranger + Wooed with his foreign + Manners, his Latin + Fervor and graces; + Beat down her gentle, + Unreserved strangeness; + + Made himself consort + Of a young queen, all + Loveliness, ardor, + And generous devotion. + Her world she gave him, + Nothing denied him, + All, all for love's sake + Poured out before him,-- + Lived but to pleasure + And worship her lover. + + Such is the way + Of free-hearted women, + Radiant beings + Who carry God's secret; + All their seraphic + Unworldly wisdom + Spent without fearing + Or calculation + For the enrichment + Of--whom, what, and wherefore? + + Ask why the sun shines + And is not measured, + Ask why the rain falls + Aeon by aeon, + Ask why the wind comes + Making the strong trees + Blossom in springtime, + Forever unwearied! + Whoever earned these gifts, + Air, sun, and water? + Whoever earned his share + In that unfathomed + Full benediction, + + Passing the old earth's + Cunningest knowledge, + Greater than all + The ambition of ages, + Light as a thistle-seed, + Strong as a tide-run, + Vast and mysterious + As the night sky,-- + The love of woman? + Not long did Miguel + Dias abide content + With his good fortune. + Back to his voyaging + Turned his desire, + Restless once more to rove + With boon companions, + Filled with the covetous + Thirst for adventure,-- + The white man's folly. + + Then poor Zamcaca, + In consternation + Lest she lack merit + Worthy to tether + His wayward fancy, + Knowing no way but love, + Guileless, and sedulous + Only to gladden, + Quick and sweet-souled + As another madonna, + Gave him the secret + Of her realm's treasure,-- + Raw gold unweighed, + Stored wealth unimagined; + Decked him with trappings + Of that yellow peril; + And bade him go + Bring his comrades to settle + In her dominion. + + Not long the Spaniards + Stood on that bidding. + Gold was their madness, + Their Siren and Pandar. + Trooping they followed + Their friend the explorer, + Greed-fevered ravagers + Of all things goodly, + Hot-foot to plunder + The land of his love-dream. + They swooped on that country, + Founded their city, + Made Miguel Dias + Its first Alcalde,-- + Flattered and fooled him, + Loud in false praises + For the great wealth he had + By his love's bounty. + + Then the old story, + Older than Adam,-- + Treachery, rapine, + Ingratitude, bloodshed, + Wrought by the strong man + On unsuspecting + And gentler brothers. + The rabid Spaniard, + Christian and ruthless + (Like any modern + Magnate of Mammon), + Harried that fearless, + Light-hearted, trustful folk + Under his booted heel. + Tears (ah, a woman's tears,-- + The grief of angels,--) + Fell from Zamcaca, + Sorrowing, hopeless, + Alone, for her people. + + Sick from injustice, + Distraught, and disheartened, + Tortured by sight and sound + Of wrong and ruin, + When the kind, silent, + Tropical moonlight, + Lay on the city, + In the dead hour + When the soul trembles + Within the portals + Of its own province, + While far away seem + + All deeds of daytime, + She rose and wondered; + Gazed on the sleeping + Face of her loved one, + Alien and cruel; + Kissed her strange children, + Longingly laying a hand + In farewell on each, + Crept to the door, and fled + Back to the forest. + + Only the deep heart + Of the World-mother, + Brooding below the storms + Of human madness, + Can know what desolate + Anguish possessed her. + + Only the far mind + Of the World-father, + Seeing the mystic + End and beginning, + Knows why the pageant + Is so betattered + With mortal sorrow. + + + + + On the Plaza + + One August day I sat beside + A café window open wide + To let the shower-freshened air + Blow in across the Plaza, where + In golden pomp against the dark + Green leafy background of the Park, + St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, + Rides on with Victory leading him. + + The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold + In every hollow pools of gold, + And clouds of gold and pink and gray + Were piled up at the end of day, + Far down the cross street, where one tower + Still glistened from the drenching shower. + + A weary, white-haired man went by, + Cooling his forehead gratefully + After the day's great heat. A girl, + Her thin white garments in a swirl + Blown back against her breasts and knees, + Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, + Alive and modern and superb, + Crossed from the circle of the curb. + + We sat there watching people pass, + Clinking the ice against the glass + And talking idly--books or art, + Or something equally apart + From the essential stress and strife + That rudely form and further life, + Glad of a respite from the heat, + When down the middle of the street, + Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay + In spite of the dull-stifling day, + Three street-musicians came. The man, + With hair and beard as black as Pan, + Strolled on one side with lordly grace, + While a young girl tugged at a trace + Upon the other. And between + The shafts there walked a laughing queen, + Bright as a poppy, strong and free. + What likelier land than Italy + Breeds such abandon? Confident + And rapturous in mere living spent + Each moment to the utmost, there + With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, + With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist + Supple, heroic and free-laced, + Between her two companions walked + This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, + Did half the work, made all the cheer + Of that small company. + + No fear + Of failure in a soul like hers + That every moment throbs and stirs + With merry ardor, virile hope, + Brave effort, nor in all its scope + Has room for thought or discontent, + Each day its own sufficient vent + And source of happiness. + + Without + A trace of bitterness or doubt + Of life's true worth, she strode at ease + Before those empty palaces, + A simple heiress of the earth + And all its joys by happy birth, + Beneficent as breeze or dew, + And fresh as though the world were new + And toil and grief were not. How rare + A personality was there! + + + + + A Painter's Holiday + + We painters sometimes strangely keep + These holidays. When life runs deep + And broad and strong, it comes to make + Its own bright-colored almanack. + Impulse and incident divine + Must find their way through tone and line; + The throb of color and the dream + Of beauty, giving art its theme + From dear life's daily miracle, + Illume the artist's life as well. + A bird-note, or a turning leaf, + The first white fall of snow, a brief + Wild song from the Anthology, + A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,-- + And there is worth enough for him + To make the page of history dim. + Who knows upon what day may come + The touch of that delirium + Which lifts plain life to the divine, + And teaches hand the magic line + No cunning rule could ever reach, + Where Soul's necessities find speech? + None knows how rapture may arrive + To be our helper, and survive + Through our essay to help in turn + All starving eager souls who yearn + Lightward discouraged and distraught. + Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught + And treasured in the heart, how then + We walk enchanted among men, + And with the elder gods confer! + So art is hope's interpreter, + And with devotion must conspire + To fan the eternal altar fire. + Wherefore you find me here to-day, + Not idling the good hours away, + But picturing a magic hour + With its replenishment of power. + + Conceive a bleak December day, + The streets all mire, the sky all gray, + And a poor painter trudging home + Disconsolate, when what should come + Across his vision, but a line + On a bold-lettered play-house sign, + _A Persian Sun Dance_. + + In he turns. + A step, and there the desert burns + Purple and splendid; molten gold + The streamers of the dawn unfold, + Amber and amethyst uphurled + Above the far rim of the world; + The long-held sound of temple bells + Over the hot sand steals and swells; + A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones + In barbarous maddening monotones; + While sandal incense blue and keen + Hangs in the air. And then the scene + Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released, + The sorcery of all the East, + In rose and saffron gossamer,-- + A young light-hearted worshipper + Who dances up the sun. She moves + Like waking woodland flower that loves + To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve + Is like a sapling's sway and swerve + Before the spring wind. Her dark hair + Framing a face vivid and rare, + Curled to her throat and then flew wild, + Like shadows round a radiant child. + The sunlight from her cymbals played + About her dancing knees, and made + A world of rose-lit ecstasy, + Prophetic of the day to be. + + Such mystic beauty might have shone + In Sardis or in Babylon, + To bring a Satrap to his doom + Or touch some lad with glory's bloom. + And now it wrought for me, with sheer + Enchantment of the dying year, + Its irresistible reprieve + From joylessness on New Year's Eve. + + + + + Mirage + + Here hangs at last, you see, my row + Of sketches,--all I have to show + Of one enchanted summer spent + In sweet laborious content, + At little 'Sconset by the moors, + With the sea thundering by its doors, + Its grassy streets, and gardens gay + With hollyhocks and salvia. + + And here upon the easel yet, + With the last brush of paint still wet, + (Showing how inspiration toils), + Is one where the white surf-line boils + Along the sand, and the whole sea + Lifts to the skyline, just to be + The wondrous background from whose verge + Of blue on blue there should emerge + This miracle. + + One day of days + I strolled the silent path that strays + Between the moorlands and the beach + From Siasconset, till you reach + Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land + That fronts the ocean, lone and grand + As when the Lord first bade it be + For a surprise and mystery. + A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, + The level lonely moors, and I + The only soul in all that vast + Of color made intense to last! + The small white sea-birds piping near; + The great soft moor-winds; and the dear + Bright sun that pales each crest to jade, + Where gulls glint fishing unafraid. + + Here man, the godlike, might have gone + With his deep thought, on that wild dawn + When the first sun came from the sea, + Glowing and kindling the world to be, + While time began and joy had birth,-- + No wilder sweeter spot on earth! + + As I sat there and mused (the way + We painters waste our time, you say!) + On the sheer loneliness and strength + Whence life must spring, there came at length + Conviction of the helplessness + Of earth alone to ban or bless. + I saw the huge unhuman sea; + I heard the drear monotony + Of the waves beating on the shore + With heedless, futile strife and roar, + Without a meaning or an aim. + + And then a revelation came, + In subtle, sudden, lovely guise, + Like one of those soft mysteries + Of Indian jugglers, who evoke + A flower for you out of smoke. + I knew sheer beauty without soul + Could never be perfection's goal, + Nor satisfy the seeking mind + With all it longs for and must find + One day. The lovely things that haunt + Our senses with an aching want, + And move our souls, are like the fair + Lost garments of a soul somewhere. + Nature is naught, if not the veil + Of some great good that must prevail + And break in joy, as woods of spring + Break into song and blossoming. + + But what makes that great goodness start + Within ourselves? When leaps the heart + With gladness, only then we know + Why lovely Nature travails so,-- + Why art must persevere and pray + In her incomparable way. + In all the world the only worth + Is human happiness; its dearth + The darkest ill. Let joyance be, + And there is God's sufficiency,-- + Such joy as only can abound + Where the heart's comrade has been found. + + That was my thought. And then the sea + Broke in upon my revery + With clamorous beauty,--the superb + Eternal noun that takes no verb + But love. The heaven of dove-like blue + Bent o'er the azure, round and true + As magic sphere of crystal glass, + Where faith sees plain the pageant pass + Of things unseen. So I beheld + The sheer sky-arches domed and belled, + As if the sea were the very floor + Of heaven where walked the gods of yore + In Plato's imagery, and I + Uplifted saw their pomps go by. + + The House of space and time grew tense + As if with rapture's imminence, + When truth should be at last made clear, + And the great worth of life appear; + While I, a worshipper at the shrine, + For very longing grew divine, + Borne upward on earth's ecstasy, + And welcomed by the boundless sky. + + A mighty prescience seemed to brood + Over that tenuous solitude + Yearning for form, till it became + Vivid as dream and live as flame, + Through magic art could never match, + The vision I have tried to catch,-- + All earth's delight and meaning grown + A lyric presence loved and known. + + How otherwise could time evolve + Young courage, or the high resolve, + Or gladness to assuage and bless + The soul's austere great loneliness, + Than by providing her somehow + With sympathy of hand and brow, + And bidding her at last go free, + Companioned through eternity? + + So there appeared before my eyes, + In a beloved, familiar guise, + A vivid, questing human face + In profile, scanning heaven for grace, + Up-gazing there against the blue + With eyes that heaven itself shone through; + The lips soft-parted, half in prayer, + Half confident of kindness there; + A brow like Plato's made for dream + In some immortal Academe, + And tender as a happy girl's; + A full dark head of clustered curls + Round as an emperor's, where meet + Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, + Distilling from a mind unmarred + The glory of her rapt regard. + + So eager Mary might have stood, + In love's adoring attitude, + And looked into the angel's eyes + With faith and fearlessness, all wise + In soul's unfaltering innocence, + Sure in her woman's supersense + Of things only the humble know. + My vision looks forever so. + + In other years when men shall say, + "What was the painter's meaning, pray? + Why all this vast of sea and space, + Just to enframe a woman's face?" + Here is the pertinent reply, + "What better use for earth and sky?" + + The great archangel passed that way + Illuming life with mystic ray. + Not Lippo's self nor Raphael + Had lovelier, realer things to tell + Than I, beholding far away + How all the melting rose and gray + Upon the purple sea-line leaned + About that head that intervened. + + How real was she? Ah, my friend, + In art the fact and fancy blend + Past telling. All the painter's task + Is with the glory. Need we ask + The tulips breaking through the mould + To their untarnished age of gold, + Whence their ideals were derived + That have so gloriously survived? + Flowers and painters both must give + The hint they have received, to live,-- + Spend without stint the joy and power + That lurk in each propitious hour,-- + Yet leave the why untold--God's way. + + My sketch is all I have to say. + + + + + The Winged Victory + + Thou dear and most high Victory, + Whose home is the unvanquished sea, + Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keep + The very freshness, fold, and sweep + They wore upon the galley's prow, + By what unwonted favor now + Hast thou alighted in this place, + Thou Victory of Samothrace? + + O thou to whom in countless lands + With eager hearts and striving hands + Strong men in their last need have prayed, + Greatly desiring, undismayed, + And thou hast been across the fight + Their consolation and their might, + Withhold not now one dearer grace, + Thou Victory of Samothrace! + + Behold, we, too, must cry to thee, + Who wage our strife with Destiny, + And give for Beauty and for Truth + Our love, our valor and our youth. + Are there no honors for these things + To match the pageantries of kings? + Are we more laggard in the race + Than those who fell at Samothrace? + + Not only for the bow and sword, + O Victory, be thy reward! + The hands that work with paint and clay + In Beauty's service, shall not they + Also with mighty faith prevail? + Let hope not die, nor courage fail, + But joy come with thee pace for pace, + As once long since in Samothrace. + + Grant us the skill to shape the form + And spread the color living-warm, + (As they who wrought aforetime did), + Where love and wisdom shall lie hid, + In fair impassioned types, to sway + The cohorts of the world to-day, + In Truth's eternal cause, and trace + Thy glory down from Samothrace. + + With all the ease and splendid poise + Of one who triumphs without noise, + Wilt thou not teach us to attain + Thy sense of power without strain, + That we a little may possess + Our souls with thy sure loveliness,-- + That calm the years cannot deface, + Thou Victory of Samothrace? + + Then in the ancient, ceaseless war + With infamy, go thou before! + Amid the shoutings and the drums + Let it be learned that Beauty comes, + Man's matchless Paladin to be, + Whose rule shall make his spirit free + As thine from all things mean or base, + Thou Victory of Samothrace. + + + + + The Gate of Peace + + Ah, who will build the city of our dream, + Where beauty shall abound and truth avail, + With patient love that is too wise for strife, + Blending in power as gentle as the rain + With the reviving earth on full spring days? + Who now will speed us to its gate of peace, + And reassure us on our doubtful road? + + Three centuries ago a fearless man, + Yearning to set his people in the way, + Threw all his royal might into a plan + To found an ideal city that should give + Freedom to every instinct for the best, + From humblest impulse in his own domain + To rumored wisdom from the world's far ends. + Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve, + Beneath the patient smile of Indian skies + This fair dream flourished for a score of years, + Until the blight of evil touched its bloom + With fading, and transformed its vivid life + Into a ghost-flower of its fair design. + + Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir, + A sad custodian of sacred tombs, + And scattered feathers from the purple wings + Of doves who reign in undisputed calm + Over this Eden of hope and fair essay, + Recall the valor of this ancient quest. + + Great Akbar,--grandfather of Shah Jehan, + The artist Emperor of India + Who built the Taj for love of one held dear + Beyond all other women in the world, + And left that loveliest memorial, + The most supreme of wonders wrought by man, + To move for very joy all hearts to tears + Beholding how great beauty springs from love,-- + Akbar the wisest ruler over Ind, + Grandson of Babar in whose veins were mixed + The blood of Tamerlane and Chinghiz Khan, + Who beat the Afghans and the Rajputs down + At Paniput and Buxar in Bengal, + Making himself the lord of Hindustan, + And with his restless Tartars founded there + The Mogul empire with its Moslem faith, + Its joyousness, enlightenment, and art,-- + Akbar of all the sovereigns of the East + Is still most deeply loved and gladly praised. + + For he who conquered with so strong a hand + Cabul, Kashmir, and Kandahar, and Sind, + Oudh and Orissa, Chitor and Ajmir, + With all their wealth to weld them into one, + Upholding justice with his sovereignty + Throughout his borders and imposing peace, + Was first and last a seeker after truth. + + No craven unlaborious truce he sought, + But that great peace which only comes with light, + Emerging after chaos has been quelled + In some long struggle of enduring will, + To be a proof of order and of law, + Which cannot rest on falsehood nor on wrong, + But spreads like generous sunshine on the earth + When goodness has been gained and truth made clear, + At whatsoe'er incalculable cost. + Returning once with his victorious arms + And war-worn companies on the homeward march + To Agra and his court's magnificence, + From a campaign against some turbulent folk, + He came at evening to a quiet place + Near Sikri by the roadside through the woods, + Where there were many doves among the trees. + + There Salim Chisti a holy man had made + His lonely dwelling in the wilderness, + Seeking perfection. And the solitude + Was sweet to Akbar, and he halted there + And went to Salim in his lodge and said, + "O man and brother, thy long days are spent + In meditation, seeking for the path + Through this great world's impediments to peace, + Here in the twilight with the holy stars + Or when the rose of morning breaks in gold; + Tell me, I pray, whence comes the gift of peace + With all its blessings for a people's need, + And how may true tranquillity be found + On which man's restless spirit longs to rest?" + + And Salim answered, "Lord, most readily + In Allah's out-of-doors, for there men live + More truly, being free from false constraint, + For learning wisdom with a calmer mind. + For they who would find peace must conquer fear + And ignorance and greed,--the ravagers + Of spirit, mind, and sense,--and learn to live + Content beneath the shade of Allah's hand. + Who worships not his own will shall find peace." + + Then Akbar answered, "I have set my heart + On making beauty, truth, and justice shine + As the ordered stars above the darkened earth. + Are not these also things to be desired, + And striven for with no uncertain toil? + And save through them whence comes the gift of peace?" + + Then Salim smiled, and with his finger drew + In the soft dust before his door, and said, + "O king, thy words are true, thy heart most wise. + Thou also shalt find peace, as Allah wills, + Through following bravely what to thee seems best. + When any question, 'What is peace?' reply, + 'The shelter of the Gate of Paradise, + The shadow of the archway, not the arch, + Within whose shade at need the poor may rest, + The weary be refreshed, the weak secure, + And all men pause to gladden as they go.'" + + And Akbar pondered Salim Chisti's words. + Then turning to his ministers, he said, + "Here will I build my capital, and here + The world shall come unto a council hall, + And in a place of peace pursue the quest + Of wisdom and the finding out of truth, + That there be no more discord upon earth, + But only knowledge, beauty, and good will." + + And it was done according to Akbar's word. + There in the wilderness as by magic rose + Futtehpur Sikri, the victorious city, + Of marble and red sandstone among the trees, + A rose unfolding in the kindling dawn. + Palace and mosque and garden and serai, + Bazaars and baths and spacious pleasure grounds, + By favor of Allah to perfection sprang. + + Thus Akbar wrought to make his dream come true. + From the four corners of the world he brought + His master workmen, from Iran and Ind, + From wild Mongolia and the Arabian wastes; + Masons from Bagdad, Delhi, and Multan; + Dome builders from the North, from Samarkand; + Cunning mosaic workers from Kanauj; + And carvers of inscriptions from Shiraz; + And they all labored with endearing skill, + Each at his handicraft, to make beauty be. + + When the first ax-blade on the timber rang, + The timid doves, as if foreboding ill, + Had fled from Sikri and its quiet groves. + + But as he promised, Akbar sent and bade + The wise men of all nations to his court, + Brahman and Christian, Buddhist and Parsee, + Jain and stiff Mohammedan and Jew, + All followers of the One with many names, + Bringing the ghostly wisdom of the earth. + + And so they came of every hue and creed. + From the twelve winds of heaven their caravans + Drew into Sikri as Akbar summoned them, + To spend long afternoons in council grave, + Sifting tradition for the seed of truth, + In the great mosque in Futtehpur at peace. + And Salim Chisti lived his holy life, + Beloved and honored there as Akbar's friend. + + But light and changeable are the hearts of men. + Soon in that city dedicate to peace + Dissensions spread and rivalries grew rife, + Envy and bitterness and strife returned + Once more, and truth before them fled away. + Then Salim Chisti, coming to Akbar spoke, + "Lord, give thy servant leave now to depart + And follow where the fluttered wings have gone, + For here there is no longer any peace, + And truth cannot prevail where discord dwells." + + "Nay then," said Akbar, "'tis not thou but I + Who am the servant here and must go hence. + I found thee master of this solitude, + Lord of the princedom of a quiet mind, + A sovereign vested in tranquillity, + And I have done thee wrong and stayed thy feet + From following perfection, with my horde + Of turbulent malcontents; and my loved dream + To build a city of abiding peace + Was but a vain illusion. Therefore now + This foolish people shall be driven forth + From this fair place, to live as they may choose + In disputance and wrangling longer still, + Until they learn, if Allah wills it so, + To lay aside their folly for the truth." + + And as the king commanded, so it was. + More quickly than he came, with all his court + And hosts of followers he went away, + Leaving the place to solitude once more,-- + A rose to wither where it once had blown. + + To-day the all-kind unpolluted sun + Shines through the marble fret-work with no sound; + The winds play hide and seek through corridors + Where stately women with dark glowing eyes + Have laughed and frolicked in their fluttering robes; + The rose leaves drop with none to gather them, + In gardens where no footfall comes with eve, + Nor any lovers watch the rising moon; + And ancient silence, truer than all speech, + Still holds the secrets of the Council Hall, + Upon whose walls frescoes of many faiths + Attest the courtesy of open minds. + + Before the last camp-follower was gone, + The doves returned and took up their abode + In the main gate of those deserted walls. + And in their custody this "Gate of Peace" + Bears still the grandeur of its origin, + Firing anew the wistful hearts of men + To brave endeavor with replenished hope, + Though since that time three hundred years ago, + The magic hush of those forsaken streets + And empty courtyards has been undisturbed + Save by the gentle whirring of grey wings, + With cooing murmurs uttered all day long, + And reverent tread of those from near and far, + Who still pursue the immemorial quest. + + + + +_Warwick Bros. & Rutter, Limited_ + +_Printers and Bookbinders_ + +_Toronto_ + + + + + When all my writing has been done + Except the final colophon, + + And I must bid beloved verse + Farewell for better or for worse, + + Let me not linger o'er the page + In doubting and regretful age; + + But as an unknown scribe in some + Monastic dim scriptorium, + + When twilight on his labour fell + At the glad-heard refection bell, + + Might add poor Body's thanks to be + From spiritual toils set free, + + Let me conclude with hearty zest + _Laus Deo! Nunc bibendum est!_ + + + +[Illustration: back end papers] + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Later Poems, by Bliss Carman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33417-8.txt or 33417-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/4/1/33417/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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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: Later Poems + +Author: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: August 12, 2010 [EBook #33417] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-cover"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-cover.jpg" ALT="cover art" BORDER="" WIDTH="370" HEIGHT="539"> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-fpaper"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-fpaper.jpg" ALT="front end papers" BORDER="" WIDTH="743" HEIGHT="518"> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, well the world is dreaming<BR> +Under the April moon,<BR> +Her soul in love with beauty,<BR> +Her senses all a-swoon!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Pure hangs the silver crescent<BR> +Above the twilight wood,<BR> +And pure the silver music<BR> +Wakes from the marshy flood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O Earth, with all thy transport,<BR> +How comes it life should seem<BR> +A shadow in the moonlight,<BR> +A murmur in a dream?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT="Bliss Carman" BORDER="2" WIDTH="439" HEIGHT="759"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 439px"> +Bliss Carman +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +LATER POEMS +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +BY BLISS CARMAN +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WITH AN APPRECIATION +<BR> +BY R. H. HATHAWAY +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +<I>And decorations by J. E. H. MacDonald A.R.C.A</I> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MCCLELLAND & STEWART +<BR> +PUBLISHERS — TORONTO +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Copyright, Canada, 1921 +<BR> +By MCCLELLAND & STEWART, Limited, TORONTO +</H5> + +<BR> + +<PRE STYLE="text-align: center"> +First Printing 1921 +Second " 1922 +Third " 1922 +Fourth " 1923 +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Printed in Canada +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Publisher's Note +</H3> + +<P STYLE="margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%"> +The present volume is made up of poems from Mr. Carman's three latest +books, <I>The Rough Rider</I>, <I>Echoes from Vagabondia</I>, and <I>April Airs</I>, +together with a number of more recent poems which have not before been +issued in book form. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="appreciation"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Bliss Carman: An Appreciation +</H3> + +<P> +How many Canadians--how many even among the few who seek to keep +themselves informed of the best in contemporary literature, who are +ever on the alert for the new voices—realise, or even suspect, that +this Northern land of theirs has produced a poet of whom it may be +affirmed with confidence and assurance that he is of the great +succession of English poets? Yet such—strange and unbelievable though +it may seem—is in very truth the case, that poet being (to give him +his full name) William Bliss Carman. Canada has full right to be proud +of her poets, a small body though they are; but not only does Mr. +Carman stand high and clear above them all—his place (and time cannot +but confirm and justify the assertion) is among those men whose poetry +is the shining glory of that great English literature which is our +common heritage. +</P> + +<P> +If any should ask why, if what has been just said is so, there has +been—as must be admitted—no general recognition of the fact in the +poet's home land, I would answer that there are various and plausible, +if not good, reasons for it. +</P> + +<P> +First of all, the poet, as thousands more of our young men of ambition +and confidence have done, went early to the United States, and until +recently, except for rare and brief visits to his old home down by the +sea, has never returned to Canada—though for all that, I am able to +state, on his own authority, he is still a Canadian citizen. Then all +his books have had their original publication in the United States, and +while a few of them have subsequently carried the imprints of Canadian +publishers, none of these can be said ever to have made any special +effort to push their sale. Another reason for the fact above mentioned +is that Mr. Carman has always scorned to advertise himself, while his +work has never been the subject of the log-rolling and booming which +the work of many another poet has had—to his ultimate loss. A further +reason is that he follows a rule of his own in preparing his books for +publication. Most poets publish a volume of their work as soon as, +through their industry and perseverance, they have material enough on +hand to make publication desirable in their eyes. Not so with Mr. +Carman, however, his rule being not to publish until he has done +sufficient work of a certain general character or key to make a volume. +As a result, you cannot fully know or estimate his work by one book, or +two books, or even half a dozen; you must possess or be familiar with +every one of the score and more volumes which contain his output of +poetry before you can realise how great and how many-sided is his +genius. +</P> + +<P> +It is a common remark on the part of those who respond readily to the +vigorous work of Kipling, or Masefield, even our own Service, that +Bliss Carman's poetry has no relation to or concern with ordinary, +everyday life. One would suppose that most persons who cared for +poetry at all turned to it as a relief from or counter to the burdens +and vexations of the daily round; but in any event, the remark referred +to seems to me to indicate either the most casual acquaintance with Mr. +Carman's work, or a complete misunderstanding and misapprehension of +the meaning of it. I grant that you will find little or nothing in it +all to remind you of the grim realities and vexing social problems of +this modern existence of ours; but to say or to suggest that these +things do not exist for Mr. Carman is to say or to suggest something +which is the reverse of true. The truth is, he is aware of them as +only one with the sensitive organism of a poet can be; but he does not +feel that he has a call or mission to remedy them, and still less to +sing of them. He therefore leaves the immediate problems of the day to +those who choose, or are led, to occupy themselves therewith, and turns +resolutely away to dwell upon those things which for him possess +infinitely greater importance. +</P> + +<P> +"What are they?" one who knows Mr. Carman only as, say, a lyrist of +spring or as a singer of the delights of vagabondia probably will ask +in some wonder. Well, the things which concern him above all, I would +answer, are first, and naturally, the beauty and wonder of this world +of ours, and next the mystery of the earthly pilgrimage of the human +soul out of eternity and back into it again. +</P> + +<P> +The poems in the present volume—which, by the way, can boast the high +honor of being the very first regular Canadian edition of his +work—will be evidence ample and conclusive to every reader, I am sure, +of the place which +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The perennial enchanted<BR> +Lovely world and all its lore<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +occupy in the heart and soul of Bliss Carman, as well as of the magical +power with which he is able to convey the deep and unfailing +satisfaction and delight which they possess for him. They, however, +represent his latest period (he has had three well-defined periods), +comprising selections from three of his last published volumes: <I>The +Rough Rider</I>, <I>Echoes from Vagabondia</I>, and <I>April Airs</I>, together with +a number of new poems, and do not show, except here and there and by +hints and flashes, how great is his preoccupation with the problem of +man's existence— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">the hidden import</SPAN><BR> +Of man's eternal plight.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +This is manifest most in certain of his earlier books, for in these he +turns and returns to the greatest of all the problems of man almost +constantly, probing, with consummate and almost unrivalled use of the +art of expression, for the secret which surely, he clearly feels, lies +hidden somewhere, to be discovered if one could but pierce deeply +enough. Pick up <I>Behind the Arras</I>, and as you turn over page after +page you cannot but observe how incessantly the poet's mind—like the +minds of his two great masters, Browning and Whitman—works at this +problem. In "Behind the Arras," the title poem; "In the Wings," "The +Crimson House," "The Lodger," "Beyond the Gamut," "The Juggler"—yes, +in every poem in the book—he takes up and handles the strange thing we +know as, or call, life, turning it now this way, now that, in an effort +to find out its meaning and purpose. He comes but little nearer +success in this than do most of the rest of men, of course; but the +magical and ever-fresh beauty of his expression, the haunting melody of +his lines, the variety of his images and figures and the depth and +range of his thought, put his searchings and ponderings in a class by +themselves. +</P> + +<P> +Lengthy quotation from Mr. Carman's books is not permitted here, and I +must guide myself accordingly, though with reluctance, because I +believe that in a study such as this the subject should be allowed to +speak for himself as much as possible. In "Behind the Arras" the poet +describes the passage from life to death as +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A cadence dying down unto its source<BR> +In music's course,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and goes on to speak of death as +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">the broken rhythm of thought and man,</SPAN><BR> +The sweep and span<BR> +Of memory and hope<BR> +About the orbit where they still must grope<BR> +For wider scope,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To be through thousand springs restored, renewed,<BR> +With love imbrued,<BR> +With increments of will<BR> +Made strong, perceiving unattainment still<BR> +From each new skill.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Now follow some verses from "Behind the Gamut," to my mind the poet's +greatest single achievement; +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As fine sand spread on a disc of silver,<BR> +At some chord which bids the motes combine,<BR> +Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse,<BR> +Shifts and dances into curve and line,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote,<BR> +Was set whirling her assigned sure way,<BR> +Round this little orb of her ecliptic<BR> +To some harmony she must obey.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +And what of man? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Linked to all his half-accomplished fellows,<BR> +Through unfrontiered provinces to range—<BR> +Man is but the morning dream of nature,<BR> +Roused to some wild cadence weird and strange.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Here, now, are some verses from "Pulvis et Umbra," which is to be found +in Mr. Carman's first book, <I>Low Tide on Grand Pré</I>, and in which the +poet addresses a moth which a storm has blown into his window: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For man walks the world with mourning<BR> +Down to death and leaves no trace,<BR> +With the dust upon his forehead,<BR> +And the shadow on his face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Pillared dust and fleeing shadow<BR> +As the roadside wind goes by,<BR> +And the fourscore years that vanish<BR> +In the twinkling of an eye.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Pillared dust and fleeing shadow." Where in all our English +literature will one find the life history of man summed up more briefly +and, at the same time, more beautifully, than in that wonderful line? +Now follows a companion verse to those just quoted, taken from "Lord of +My Heart's Elation," which stands in the forefront of <I>From the Green +Book of the Bards</I>. It may be remarked here that while the poet recurs +again and again to some favorite thought or idea, it is never in the +same words. His expression is always new and fresh, showing how deep +and true is his inspiration. Again it is man who is pictured: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A fleet and shadowy column<BR> +Of dust and mountain rain,<BR> +To walk the earth a moment<BR> +And be dissolved again.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +But while Mr. Carman's speculations upon life's meaning and the mystery +of the future cannot but appeal to the thoughtful-minded, it is as an +interpreter of nature that he makes his widest appeal. Bliss Carman, I +must say here, and emphatically, is no mere landscape-painter; he +never, or scarcely ever, paints a picture of nature for its own sake. +He goes beyond the outward aspect of things and interprets or +translates for us with less keen senses as only a poet whose feeling +for nature is of the deepest and profoundest, who has gone to her +whole-heartedly and been taken close to her warm bosom, can do. Is +this not evident from these verses from "The Great Return"—originally +called "The Pagan's Prayer," and for some inscrutable reason to be +found only in the limited <I>Collected Poems</I>, issued in two stately +volumes in 1905 (1904)? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When I have lifted up my heart to thee,<BR> +Thou hast ever hearkened and drawn near,<BR> +And bowed thy shining face close over me,<BR> +Till I could hear thee as the hill-flowers hear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When I have cried to thee in lonely need,<BR> +Being but a child of thine bereft and wrung,<BR> +Then all the rivers in the hills gave heed;<BR> +And the great hill-winds in thy holy tongue—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That ancient incommunicable speech—<BR> +The April stars and autumn sunsets know—<BR> +Soothed me and calmed with solace beyond reach<BR> +Of human ken, mysterious and low.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Who can read or listen to those moving lines without feeling that Mr. +Carman is in very truth a poet of nature—nay, Nature's own poet? But +how could he be other when, in "The Breath of the Reed" (<I>From the +Green Book of the Bards</I>), he makes the appeal? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Make me thy priest, O Mother,<BR> +And prophet of thy mood,<BR> +With all the forest wonder<BR> +Enraptured and imbued.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +As becomes such a poet, and particularly a poet whose birth-month is +April, Mr. Carman sings much of the early spring. Again and again he +takes up his woodland pipe, and lo! Pan himself and all his train troop +joyously before us. Yet the singer's notes for all his singing never +become wearied or strident; his airs are ever new and fresh; his latest +songs are no less spontaneous and winning than were his first, written +how many years ago, while at the same time they have gained in beauty +and melody. What heart will not stir to the vibrant music of his +immortal "Spring Song," which was originally published in the first +<I>Songs from Vagabondia</I>, and the opening verses of which follow? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Make me over, mother April,<BR> +When the sap begins to stir!<BR> +When thy flowery hand delivers<BR> +All the mountain-prisoned rivers,<BR> +And thy great heart beats and quivers<BR> +To revive the days that were,<BR> +Make me over, mother April,<BR> +When the sap begins to stir!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Take my dust and all my dreaming,<BR> +Count my heart-beats one by one,<BR> +Send them where the winters perish;<BR> +Then some golden noon recherish<BR> +And restore them in the sun,<BR> +Flower and scent and dust and dreaming,<BR> +With their heart-beats every one!<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That poem is sufficient in itself to prove that Bliss Carman has full +right and title to be called Spring's own lyrist, though it may be +remarked here that not all his spring poems are so unfeignedly joyous. +Many of them indeed, have a touch, or more than a touch, of +wistfulness, for the poet knows well that sorrow lurks under all joy, +deep and well hidden though it may be. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Carman sings equally finely, though perhaps not so frequently, of +summer and the other seasons; but as he has other claims upon our +attention, I shall forbear to labor the fact, particularly as the +following collection demonstrates it sufficiently. One of those other +claims is as a writer of sea poetry. Few poets, it may be said, have +pictured the majesty and the mystery, the beauty and the terror of the +sea, better than he. His <I>Ballads of Lost Haven</I> is a veritable +treasure-house for those whose spirits find kinship in wide expanses of +moving waters. One of the best known poems in this volume is "The +Gravedigger," which opens thus: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,<BR> +And well his work is done.<BR> +With an equal grave for lord and knave,<BR> +He buries them every one.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,<BR> +He makes for the nearest shore;<BR> +And God, who sent him a thousand ship,<BR> +Will send him a thousand more;<BR> +But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,<BR> +And shoulder them in to shore—<BR> +Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,<BR> +Shoulder them in to shore.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In "The City of the Sea" (<I>Last Songs from Vagabondia</I>) Mr. Carman +speaks of the seabells sounding +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The eternal cadence of sea sorrow<BR> +For Man's lot and immemorial wrong—<BR> +The lost strains that haunt the human dwelling<BR> +With the ghost of song.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Elsewhere he speaks of +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The great sea, mystic and musical.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +And here from another poem is a striking picture: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">... the old sea</SPAN><BR> +Seems to whimper and deplore<BR> +Mourning like a childless crone<BR> +With her sorrow left alone—<BR> +The eternal human cry<BR> +To the heedless passer-by.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +I have said above that Mr. Carman has had three distinct periods, and +intimated that the poems in the following collection are of his third +period. The first period may be said to be represented by the <I>Low +Tide</I> and <I>Behind the Arras</I> volumes, while the second is displayed in +the three volumes of <I>Songs from Vagabondia</I>, which he published in +association with his friend Richard Hovey. Bliss Carman was from the +first too original and individual a poet to be directly influenced by +anyone else; but there can be no doubt that his friendship with Hovey +helped to turn him from over-preoccupation with mysteries which, for +all their greatness, are not for man to solve, to an intenser +realisation of the beauty and loveliness of the world about him and of +the joys of human fellowship. The result is seen in such poems as +"Spring Song," quoted in part above, and his perhaps equally well-known +"The Joys of the Road," which appeared in the same volume with that +poem, and a few verses from which follow: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the joys of the road are chiefly these:<BR> +A crimson touch on the hardwood trees;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A vagrant's morning wide and blue,<BR> +In early fall, when the wind walks, too;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A shadowy highway cool and brown,<BR> +Alluring up and enticing down<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From rippled waters and dappled swamp,<BR> +From purple glory to scarlet pomp;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The outward eye, the quiet will,<BR> +And the striding heart from hill to hill.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Some of the finest of Mr. Carman's work is contained in his elegiac or +memorial poems, in which he commemorates Keats, Shelley, William Blake, +Lincoln, Stevenson, and other men for whom he has a kindred feeling, +and also friends whom he has loved and lost. Listen to these moving +lines from "Non Omnis Moriar," written in memory of Gleeson White, and +to be found in <I>Last Songs from Vagabondia</I>: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is a part of me that knows,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beneath incertitude and fear,</SPAN><BR> +I shall not perish when I pass<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beyond mortality's frontier;</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But greatly having joyed and grieved,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Greatly content, shall hear the sigh</SPAN><BR> +Of the strange wind across the lone<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Bright lands of taciturnity.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In patience therefore I await<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My friend's unchanged benign regard,—</SPAN><BR> +Some April when I too shall be<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Spilt water from a broken shard.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In "The White Gull," written for the centenary of the birth of Shelley +in 1892, and included in <I>By the Aurelian Wall</I>, he thus apostrophizes +that clear and shining spirit: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O captain of the rebel host,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Lead forth and far!</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">Thy toiling troopers of the night</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">Press on the unavailing fight;</SPAN><BR> +The sombre field is not yet lost,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With thee for star.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thy lips have set the hail and haste<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of clarions free</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">To bugle down the wintry verge</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">Of time forever, where the surge</SPAN><BR> +Thunders and trembles on a waste<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And open sea.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In "A Seamark," a threnody for Robert Louis Stevenson, which appears in +the same volume, the poet hails "R.L.S." (of whose tribe he may be said +to be truly one) as +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The master of the roving kind,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and goes on: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O all you hearts about the world<BR> +In whom the truant gypsy blood,<BR> +Under the frost of this pale time,<BR> +Sleeps like the daring sap and flood<BR> +That dreams of April and reprieve!<BR> +You whom the haunted vision drives,<BR> +Incredulous of home and ease.<BR> +Perfection's lovers all your lives!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You whom the wander-spirit loves<BR> +To lead by some forgotten clue<BR> +Forever vanishing beyond<BR> +Horizon brinks forever new;<BR> +Our restless loved adventurer,<BR> +On secret orders come to him,<BR> +Has slipped his cable, cleared the reef,<BR> +And melted on the white sea-rim.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Perfection's lovers all your lives." Of these, it may be said without +qualification, is Bliss Carman himself. +</P> + +<P> +No summary of Mr. Carman's work, however cursory, would be worthy of +the name if it omitted mention of his ventures in the realm of Greek +myth. <I>From the Book of Myths</I> is made up of work of that sort, every +poem in it being full of the beauty of phrase and melody of which Mr. +Carman alone has the secret. The finest poems in the book, barring the +opening one, "Overlord," are "Daphne," "The Dead Faun," "Hylas," and +"At Phĉdra's Tomb," but I can do no more here than name them, for +extracts would fail to reveal their full beauty. And beauty, after all +is said, is the first and last thing with Mr. Carman. As he says +himself somewhere: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The joy of the hand that hews for beauty<BR> +Is the dearest solace under the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +And again +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The eternal slaves of beauty<BR> +Are the masters of the world.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A slave—a happy, willing slave—to beauty is the poet himself, and the +world can never repay him for the message of beauty which he has +brought it. +</P> + +<P> +Kindred to <I>From the Book of Myths</I>, but much more important, is +<I>Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics</I>, one of the most successful of the +numerous attempts which have been made to recapture the poems by that +high priestess of song which remain to us only in fragments. Mr. +Carman, as Charles G. D. Roberts points out in an introduction to the +volume, has made no attempt here at translation or paraphrasing; his +venture has been "the most perilous and most alluring in the whole +field of poetry"—that of imaginative and, at the same time, +interpretive construction. Brief quotation again would fail to convey +an adequate idea of the exquisiteness of the work, and all I can do, +therefore, is to urge all lovers of real poetry to possess themselves +of <I>Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics</I>, for it is literally a storehouse of +lyric beauty. +</P> + +<P> +I must not fail here to speak of <I>From the Book of Valentines</I>, which +contains some lovely things, notably "At the Great Release." This is +not only one of the finest of all Mr. Carman's poems, but it is also +one of the finest poems of our time. It is a love poem, and no one +possessing any real feeling for poetry can read it without experiencing +that strange thrill of the spirit which only the highest form of poetry +can communicate. "Morning and Evening," "In an Iris Meadow," and "A +letter from Lesbos" must be also mentioned. In the last named poem, +Sappho is represented as writing to Gorgo, and expresses herself in +these moving words: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If the high gods in that triumphant time<BR> +Have calendared no day for thee to come<BR> +Light-hearted to this doorway as of old,<BR> +Unmoved I shall behold their pomps go by—<BR> +The painted seasons in their pageantry,<BR> +The silvery progressions of the moon,<BR> +And all their infinite ardors unsubdued,<BR> +Pass with the wind replenishing the earth<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Incredulous forever I must live<BR> +And, once thy lover, without joy behold,<BR> +The gradual uncounted years go by,<BR> +Sharing the bitterness of all things made.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Mention must be now made of <I>Songs of the Sea Children</I>, which can be +described only as a collection of the sweetest and tenderest love +lyrics written in our time— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">the lyric songs</SPAN><BR> +The earthborn children sing,<BR> +When wild-wood laughter throngs<BR> +The shy bird-throats of spring;<BR> +When there's not a joy of the heart<BR> +But flies like a flag unfurled,<BR> +And the swelling buds bring back<BR> +The April of the world.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +So perfect and complete are these lyrics that it would be almost +sacrilege to quote any of them unless entire. Listen however, to these +verses: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The day is lost without thee,<BR> +The night has not a star.<BR> +Thy going is an empty room<BR> +Whose door is left ajar.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Depart: it is the footfall<BR> +Of twilight on the hills.<BR> +Return: and every rood of ground<BR> +Breaks into daffodils.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There are those who will have it that Bliss Carman has been away from +Canada so long that he has ceased to be, in a real sense, a Canadian. +Such assume rather than know, for a very little study of his work would +show them that it is shot through and through with the poet's feeling +for the land of his birth. Memories of his childhood and youthful +years down by the sea are still fresh in Mr. Carman's mind, and inspire +him again and again in his writing. "A Remembrance," at the beginning +of the present collection, may be pointed to as a striking instance of +this, but proof positive is the volume, <I>Songs from a Northern Garden</I>, +for it could have been written only by a Canadian, born and bred, one +whose heart and soul thrill to the thought of Canada. I would single +out from this volume for special mention as being "Canadian" in the +fullest sense "In a Grand Pré Garden," "The Keeper's Silence," "At Home +and Abroad," "Killoleet," and "Above the Gaspereau," but have no space +to quote from them. +</P> + +<P> +But Mr. Carman is not only a Canadian, he is also a Briton; and +evidence of this is his <I>Ode on the Coronation</I>, written on the +occasion of the crowning of King Edward VII in 1902. This poem—the +very existence of which is hardly known among us—ought to be put in +the hands of every child and youth who speaks the English tongue, for +no other, I dare maintain—nothing by Kipling, or Newbolt, or any other +of our so-called "Imperial singers"—expresses more truly and more +movingly the deep feeling of love and reverence which the very thought +of England evokes in every son of hers, even though it may never have +been his to see her white cliffs rise or to tread her storied ground: +</P> + +<P> +O England, little mother by the sleepless Northern tide,<BR> +Having bred so many nations to devotion, trust, and pride,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Very tenderly we turn</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With welling hearts that yearn</SPAN><BR> +Still to love you and defend you,—let the sons of men discern<BR> +Wherein your right and title, might and majesty, reside.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In concluding this, I greatly fear, lamentably inadequate study, I come +to the collection which follows, and which, as intimated above, +represents the work of Mr. Carman's latest period. I must say at once +that, while I yield to no one in admiration for <I>Low Tide</I> and the +other books of that period, or for the work of the second period, as +represented by the <I>Songs from Vagabondia</I> volumes, I have no +hesitation in declaring that I regard the poet's work of the past few +years with even higher admiration. It may not possess the force and +vigor of the work which preceded it; but anything seemingly missing in +that respect is more than made up for me by increased beauty and +clarity of expression. The mysticism—verging, or more than verging, +at times on symbolism—which marked his earlier poems, and which hung, +as it were, as a veil between them and the reader, has gone, and the +poet's thought or theme now lies clearly before us as in a mirror. +What—to take a verse from the following pages at random—could be more +pellucid, more crystal clear in expression—what indeed, could come +closer to that achieving of the impossible at which every real poet +must aim—than this from "In Gold Lacquer" (page 12)? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Gold are the great trees overhead,<BR> +And gold the leaf-strewn grass,<BR> +As though a cloth of gold were spread<BR> +To let a seraph pass.<BR> +And where the pageant should go by,<BR> +Meadow and wood and stream,<BR> +The world is all of lacquered gold,<BR> +Expectant as a dream.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The poet, happily, has fully recovered from the serious illness which +laid him low some two years ago, and which for a time caused his +friends and admirers the gravest concern, and so we may look forward +hopefully to seeing further volumes of verse come from the press to +make certain his name and fame. But if, for any reason, this should +not be—which the gods forfend!—<I>Later Poems</I>, I dare affirm, must and +will be regarded as the fine flower and crowning achievement of the +genius and art of Bliss Carman. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +R. H. HATHAWAY. +<BR><BR> +Toronto, 1921. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap000c"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BOOKS OF BLISS CARMAN: POETRY AND PROSE +</H3> + +<PRE STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ: A BOOK OF LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1893 + +SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH RICHARD HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . 1894 + +BEHIND THE ARRAS: A BOOK OF THE UNSEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1895 + +A SEAMARK: A THRENODY FOR ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON . . . . . . . . 1895 + +MORE SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1896 + +BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN: A BOOK OF THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . . . 1897 + +BY THE AURELIAN WALL, AND OTHER ELEGIES . . . . . . . . . . . . 1898 + +A WINTER HOLIDAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1899 + +LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1901 + +BALLADS AND LYRICS (A SELECTION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +ODE ON THE CORONATION OF KING EDWARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE BOOK OF MYTHS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. I.) . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. II.) . . . 1903 + +THE KINSHIP OF NATURE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. III.) . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS FROM A NORTHERN GARDEN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. IV.) . . . . . 1904 + +THE FRIENDSHIP OF ART (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SAPPHO: ONE HUNDRED LYRICS (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +FROM THE BOOK OF VALENTINES ("PIPES OF PAN," No. V.) . . . . . . 1905 + +THE POETRY OF LIFE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +COLLECTED POEMS, 2 VOLS. (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . 1905 (1904) + +THE PIPES OF PAN (DEFINITIVE EDITION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1906 + +THE MAKING OF PERSONALITY (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1908 + +THE ROUGH RIDER, AND OTHER POEMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1909 + +ECHOES FROM VAGABONDIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1912 + +DAUGHTERS OF DAWN: A LYRICAL PAGEANT (WITH MARY PERRY KING) . . 1913 + +EARTH DEITIES, AND OTHER RYTHMIC MASQUES (WITH MARY PERRY KING) 1914 + +APRIL AIRS: A BOOK OF NEW ENGLAND LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1916 +</PRE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap000d"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Contents +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<A HREF="#appreciation">BLISS CARMAN: AN APPRECIATION</A><BR> +<A HREF="#vestigia">VESTIGIA</A><BR> +<A HREF="#remembrance">A REMEMBRANCE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#yule">THE SHIPS OF YULE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#saintjohn">THE SHIPS OF SAINT JOHN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#dreams">THE GARDEN OF DREAMS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#magic">GARDEN MAGIC</A><BR> +<A HREF="#gold">IN GOLD LACQUER</A><BR> +<A HREF="#aprilian">APRILIAN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#shadows">GARDEN SHADOWS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#battle">IN THE DAY OF BATTLE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#trees">TREES</A><BR> +<A HREF="#givers">THE GIVERS OF LIFE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#fireside">A FIRESIDE VISION</A><BR> +<A HREF="#water">A WATER COLOR</A><BR> +<A HREF="#threnody">THRENODY FOR A POET</A><BR> +<A HREF="#dust">DUST OF THE STREET</A><BR> +<A HREF="#lady">TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#gift">THE GIFT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#hillborn">THE CRY OF THE HILLBORN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#mountain">A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#morning">MORNING IN THE HILLS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#woodpath">A WOODPATH</A><BR> +<A HREF="#weather">WEATHER OF THE SOUL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#here">HERE AND NOW</A><BR> +<A HREF="#angel">THE ANGEL OF JOY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#homestead">THE HOMESTEAD</A><BR> +<A HREF="#whispers">"THE STARRY MIDNIGHT WHISPERS"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#lyric">A LYRIC</A><BR> +<A HREF="#april">"APRIL NOW IN MORNING CLAD"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#nike">NIKE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#traveller">THE ENCHANTED TRAVELLER</A><BR> +<A HREF="#saraband">SPRING'S SARABAND</A><BR> +<A HREF="#triumphalis">TRIUMPHALIS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#twilights">"NOW THE LENGTHENING TWILIGHTS HOLD"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#soul">THE SOUL OF APRIL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#aprilmorning">AN APRIL MORNING</A><BR> +<A HREF="#voices">EARTH VOICES</A><BR> +<A HREF="#resurgam">RESURGAM</A><BR> +<A HREF="#easter">EASTER EVE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#time">NOW IS THE TIME OF YEAR</A><BR> +<A HREF="#redwing">THE REDWING</A><BR> +<A HREF="#rainbird">THE RAINBIRD</A><BR> +<A HREF="#lament">LAMENT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#moon">UNDER THE APRIL MOON</A><BR> +<A HREF="#flute">THE FLUTE OF SPRING</A><BR> +<A HREF="#spring">SPRING NIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#bloodroot">BLOODROOT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#daffodil">DAFFODIL'S RETURN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#lilac">NOW THE LILAC TREE'S IN BUD</A><BR> +<A HREF="#iris">WHITE IRIS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#tree">THE TREE OF HEAVEN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#peony">PEONY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#pan">THE URBAN PAN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#sailing">THE SAILING OF THE FLEETS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#newengland">"'TIS MAY NOW IN NEW ENGLAND"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#earlymay">IN EARLY MAY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#fireflies">FIREFLIES</A><BR> +<A HREF="#sankoty">THE PATH TO SANKOTY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#monomoy">OFF MONOMOY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#stgermain">IN ST GERMAIN STREET</A><BR> +<A HREF="#catskills">PAN IN THE CATSKILLS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#june">A NEW ENGLAND JUNE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#noon">THE TENT OF NOON</A><BR> +<A HREF="#children">CHILDREN OF DREAM</A><BR> +<A HREF="#roadside">ROADSIDE FLOWERS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#saintrose">THE GARDEN OF SAINT ROSE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#voice">THE WORLD VOICE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#grass">SONGS OF THE GRASS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#choristers">THE CHORISTERS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#counsel">THE WEED'S COUNSEL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#heron">THE BLUE HERON</A><BR> +<A HREF="#woodland">WOODLAND RAIN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#storm">SUMMER STORM</A><BR> +<A HREF="#sunbeams">DANCE OF THE SUNBEAMS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#campfire">THE CAMPFIRE OF THE SUN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#streams">SUMMER STREAMS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#woods">THE GOD OF THE WOODS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#sunrise">AT SUNRISE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#twilight">AT TWILIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#moonrise">MOONRISE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#queen">THE QUEEN OF NIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#nightlyric">NIGHT LYRIC</A><BR> +<A HREF="#heart">THE HEART OF NIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#peace">PEACE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#graywall">THE OLD GRAY WALL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#tedeum">TE DEUM</A><BR> +<A HREF="#october">IN OCTOBER</A><BR> +<A HREF="#waters">BY STILL WATERS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#lines">LINES FOR A PICTURE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#pasture">THE DESERTED PASTURE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#autumn">AUTUMN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#november">NOVEMBER TWILIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#ghostyard">THE GHOSTYARD OF THE GOLDENROD</A><BR> +<A HREF="#before">BEFORE THE SNOW</A><BR> +<A HREF="#winter">WINTER</A><BR> +<A HREF="#winterpiece">A WINTER PIECE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#winterstreams">WINTER STREAMS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#wintertwilight">WINTER TWILIGHT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#twelfth">THE TWELFTH NIGHT STAR</A><BR> +<A HREF="#choral">A CHRISTMAS EVE CHORAL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#song">CHRISTMAS SONG</A><BR> +<A HREF="#wisemen">THE WISE MEN FROM THE EAST</A><BR> +<A HREF="#magi">THE SENDING OF THE MAGI</A><BR> +<A HREF="#angels">THE ANGELS OF MAN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#making">AT THE MAKING OF MAN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#stmichaels">ST. MICHAEL'S STAR</A><BR> +<A HREF="#dreamers">THE DREAMERS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#eldorado">EL DORADO</A><BR> +<A HREF="#plaza">ON THE PLAZA</A><BR> +<A HREF="#painter">A PAINTER'S HOLIDAY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#mirage">MIRAGE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#victory">THE WINGED VICTORY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#gatepeace">THE GATE OF PEACE</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="vestigia"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Later Poems +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Vestigia.<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>I took a day to search for God,<BR> +And found Him not. But as I trod<BR> +By rocky ledge, through woods untamed,<BR> +Just where one scarlet lily flamed,<BR> +I saw His footprint in the sod.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Then suddenly, all unaware,<BR> +Far off in the deep shadows, where<BR> +A solitary hermit thrush<BR> +Sang through the holy twilight hush—<BR> +I heard His voice upon the air.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>And even as I marvelled how<BR> +God gives us Heaven here and now,<BR> +In a stir of wind that hardly shook<BR> +The poplar leaves beside the brook—<BR> +His hand was light upon my brow.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>At last with evening as I turned<BR> +Homeward, and thought what I had learned<BR> +And all that there was still to probe—<BR> +I caught the glory of His robe<BR> +Where the last fires of sunset burned.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Back to the world with quickening start<BR> +I looked and longed for any part<BR> +In making saving Beauty be....<BR> +And from that kindling ecstasy<BR> +I knew God dwelt within my heart.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="remembrance"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Remembrance.<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here in lovely New England<BR> +When summer is come, a sea-turn<BR> +Flutters a page of remembrance<BR> +In the volume of long ago.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soft is the wind over Grand Pré,<BR> +Stirring the heads of the grasses,<BR> +Sweet is the breath of the orchards<BR> +White with their apple-blow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There at their infinite business<BR> +Of measuring time forever,<BR> +Murmuring songs of the sea,<BR> +The great tides come and go.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the dikes and the uplands<BR> +Wander the great cloud shadows,<BR> +Strange as the passing of sorrow,<BR> +Beautiful, solemn, and slow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For, spreading her old enchantment<BR> +Of tender ineffable wonder,<BR> +Summer is there in the Northland!<BR> +How should my heart not know?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="yule"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Ships of Yule<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When I was just a little boy,<BR> +Before I went to school,<BR> +I had a fleet of forty sail<BR> +I called the Ships of Yule;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Of every rig, from rakish brig<BR> +And gallant barkentine,<BR> +To little Fundy fishing boats<BR> +With gunwales painted green.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They used to go on trading trips<BR> +Around the world for me,<BR> +For though I had to stay on shore<BR> +My heart was on the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They stopped at every port to call<BR> +From Babylon to Rome,<BR> +To load with all the lovely things<BR> +We never had at home;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With elephants and ivory<BR> +Bought from the King of Tyre,<BR> +And shells and silk and sandal-wood<BR> +That sailor men admire;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With figs and dates from Samarcand,<BR> +And squatty ginger-jars,<BR> +And scented silver amulets<BR> +From Indian bazaars;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With sugar-cane from Port of Spain,<BR> +And monkeys from Ceylon,<BR> +And paper lanterns from Pekin<BR> +With painted dragons on;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With cocoanuts from Zanzibar,<BR> +And pines from Singapore;<BR> +And when they had unloaded these<BR> +They could go back for more.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And even after I was big<BR> +And had to go to school,<BR> +My mind was often far away<BR> +Aboard the Ships of Yule.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="saintjohn"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Ships of Saint John<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where are the ships I used to know,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That came to port on the Fundy tide</SPAN><BR> +Half a century ago,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In beauty and stately pride?</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In they would come past the beacon light,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With the sun on gleaming sail and spar,</SPAN><BR> +Folding their wings like birds in flight<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From countries strange and far.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Schooner and brig and barkentine,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I watched them slow as the sails were furled,</SPAN><BR> +And wondered what cities they must have seen<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On the other side of the world.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Frenchman and Britisher and Dane,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Yankee, Spaniard and Portugee,</SPAN><BR> +And many a home ship back again<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With her stories of the sea.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Calm and victorious, at rest<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From the relentless, rough sea-play,</SPAN><BR> +The wild duck on the river's breast<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Was not more sure than they.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The creatures of a passing race,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The dark spruce forests made them strong,</SPAN><BR> +The sea's lore gave them magic grace,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The great winds taught them song.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And God endowed them each with life—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">His blessing on the craftsman's skill—</SPAN><BR> +To meet the blind unreasoned strife<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And dare the risk of ill.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not mere insensate wood and paint<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Obedient to the helm's command,</SPAN><BR> +But often restive as a saint<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beneath the Heavenly hand.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the beauty and mystery<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of life were there, adventure bold,</SPAN><BR> +Youth, and the glamour of the sea<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And all its sorrows old.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And many a time I saw them go<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Out on the flood at morning brave,</SPAN><BR> +As the little tugs had them in tow,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the sunlight danced on the wave.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There all day long you could hear the sound<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the caulking iron, the ship's bronze bell,</SPAN><BR> +And the clank of the capstan going round<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As the great tides rose and fell.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sailors' songs, the Captain's shout,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The boatswain's whistle piping shrill,</SPAN><BR> +And the roar as the anchor chain runs out,—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I often hear them still.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can see them still, the sun on their gear,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The shining streak as the hulls careen,</SPAN><BR> +And the flag at the peak unfurling,—clear<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As a picture on a screen.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The fog still hangs on the long tide-rips,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The gulls go wavering to and fro,</SPAN><BR> +But where are all the beautiful ships<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I knew so long ago?</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dreams"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Garden of Dreams<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My heart is a garden of dreams<BR> +Where you walk when day is done,<BR> +Fair as the royal flowers,<BR> +Calm as the lingering sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Never a drouth comes there,<BR> +Nor any frost that mars,<BR> +Only the wind of love<BR> +Under the early stars,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The living breath that moves<BR> +Whispering to and fro,<BR> +Like the voice of God in the dusk<BR> +Of the garden long ago.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="magic"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Garden Magic<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Within my stone-walled garden<BR> +(I see her standing now,<BR> +Uplifted in the twilight,<BR> +With glory on her brow!)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love to walk at evening<BR> +And watch, when winds are low,<BR> +The new moon in the tree-tops,<BR> +Because she loved it so!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there entranced I listen,<BR> +While flowers and winds confer,<BR> +And all their conversation<BR> +Is redolent of her.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the trees that guard it,<BR> +Upstanding and serene,<BR> +So noble, so undaunted,<BR> +Because that was her mien.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the brook that bounds it,<BR> +Because its silver voice<BR> +Is like her bubbling laughter<BR> +That made the world rejoice.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the golden jonquils,<BR> +Because she used to say,<BR> +If soul could choose a color<BR> +It would be clothed as they.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the blue-gray iris,<BR> +Because her eyes were blue,<BR> +Sea-deep and heaven-tender<BR> +In meaning and in hue.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the small wild roses,<BR> +Because she used to stand<BR> +Adoringly above them<BR> +And bless them with her hand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +These were her boon companions.<BR> +But more than all the rest<BR> +I love the April lilac,<BR> +Because she loved it best.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soul of undying rapture!<BR> +How love's enchantment clings,<BR> +With sorcery and fragrance,<BR> +About familiar things!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="gold"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In Gold Lacquer<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Gold are the great trees overhead,<BR> +And gold the leaf-strewn grass,<BR> +As though a cloth of gold were spread<BR> +To let a seraph pass.<BR> +And where the pageant should go by,<BR> +Meadow and wood and stream,<BR> +The world is all of lacquered gold,<BR> +Expectant as a dream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Against the sunset's burning gold,<BR> +Etched in dark monotone<BR> +Behind its alley of grey trees<BR> +And gateposts of grey stone,<BR> +Stands the Old Manse, about whose eaves<BR> +An air of mystery clings,<BR> +Abandoned to the lonely peace<BR> +Of bygone ghostly things.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In molten gold the river winds<BR> +With languid sweep and turn,<BR> +Beside the red-gold wooded hill<BR> +Yellowed with ash and fern.<BR> +The streets are tiled with gold-green shade<BR> +And arched with fretted gold,<BR> +Ecstatic aisles that richly thread<BR> +This minster grim and old.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The air is flecked with filtered gold,—<BR> +The shimmer of romance<BR> +Whose ageless glamour still must hold<BR> +The world as in a trance,<BR> +Pouring o'er every time and place<BR> +Light of an amber sea,<BR> +The spell of all the gladsome things<BR> +That have been or shall be.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="aprilian"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Aprilian<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When April came with sunshine<BR> +And showers and lilac bloom,<BR> +My heart with sudden gladness<BR> +Was like a fragrant room.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her eyes were heaven's own azure,<BR> +As deep as God's own truth.<BR> +Her soul was made of rapture<BR> +And mystery and youth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She knew the sorry burden<BR> +Of all the ancient years,<BR> +Yet could not dwell with sadness<BR> +And memory and tears.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With her there was no shadow<BR> +Of failure nor despair,<BR> +But only loving joyance.<BR> +O Heart, how glad we were!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="shadows"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Garden Shadows<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the dawn winds whisper<BR> +To the standing corn,<BR> +And the rose of morning<BR> +From the dark is born,<BR> +All my shadowy garden<BR> +Seems to grow aware<BR> +Of a fragrant presence,<BR> +Half expected there.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the golden shimmer<BR> +Of the burning noon,<BR> +When the birds are silent<BR> +And the poppies swoon,<BR> +Once more I behold her<BR> +Smile and turn her face,<BR> +With its infinite regard,<BR> +Its immortal grace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the twilight silvers<BR> +Every nodding flower,<BR> +And the new moon hallows<BR> +The first evening hour,<BR> +Is it not her footfall<BR> +Down the garden walks,<BR> +Where the drowsy blossoms<BR> +Slumber on their stalks?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the starry quiet,<BR> +When the soul is free,<BR> +And a vernal message<BR> +Stirs the lilac tree,<BR> +Surely I have felt her<BR> +Pass and brush my cheek,<BR> +With the eloquence of love<BR> +That does not need to speak!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="battle"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In The Day of Battle<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the day of battle,<BR> +In the night of dread,<BR> +Let one hymn be lifted,<BR> +Let one prayer be said.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not for pride of conquest,<BR> +Not for vengeance wrought,<BR> +Nor for peace and safety<BR> +With dishonour bought!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Praise for faith in freedom,<BR> +Our fighting fathers' stay,<BR> +Born of dreams and daring,<BR> +Bred above dismay.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Prayer for cloudless vision,<BR> +And the valiant hand,<BR> +That the right may triumph<BR> +To the last demand.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="trees"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Trees<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the Garden of Eden, planted by God,<BR> +There were goodly trees in the springing sod,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trees of beauty and height and grace,<BR> +To stand in splendor before His face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Apple and hickory, ash and pear,<BR> +Oak and beech and the tulip rare,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The trembling aspen, the noble pine,<BR> +The sweeping elm by the river line;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trees for the birds to build and sing,<BR> +And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trees to turn at the frosty call<BR> +And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trees for fruitage and fire and shade,<BR> +Trees for the cunning builder's trade;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail,<BR> +The keel and the mast of the daring sail;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He made them of every grain and girth<BR> +For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes<BR> +From the gift to the Giver of Paradise,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On the crown of a hill, for all to see,<BR> +God planted a scarlet maple tree.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="givers"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Givers of Life<BR> +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who called us forth out of darkness and gave us the gift of life,<BR> +Who set our hands to the toiling, our feet in the field of strife?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Darkly they mused, predestined to knowledge of viewless things,<BR> +Sowing the seed of wisdom, guarding the living springs.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Little they reckoned privation, hunger or hardship or cold,<BR> +If only the life might prosper, and the joy that grows not old.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With sorceries subtler than music, with knowledge older than speech,<BR> +Gentle as wind in the wheat-field, strong as the tide on the beach,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Out of their beauty and longing, out of their raptures and tears,<BR> +In patience and pride they bore us, to war with the warring years.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who looked on the world before them, and summoned and chose<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">our sires,</SPAN><BR> +Subduing the wayward impulse to the will of their deep desires?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sovereigns of ultimate issues under the greater laws,<BR> +Theirs was the mystic mission of the eternal cause;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Confident, tender, courageous, leaving the low for the higher,<BR> +Lifting the feet of the nations out of the dust and the mire;<BR> +Luring civilization on to the fair and new,<BR> +Given God's bidding to follow, having God's business to do.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who strengthened our souls with courage, and taught us the ways<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of Earth?</SPAN><BR> +Who gave us our patterns of beauty, our standards of flawless worth?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Mothers, unmilitant, lovely, moulding our manhood then,<BR> +Walked in their woman's glory, swaying the might of men.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They schooled us to service and honor, modest and clean and fair,—<BR> +The code of their worth of living, taught with the sanction<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of prayer.</SPAN><BR> +They were our sharers of sorrow, they were our makers of joy,<BR> +Lighting the lamp of manhood in the heart of the lonely boy.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Haloed with love and with wonder, in sheltered ways they trod,<BR> +Seers of sublime divination, keeping the truce of God.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who called us from youth and dreaming, and set ambition alight,<BR> +And made us fit for the contest,—men, by their tender rite?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sweethearts above our merit, charming our strength and skill<BR> +To be the pride of their loving, to be the means of their will.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If we be the builders of beauty, if we be the masters of art,<BR> +Theirs were the gleaming ideals, theirs the uplift of the heart.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Truly they measure the lightness of trappings and ease and fame,<BR> +For the teeming desire of their yearning is ever and ever the same:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To crown their lovers with gladness, to clothe their sons<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">with delight,</SPAN><BR> +And see the men of their making lords in the best man's right.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lavish of joy and labor, broken only by wrong,<BR> +These are the guardians of being, spirited, sentient and strong.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Theirs is the starry vision, theirs the inspiriting hope,<BR> +Since Night, the brooding enchantress, promised that day<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">should ope.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +V<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lo, we have built and invented, reasoned, discovered and planned,<BR> +To rear us a palace of splendor, and make us a heaven by hand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We are shaken with dark misgiving, as kingdoms rise and fall;<BR> +But the women who went to found them are never counted at all.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Versed in the soul's traditions, skilled in humanity's lore,<BR> +They wait for their crown of rapture, and weep for the sins of war.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And behold they turn from our triumphs, as it was in the first<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of days,</SPAN><BR> +For a little heaven of ardor and a little heartening of praise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +These are the rulers of kingdoms beyond the domains of state,<BR> +Martyrs of all men's folly, over-rulers of fate.<BR> +These we will love and honor, these we will serve and defend,<BR> +Fulfilling the pride of nature, till nature shall have an end.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +VI<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the code unwritten, this is the creed we hold,<BR> +Guarding the little and lonely, gladdening the helpless and old,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Apart from the brunt of the battle our wondrous women shall bide,<BR> +For the sake of a tranquil wisdom and the need of a spirit's guide.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Come they into assembly, or keep they another door,<BR> +Our makers of life shall lighten the days as the years of yore.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The lure of their laughter shall lead us, the lilt of their words<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">shall sway.</SPAN><BR> +Though life and death should defeat us, their solace shall be<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">our stay.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Veiled in mysterious beauty, vested in magical grace,<BR> +They have walked with angels at twilight and looked upon glory's face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Life we will give for their safety, care for their fruitful ease,<BR> +Though we break at the toiling benches or go down in the smoky seas.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the gospel appointed to govern a world of men.<BR> +Till love has died, and the echoes have whispered the last Amen.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="fireside"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Fireside Vision<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Once I walked the world enchanted<BR> +Through the scented woods of spring,<BR> +Hand in hand with Love, in rapture<BR> +Just to hear a bluebird sing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the lonely winds of autumn<BR> +Moan about my gusty eaves,<BR> +As I sit beside the fire<BR> +Listening to the flying leaves.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As the dying embers settle<BR> +And the twilight falls apace,<BR> +Through the gloom I see a vision<BR> +Full of ardor, full of grace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the Architect of Beauty<BR> +Breathed the lyric soul in man,<BR> +Lo, the being that he fashioned<BR> +Was of such a mould and plan!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Bravely through the deepening shadows<BR> +Moves that figure half divine,<BR> +With its tenderness of bearing,<BR> +With its dignity of line.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Eyes more wonderful than evening<BR> +With the new moon on the hill,<BR> +Mouth with traces of God's humor<BR> +In its corners lurking still.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, she smiles, in recollection;<BR> +Lays a hand upon my brow;<BR> +Rests this head upon Love's bosom!<BR> +Surely it is April now!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="water"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Water Color<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's a picture in my room<BR> +Lightens many an hour of gloom,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Cheers me under fortune's frown<BR> +And the drudgery of town.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Many and many a winter day<BR> +When my soul sees all things gray,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here is veritable June,<BR> +Heart's content and spirit's boon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is scarce a hand-breadth wide,<BR> +Not a span from side to side,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet it is an open door<BR> +Looking back to joy once more,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where the level marshes lie,<BR> +A quiet journey of the eye,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the unsubstantial blue<BR> +Makes the fine illusion true.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So I forth and travel there<BR> +In the blessed light and air,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Miles of green tranquillity<BR> +Down the river to the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here the sea-birds roam at will,<BR> +And the sea-wind on the hill<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Brings the hollow pebbly roar<BR> +From the dim and rosy shore,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With the very scent and draft<BR> +Of the old sea's mighty craft.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I am standing on the dunes,<BR> +By some charm that must be June's,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the magic of her hand<BR> +Lays a sea-spell on the land.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the old enchantment falls<BR> +On the blue-gray orchard walls<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the purple high-top boles,<BR> +While the orange orioles<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Flame and whistle through the green<BR> +Of that paradisal scene.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Strolling idly for an hour<BR> +Where the elder is in flower,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can hear the bob-white call<BR> +Down beyond the pasture wall.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Musing in the scented heat,<BR> +Where the bayberry is sweet,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can see the shadows run<BR> +Up the cliff-side in the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Or I cross the bridge and reach<BR> +The mossers' houses on the beach,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where the bathers on the sand<BR> +Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thus I pass the gates of time<BR> +And the boundaries of clime,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Change the ugly man-made street<BR> +For God's country green and sweet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fag of body, irk of mind,<BR> +In a moment left behind,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Once more I possess my soul<BR> +With the poise and self-control<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Beauty gives the free of heart<BR> +Through the sorcery of art.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="threnody"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Threnody for a Poet<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not in the ancient abbey,<BR> +Nor in the city ground,<BR> +Not in the lonely mountains,<BR> +Nor in the blue profound,<BR> +Lay him to rest when his time is come<BR> +And the smiling mortal lips are dumb;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But here in the decent quiet<BR> +Under the whispering pines,<BR> +Where the dogwood breaks in blossom<BR> +And the peaceful sunlight shines,<BR> +Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold,<BR> +When spring comes back in her green and gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And when that mortal likeness<BR> +Has been dissolved by fire,<BR> +Say not above the ashes,<BR> +"Here ends a man's desire."<BR> +For every year when the bluebirds sing,<BR> +He shall be part of the lyric spring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then dreamful-hearted lovers<BR> +Shall hear in wind and rain<BR> +The cadence of his music,<BR> +The rhythm of his refrain,<BR> +For he was a blade of the April sod<BR> +That bowed and blew with the whisper of God.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dust"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Dust of the Street<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This cosmic dust beneath our feet<BR> +Rising to hurry down the street,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Borne by the wind and blown astray<BR> +In its erratic, senseless way,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is the same stuff as you and I—<BR> +With knowledge and desire put by.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thousands of times since time began<BR> +It has been used for making man,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Freighted like us with every sense<BR> +Of spirit and intelligence,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To walk the world and know the fine<BR> +Large consciousness of things divine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +These wandering atoms in their day<BR> +Perhaps have passed this very way,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With eager step and flowerlike face,<BR> +With lovely ardor, poise, and grace,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On what delightful errands bent,<BR> +Passionate, generous, and intent,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +An angel still, though veiled and gloved,<BR> +Made to love us and to be loved.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Friends, when the summons comes for me<BR> +To turn my back (reluctantly)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On this delightful play, I claim<BR> +Only one thing in friendship's name;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And you will not decline a task<BR> +So slight, when it is all I ask:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Scatter my ashes in the street<BR> +Where avenue and crossway meet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I beg you of your charity,<BR> +No granite and cement for me,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To needlessly perpetuate<BR> +An unimportant name and date.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Others may wish to lay them down<BR> +On some fair hillside far from town,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where slim white birches wave and gleam<BR> +Beside a shadowy woodland stream,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Or in luxurious beds of fern,<BR> +But I would have my dust return<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To the one place it loved the best<BR> +In days when it was happiest.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lady"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +To a Young Lady on Her Birthday<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The marching years go by<BR> +And brush your garment's hem.<BR> +The bandits by and by<BR> +Will bid you go with them.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trust not that caravan!<BR> +Old vagabonds are they;<BR> +They'll rob you if they can,<BR> +And make believe it's play.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Make the old robbers give<BR> +Of all the spoils they bear,—<BR> +Their truth, to help you live,—<BR> +Their joy, to keep you fair.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ask not for gauds nor gold,<BR> +Nor fame that falsely rings;<BR> +The foolish world grows old<BR> +Caring for all these things.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Make all your sweet demands<BR> +For happiness alone,<BR> +And the years will fill your hands<BR> +With treasures rarely known.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="gift"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Gift +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I said to Life, "How comes it,<BR> +With all this wealth in store,<BR> +Of beauty, joy, and knowledge,<BR> +Thy cry is still for more?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Count all the years of striving<BR> +To make thy burden less,—<BR> +The things designed and fashioned<BR> +To gladden thy success!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"The treasures sought and gathered<BR> +Thy lightest whim to please,—<BR> +The loot of all the ages,<BR> +The spoil of all the seas!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Is there no end of labor,<BR> +No limit to thy need?<BR> +Must man go bowed forever<BR> +In bondage to thy greed?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With tears of pride and passion<BR> +She answered, "God above!<BR> +I only wait the asking,<BR> +To spend it all for love!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hillborn"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Cry of the Hillborn<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I am homesick for the mountains—<BR> +My heroic mother hills—<BR> +And the longing that is on me<BR> +No solace ever stills.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I would climb to brooding summits<BR> +With their old untarnished dreams,<BR> +Cool my heart in forest shadows<BR> +To the lull of falling streams;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Hear the innocence of aspens<BR> +That babble in the breeze,<BR> +And the fragrant sudden showers<BR> +That patter on the trees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I am lonely for my thrushes<BR> +In their hermitage withdrawn,<BR> +Toning the quiet transports<BR> +Of twilight and of dawn.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I need the pure, strong mornings,<BR> +When the soul of day is still,<BR> +With the touch of frost that kindles<BR> +The scarlet on the hill;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lone trails and winding woodroads<BR> +To outlooks wild and high,<BR> +And the pale moon waiting sundown<BR> +Where ledges cut the sky.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I dream of upland clearings<BR> +Where cones of sumac burn,<BR> +And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders<BR> +Lie deep in beds of fern;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The gray and mottled beeches,<BR> +The birches' satin sheen,<BR> +The majesty of hemlocks<BR> +Crowning the blue ravine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My eyes dim for the skyline<BR> +Where purple peaks aspire,<BR> +And the forges of the sunset<BR> +Flare up in golden fire.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There crests look down unheeding<BR> +And see the great winds blow,<BR> +Tossing the huddled tree-tops<BR> +In gorges far below;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where cloud-mists from the warm earth<BR> +Roll up about their knees,<BR> +And hang their filmy tatters<BR> +Like prayers upon the trees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I cry for night-blue shadows<BR> +On plain and hill and dome,—<BR> +The spell of old enchantments,<BR> +The sorcery of home.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mountain"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Mountain Gateway<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I know a vale where I would go one day,<BR> +When June comes back and all the world once more<BR> +Is glad with summer. Deep in shade it lies<BR> +A mighty cleft between the bosoming hills,<BR> +A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On either side the wooded slopes come down,<BR> +Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there<BR> +Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams,<BR> +Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness.<BR> +Among the sunlit shadows I can see<BR> +That still perfection from the world withdrawn,<BR> +As if the wood-gods had arrested there<BR> +Immortal beauty in her breathless flight.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The road winds in from the broad river-lands,<BR> +Luring the happy traveller turn by turn<BR> +Up to the lofty mountains of the sky.<BR> +And as he marches with uplifted face,<BR> +Far overhead against the arching blue<BR> +Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights,<BR> +Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And where the road runs in the valley's foot,<BR> +Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down,<BR> +Singing and dancing all its youth away<BR> +Among the boulders and the shallow runs,<BR> +Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang<BR> +Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There light of heart and footfree, I would go<BR> +Up to my home among the lasting hills.<BR> +Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road,<BR> +Turn to the left and take the steeper trail<BR> +That climbs among the hemlocks, and at last<BR> +In my own cabin doorway sit me down,<BR> +Companioned in that leafy solitude<BR> +By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace,<BR> +While evening passes to absolve the day<BR> +And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And in that sweet seclusion I should hear,<BR> +Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk,<BR> +The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn.<BR> +So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure,<BR> +They well might be, in wisdom and in joy,<BR> +The seraphs singing at the birth of time<BR> +The unworn ritual of eternal things.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="morning"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Morning in the Hills<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How quiet is the morning in the hills!<BR> +The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds<BR> +Trail through the cañon, and the mountain stream<BR> +Sounds his sonorous music far below<BR> +In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir<BR> +Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge,<BR> +While in the hollows of the dark ravine<BR> +See the red road emerge, then disappear<BR> +Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My forest cabin half-way up the glen<BR> +Is solitary, save for one wise thrush,<BR> +The sound of falling water, and the wind<BR> +Mysteriously conversing with the leaves.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here I abide unvisited by doubt,<BR> +Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair,<BR> +The race of men and love and fleeting time,<BR> +What life may be, or beauty, caught and held<BR> +For a brief moment at eternal poise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What impulse now shall quicken and make live<BR> +This outward semblance and this inward self?<BR> +One breath of being fills the bubble world,<BR> +Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Surely some God contrived so fair a thing<BR> +In a vast leisure of uncounted days,<BR> +And touched it with the breath of living joy,<BR> +Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="woodpath"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Wood-path<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +At evening and at morning<BR> +By an enchanted way<BR> +I walk the world in wonder,<BR> +And have no word to say.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is the path we traversed<BR> +One twilight, thou and I;<BR> +Thy beauty all a rapture,<BR> +My spirit all a cry.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The red leaves fall upon it,<BR> +The moon and mist and rain,<BR> +But not the magic footfall<BR> +That made its meaning plain.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="weather"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Weather of the Soul<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is a world of being<BR> +We range from pole to pole,<BR> +Through seasons of the spirit<BR> +And weather of the soul.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It has its new-born Aprils,<BR> +With gladness in the air,<BR> +Its golden Junes of rapture,<BR> +Its winters of despair.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And in its tranquil autumns<BR> +We halt to re-enforce<BR> +Our tattered scarlet pennons<BR> +With valor and resource.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From undiscovered regions<BR> +Only the angels know,<BR> +Great winds of aspiration<BR> +Perpetually blow,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To free the sap of impulse<BR> +From torpor of distrust,<BR> +And into flowers of joyance<BR> +Quicken the sentient dust.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From nowhere of a sudden<BR> +Loom sudden clouds of fault,<BR> +With thunders of oppression<BR> +And lightnings of revolt.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With hush of apprehension<BR> +And quaking of the heart,<BR> +There breed the storms of anger,<BR> +And floods of sorrow start.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there shall fall,—how gently!—<BR> +To make them fertile yet,<BR> +The rain of absolution<BR> +On acres of regret.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Till snows of mercy cover<BR> +The dream that shall come true,<BR> +When time makes all things wondrous,<BR> +And life makes all things new.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="here"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Here and Now<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where is Heaven? Is it not<BR> +Just a friendly garden plot,<BR> +Walled with stone and roofed with sun,<BR> +Where the days pass one by one,<BR> +Not too fast and not too slow,<BR> +Looking backward as they go<BR> +At the beauties left behind<BR> +To transport the pensive mind!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is it not a greening ground<BR> +With a river for its bound,<BR> +And a wood-thrush to prolong<BR> +Fragrant twilights with his song,<BR> +When the peonies in June<BR> +Wait the rising of the moon,<BR> +And the music of the stream<BR> +Voices its immortal dream!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There each morning will renew<BR> +The miracle of light and dew,<BR> +And the soul may joy to praise<BR> +The Lord of roses and of days;<BR> +There the caravan of noon<BR> +Halts to hear the cricket's tune,<BR> +Fifing there for all who pass<BR> +The anthem of the summer grass!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Does not Heaven begin that day<BR> +When the eager heart can say,<BR> +Surely God is in this place,<BR> +I have seen Him face to face<BR> +In the loveliness of flowers,<BR> +In the service of the showers,<BR> +And His voice has talked to me<BR> +In the sunlit apple tree.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can feel Him in my heart,<BR> +When the tears of knowledge start<BR> +For another's joy or woe,<BR> +Where the lonely soul must go.<BR> +Yea, I learned His very look,<BR> +When we walked beside the brook,<BR> +And you smiled and touched my hand.<BR> +God is love... I understand.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="angel"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Angel of Joy<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is no grief for me<BR> +Nor sadness any more;<BR> +For since I first knew thee<BR> +Great Joy has kept my door.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That angel of the calm<BR> +All-comprehending smile,<BR> +No menace can dismay,<BR> +No falsity beguile.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Out of the house of life<BR> +Before him fled away<BR> +Languor, regret, and strife<BR> +And sorrow on that day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Grim fear, unmanly doubt,<BR> +And impotent despair<BR> +Went at his bidding forth<BR> +Among the things that were,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Leaving a place all clean,<BR> +Resounding of the sea<BR> +And decked with forest green,<BR> +To be a home for thee.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="homestead"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Homestead.<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here we came when love was young.<BR> +Now that love is old,<BR> +Shall we leave the floor unswept<BR> +And the hearth acold?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here the hill-wind in the dusk.<BR> +Wandering to and fro,<BR> +Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost<BR> +Of the long ago.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here from every doorway looks<BR> +A remembered face,<BR> +Every sill and panel wears<BR> +A familiar grace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let the windows smile again<BR> +To the morning light,<BR> +And the door stand open wide<BR> +When the moon is bright.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let the breeze of twilight blow<BR> +Through the silent hall,<BR> +And the dreaming rafters hear<BR> +How the thrushes call.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, be merciful and fond<BR> +To the house that gave<BR> +All its best to shelter love,<BR> +Built when love was brave!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here we came when love was young,<BR> +Now that love is old,<BR> +Never let its day be lone,<BR> +Nor its heart acold!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="whispers"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"The Starry Midnight Whispers"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The starry midnight whispers,<BR> +As I muse before the fire<BR> +On the ashes of ambition<BR> +And the embers of desire,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Life has no other logic,<BR> +And time no other creed,<BR> +Than: 'I for joy will follow.<BR> +Where thou for love dost lead!'"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lyric"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Lyric<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, once I could not understand<BR> +The sob within the throat of spring,—<BR> +The shrilling of the frogs, nor why<BR> +The birds so passionately sing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That was before your beauty came<BR> +And stooped to teach my soul desire,<BR> +When on these mortal lips you laid<BR> +The magic and immortal fire.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I wondered why the sea should seem<BR> +So gray, so lonely, and so old;<BR> +The sigh of level-driving snows<BR> +In winter so forlornly cold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I wondered what it was could give<BR> +The scarlet autumn pomps their pride.<BR> +And paint with colors not of earth<BR> +The glory of the mountainside.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I could not tell why youth should dream<BR> +And worship at the evening star,<BR> +And yet must go with eager feet<BR> +Where danger and where splendor are.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I could not guess why men at times,<BR> +Beholding beauty, should go mad<BR> +With joy or sorrow or despair<BR> +Or some unknown delight they had.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I wondered what they had received<BR> +From Time's inexorable hand<BR> +So full of loveliness and doom.<BR> +But now, ah, now I understand!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="april"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"April now in Morning Clad"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +April now in morning clad<BR> +Like a gleaming oread,<BR> +With the south wind in her voice,<BR> +Comes to bid the world rejoice.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With the sunlight on her brow,<BR> +Through her veil of silver showers,<BR> +April o'er New England now<BR> +Trails her robe of woodland flowers,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Violet and anemone;<BR> +While along the misty sea,<BR> +Pipe at lip, she seems to blow<BR> +Haunting airs of long ago.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="nike"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Nike<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What do men give thanks for?<BR> +I give thanks for one,<BR> +Lovelier than morning,<BR> +Dearer than the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such a head the victors<BR> +Must have praised and known,<BR> +With that breast and bearing,<BR> +Nike's very own—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As superb, untrammeled,<BR> +Rhythmed and poised and free<BR> +As the strong pure sea-wind<BR> +Walking on the sea;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such a hand as Beauty<BR> +Uses with full heart,<BR> +Seeking for her freedom<BR> +In new shapes of art;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soft as rain in April,<BR> +Quiet as the days<BR> +Of the purple asters<BR> +And the autumn haze;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With a soul more subtle<BR> +Than the light of stars,<BR> +Frailer than a moth's wing<BR> +To the touch that mars;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Wise with all the silence<BR> +Of the waiting hills,<BR> +When the gracious twilight<BR> +Wakes in them and thrills;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With a voice more tender<BR> +Than the early moon<BR> +Hears among the thrushes<BR> +In the woods of June;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Delicate as grasses<BR> +When they lift and stir—<BR> +One sweet lyric woman—<BR> +I give thanks for her.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="traveller"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Enchanted Traveller<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We travelled empty-handed<BR> +With hearts all fear above,<BR> +For we ate the bread of friendship,<BR> +We drank the wine of love.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through many a wondrous autumn,<BR> +Through many a magic spring,<BR> +We hailed the scarlet banners,<BR> +We heard the blue-bird sing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We looked on life and nature<BR> +With the eager eyes of youth,<BR> +And all we asked or cared for<BR> +Was beauty, joy, and truth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We found no other wisdom,<BR> +We learned no other way,<BR> +Than the gladness of the morning,<BR> +The glory of the day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So all our earthly treasure<BR> +Shall go with us, my dears,<BR> +Aboard the Shadow Liner,<BR> +Across the sea of years.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="saraband"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Spring's Saraband<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the hills of April<BR> +With soft winds hand in hand,<BR> +Impassionate and dreamy-eyed,<BR> +Spring leads her saraband.<BR> +Her garments float and gather<BR> +And swirl along the plain,<BR> +Her headgear is the golden sun,<BR> +Her cloak the silver rain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With color and with music,<BR> +With perfumes and with pomp,<BR> +By meadowland and upland,<BR> +Through pasture, wood, and swamp,<BR> +With promise and enchantment<BR> +Leading her mystic mime,<BR> +She comes to lure the world anew<BR> +With joy as old as time.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Quick lifts the marshy chorus<BR> +To transport, trill on trill;<BR> +There's not a rod of stony ground<BR> +Unanswering on the hill.<BR> +The brooks and little rivers<BR> +Dance down their wild ravines,<BR> +And children in the city squares<BR> +Keep time, to tambourines.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The bluebird in the orchard<BR> +Is lyrical for her,<BR> +The blackbird with his meadow pipe<BR> +Sets all the wood astir,<BR> +The hooded white spring-beauties<BR> +Are curtsying in the breeze,<BR> +The blue hepaticas are out<BR> +Under the chestnut trees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The maple buds make glamor,<BR> +Viburnum waves its bloom,<BR> +The daffodils and tulips<BR> +Are risen from the tomb.<BR> +The lances of Narcissus<BR> +Have pierced the wintry mold;<BR> +The commonplace seems paradise<BR> +Through veils of greening gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O heart, hear thou the summons,<BR> +Put every grief away,<BR> +When all the motley masques of earth<BR> +Are glad upon a day.<BR> +Alack, that any mortal<BR> +Should less than gladness bring<BR> +Into the choral joy that sounds<BR> +The saraband of spring!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="triumphalis"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Triumphalis<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soul, art thou sad again<BR> +With the old sadness?<BR> +Thou shalt be glad again<BR> +With a new gladness,<BR> +When April sun and rain<BR> +Mount to the teeming brain<BR> +With the earth madness.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When from the mould again,<BR> +Spurning disaster,<BR> +Spring shoots unfold again,<BR> +Follow thou faster<BR> +Out of the drear domain<BR> +Of dark, defeat, and pain,<BR> +Praising the Master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Hope for thy guide again,<BR> +Ample and splendid;<BR> +Love at thy side again,<BR> +All doubting ended;<BR> +(Ah, by the dragon slain,<BR> +For nothing small or vain<BR> +Michael contended!)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou shalt take heart again,<BR> +No more despairing;<BR> +Play thy great part again,<BR> +Loving and caring.<BR> +Hark, how the gold refrain<BR> +Runs through the iron strain,<BR> +Splendidly daring!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou shalt grow strong again,<BR> +Confident, tender,—<BR> +Battle with wrong again,<BR> +Be truth's defender,—<BR> +Of the immortal train,<BR> +Born to attempt, attain,<BR> +Never surrender!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="twilights"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"Now the Lengthening Twilights Hold"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the lengthening twilights hold<BR> +Tints of lavender and gold,<BR> +And the marshy places ring<BR> +With the pipers of the spring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the solitary star<BR> +Lays a path on meadow streams,<BR> +And I know it is not far<BR> +To the open door of dreams.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lord of April, in my hour<BR> +May the dogwood be in flower,<BR> +And my angel through the dome<BR> +Of spring twilight lead me home.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="soul"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Soul of April<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the wintry threshold<BR> +Who comes with joy to-day,<BR> +So frail, yet so enduring,<BR> +To triumph o'er dismay?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, quick her tears are springing,<BR> +And quickly they are dried,<BR> +For sorrow walks before her,<BR> +But gladness walks beside.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She comes with gusts of laughter,—<BR> +The music as of rills;<BR> +With tenderness and sweetness,—<BR> +The wisdom of the hills.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her hands are strong to comfort,<BR> +Her heart is quick to heed.<BR> +She knows the signs of sadness,<BR> +She knows the voice of need.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is no living creature,<BR> +However poor or small,<BR> +But she will know its trouble,<BR> +And hasten to its call.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, well they fare forever,<BR> +By mighty dreams possessed,<BR> +Whose hearts have lain a moment<BR> +On that eternal breast.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="aprilmorning"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +An April Morning<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Once more in misted April<BR> +The world is growing green.<BR> +Along the winding river<BR> +The plumey willows lean.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Beyond the sweeping meadows<BR> +The looming mountains rise,<BR> +Like battlements of dreamland<BR> +Against the brooding skies.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In every wooded valley<BR> +The buds are breaking through,<BR> +As though the heart of all things<BR> +No languor ever knew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The golden-wings and bluebirds<BR> +Call to their heavenly choirs.<BR> +The pines are blued and drifted<BR> +With smoke of brushwood fires.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And in my sister's garden<BR> +Where little breezes run,<BR> +The golden daffodillies<BR> +Are blowing in the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="voices"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Earth Voices<BR> +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heard the spring wind whisper<BR> +Above the brushwood fire,<BR> +"The world is made forever<BR> +Of transport and desire.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I am the breath of being,<BR> +The primal urge of things;<BR> +I am the whirl of star dust,<BR> +I am the lift of wings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I am the splendid impulse<BR> +That comes before the thought,<BR> +The joy and exaltation<BR> +Wherein the life is caught.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Across the sleeping furrows<BR> +I call the buried seed,<BR> +And blade and bud and blossom<BR> +Awaken at my need.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Within the dying ashes<BR> +I blow the sacred spark,<BR> +And make the hearts of lovers<BR> +To leap against the dark."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heard the spring light whisper<BR> +Above the dancing stream,<BR> +"The world is made forever<BR> +In likeness of a dream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I am the law of planets,<BR> +I am the guide of man;<BR> +The evening and the morning<BR> +Are fashioned to my plan.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I tint the dawn with crimson,<BR> +I tinge the sea with blue;<BR> +My track is in the desert,<BR> +My trail is in the dew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I paint the hills with color,<BR> +And in my magic dome<BR> +I light the star of evening<BR> +To steer the traveller home.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Within the house of being,<BR> +I feed the lamp of truth<BR> +With tales of ancient wisdom<BR> +And prophecies of youth."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heard the spring rain murmur<BR> +Above the roadside flower,<BR> +"The world is made forever<BR> +In melody and power.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I keep the rhythmic measure<BR> +That marks the steps of time,<BR> +And all my toil is fashioned<BR> +To symmetry and rhyme.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I plow the untilled upland,<BR> +I ripe the seeding grass,<BR> +And fill the leafy forest<BR> +With music as I pass.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I hew the raw, rough granite<BR> +To loveliness of line,<BR> +And when my work is finished,<BR> +Behold, it is divine!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I am the master-builder<BR> +In whom the ages trust.<BR> +I lift the lost perfection<BR> +To blossom from the dust."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then Earth to them made answer,<BR> +As with a slow refrain<BR> +Born of the blended voices<BR> +Of wind and sun and rain,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"This is the law of being<BR> +That links the threefold chain:<BR> +The life we give to beauty<BR> +Returns to us again."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="resurgam"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Resurgam +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lo, now comes the April pageant<BR> +And the Easter of the year.<BR> +Now the tulip lifts her chalice,<BR> +And the hyacinth his spear;<BR> +All the daffodils and jonquils<BR> +With their hearts of gold are here.<BR> +Child of the immortal vision,<BR> +What hast thou to do with fear?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the summons wakes the impulse,<BR> +And the blood beats in the vein,<BR> +Let no grief thy dream encumber,<BR> +No regret thy thought detain.<BR> +Through the scented bloom-hung valleys,<BR> +Over tillage, wood and plain,<BR> +Comes the soothing south wind laden<BR> +With the sweet impartial rain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All along the roofs and pavements<BR> +Pass the volleying silver showers,<BR> +To unfold the hearts of humans<BR> +And the frail unanxious flowers.<BR> +Breeding fast in sunlit places,<BR> +Teeming life puts forth her powers,<BR> +And the migrant wings come northward<BR> +On the trail of golden hours.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over intervale and upland<BR> +Sounds the robin's interlude<BR> +From his tree-top spire at evening<BR> +Where no unbeliefs intrude.<BR> +Every follower of beauty<BR> +Finds in the spring solitude<BR> +Sanctuary and persuasion<BR> +Where the mysteries still brood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the bluebird in the orchard,<BR> +A warm sighing at the door,<BR> +And the soft haze on the hillside,<BR> +Lure the houseling to explore<BR> +The perennial enchanted<BR> +Lovely world and all its lore;<BR> +While the early tender twilight<BR> +Breathes of those who come no more.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +By full brimming river margins<BR> +Where the scents of brush fires blow,<BR> +Through the faint green mist of springtime,<BR> +Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go,<BR> +Touched with such immortal madness<BR> +Not a thing they care to know<BR> +More than those who caught life's secret<BR> +Countless centuries ago.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In old Egypt for Osiris,<BR> +Putting on the green attire,<BR> +With soft hymns and choric dancing<BR> +They went forth to greet the fire<BR> +Of the vernal sun, whose ardor<BR> +His earth children could inspire;<BR> +And the ivory flutes would lead them<BR> +To the slake of their desire.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In remembrance of Adonis<BR> +Did the Dorian maidens sing<BR> +Linus songs of joy and sorrow<BR> +For the coming back of spring,—<BR> +Sorrow for the wintry death<BR> +Of each irrevocable thing,<BR> +Joy for all the pangs of beauty<BR> +The returning year could bring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the priests and holy women<BR> +With sweet incense, chant and prayer,<BR> +Keep His death and resurrection<BR> +Whose new love bade all men share<BR> +Immortality of kindness,<BR> +Living to make life more fair.<BR> +Wakened to such wealth of being,<BR> +Who would not arise and dare?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Seeing how each new fulfilment<BR> +Issues at the call of need<BR> +From infinitudes of purpose<BR> +In the core of soul and seed,<BR> +Who shall set the bounds of puissance<BR> +Or the formulas of creed?<BR> +Truth awaits the test of beauty,<BR> +Good is proven in the deed.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Therefore, give thy spring renascence,—<BR> +Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,—<BR> +To make perfect and replenish<BR> +All the sorry fault and dearth<BR> +Of the life from whose enrichment<BR> +Thine aspiring will had birth;<BR> +Take thy part in the redemption<BR> +Of thy kind from bonds of earth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty,<BR> +Even in this mortal clime<BR> +Share the life that is eternal,<BR> +Brother to the lords of time,—<BR> +Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,—<BR> +Builders of the world sublime.<BR> +Yesterday was not earth's evening<BR> +Every morning is our prime.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All that can be worth the rescue<BR> +From oblivion and decay,—<BR> +Joy and loveliness and wisdom,—<BR> +In thyself, without dismay<BR> +Thou shalt save and make enduring<BR> +Through each word and act, to sway<BR> +The hereafter to a likeness<BR> +Of thyself in other clay.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Still remains the peradventure,<BR> +Soul pursues an orbit here<BR> +Like those unreturning comets,<BR> +Sweeping on a vast career,<BR> +By an infinite directrix,<BR> +Focussed to a finite sphere,—<BR> +Nurtured in an earthly April,<BR> +In what realm to reappear?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="easter"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Easter Eve<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of Silvermine,</SPAN><BR> +Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">to shine;</SPAN><BR> +Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">in Ponus Street;</SPAN><BR> +You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">enough red meat!"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">on Wampanaw,</SPAN><BR> +Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard black<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">ice I saw</SPAN><BR> +An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">to rights,</SPAN><BR> +Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">for the winter nights.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">as you please.</SPAN><BR> +But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">who kept the keys?</SPAN><BR> +Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">lily roots,</SPAN><BR> +And then in the first warm days of April—out to the sun<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">with the greening shoots?</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of air,</SPAN><BR> +The spring express—but who despatched it, equipped with speed<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">and cunning care?</SPAN><BR> +Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of the happy heart,</SPAN><BR> +As full of light as a theme of Mozart's—but where did he learn<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">that more than art?</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as the<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">south wind brings the rain,</SPAN><BR> +Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">to his nest again.</SPAN><BR> +Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of natural fact;</SPAN><BR> +Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">that bids them act."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of the beasts and birds,</SPAN><BR> +Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">too vague for words.</SPAN><BR> +No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">is somewhere born;</SPAN><BR> +No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">as the growing corn.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of earth.</SPAN><BR> +To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">and lovely worth.</SPAN><BR> +If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">of will and power,</SPAN><BR> +To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and the<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">waiting hour,</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">and sorrows scar,</SPAN><BR> +Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">evening star.</SPAN><BR> +The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">wind, my friend.</SPAN><BR> +Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">ill in the end?</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="time"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Now is the Time of Year<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now is the time of year<BR> +When all the flutes begin,—<BR> +The redwing bold and clear,<BR> +The rainbird far and thin.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In all the waking lands<BR> +There's not a wilding thing<BR> +But knows and understands<BR> +The burden of the spring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now every voice alive<BR> +By rocky wood and stream<BR> +Is lifted to revive<BR> +The ecstasy, the dream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For Nature, never old,<BR> +But busy as of yore,<BR> +From sun and rain and mould<BR> +Is making spring once more.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She sounds her magic note<BR> +By river-marge and hill,<BR> +And every woodland throat<BR> +Re-echoes with a thrill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O mother of our days,<BR> +Hearing thy music call.<BR> +Teach us to know thy ways<BR> +And fear no more at all!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="redwing"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Redwing<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear you, Brother, I hear you,<BR> +Down in the alder swamp,<BR> +Springing your woodland whistle<BR> +To herald the April pomp!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +First of the moving vanguard,<BR> +In front of the spring you come,<BR> +Where flooded waters sparkle<BR> +And streams in the twilight hum.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You sound the note of the chorus<BR> +By meadow and woodland pond,<BR> +Till, one after one up-piping,<BR> +A myriad throats respond.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I see you, Brother, I see you,<BR> +With scarlet under your wing,<BR> +Flash through the ruddy maples,<BR> +Leading the pageant of spring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Earth has put off her raiment<BR> +Wintry and worn and old,<BR> +For the robe of a fair young sibyl.<BR> +Dancing in green and gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heed you, Brother. To-morrow<BR> +I, too, in the great employ,<BR> +Will shed my old coat of sorrow<BR> +For a brand-new garment of joy.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="rainbird"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Rainbird<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear a rainbird singing<BR> +Far off. How fine and clear<BR> +His plaintive voice comes ringing<BR> +With rapture to the ear!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the misty wood-lots,<BR> +Across the first spring heat,<BR> +Comes the enchanted cadence,<BR> +So clear, so solemn-sweet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How often I have hearkened<BR> +To that high pealing strain<BR> +Across wild cedar barrens,<BR> +Under the soft gray rain!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How often I have wondered,<BR> +And longed in vain to know<BR> +The source of that enchantment,<BR> +That touch of human woe!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O brother, who first taught thee<BR> +To haunt the teeming spring<BR> +With that sad mortal wisdom<BR> +Which only age can bring?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lament"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Lament<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When you hear the white-throat pealing<BR> +From a tree-top far away,<BR> +And the hills are touched with purple<BR> +At the borders of the day;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the redwing sounds his whistle<BR> +At the coming on of spring,<BR> +And the joyous April pipers<BR> +Make the alder marshes ring;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the wild new breath of being<BR> +Whispers to the world once more,<BR> +And before the shrine of beauty<BR> +Every spirit must adore;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When long thoughts come back with twilight,<BR> +And a tender deepened mood<BR> +Shows the eyes of the beloved<BR> +Like the hepaticas in the wood;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, remember, when to nothing<BR> +Save to love your heart gives heed,<BR> +And spring takes you to her bosom,—<BR> +So it was with Golden Weed!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="moon"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Under the April Moon<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, well the world is dreaming<BR> +Under the April moon,<BR> +Her soul in love with beauty,<BR> +Her senses all a-swoon!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Pure hangs the silver crescent<BR> +Above the twilight wood,<BR> +And pure the silver music<BR> +Wakes from the marshy flood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O Earth, with all thy transport,<BR> +How comes it life should seem<BR> +A shadow in the moonlight,<BR> +A murmur in a dream?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="flute"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Flute of Spring<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I know a shining meadow stream<BR> +That winds beneath an Eastern hill,<BR> +And all year long in sun or gloom<BR> +Its murmuring voice is never still.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The summer dies more gently there,<BR> +The April flowers are earlier,—<BR> +The first warm rain-wind from the Sound<BR> +Sets all their eager hearts astir.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there when lengthening twilights fall<BR> +As softly as a wild bird's wing,<BR> +Across the valley in the dusk<BR> +I hear the silver flute of spring.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="spring"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Spring Night<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the wondrous star-sown night,<BR> +In the first sweet warmth of spring,<BR> +I lie awake and listen<BR> +To hear the glad earth sing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear the brook in the wood<BR> +Murmuring, as it goes,<BR> +The song of the happy journey<BR> +Only the wise heart knows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear the trilling note<BR> +Of the tree-frog under the hill,<BR> +And the clear and watery treble<BR> +Of his brother, silvery shrill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And then I wander away<BR> +Through the mighty forest of Sleep,<BR> +To follow the fairy music<BR> +To the shore of an endless deep.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bloodroot"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Bloodroot<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When April winds arrive<BR> +And the soft rains are here,<BR> +Some morning by the roadside<BR> +These Fairy folk appear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We never see their coming,<BR> +However sharp our eyes;<BR> +Each year as if by magic<BR> +They take us by surprise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Along the ragged woodside<BR> +And by the green spring-run,<BR> +Their small white heads are nodding<BR> +And twinkling in the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They crowd across the meadow<BR> +In innocence and mirth,<BR> +As if there were no sorrow<BR> +In all this wondrous earth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So frail, so unregarded,<BR> +And yet about them clings<BR> +A sorcery of welcome,—<BR> +The joy of common things.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Perhaps their trail of beauty<BR> +Across the pasture sod<BR> +In jubilant procession<BR> +Is where an angel trod.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="daffodil"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Daffodil's Return<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What matter if the sun be lost?<BR> +What matter though the sky be gray?<BR> +There's joy enough about the house,<BR> +For Daffodil comes home to-day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's news of swallows on the air,<BR> +There's word of April on the way,<BR> +They're calling flowers within the street,<BR> +And Daffodil comes home to-day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O who would care what fate may bring,<BR> +Or what the years may take away!<BR> +There's life enough within the hour,<BR> +For Daffodil comes home to-day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lilac"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Now the Lilac Tree's in Bud<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the lilac tree's in bud,<BR> +And the morning birds are loud.<BR> +Now a stirring in the blood<BR> +Moves the heart of every crowd.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Word has gone abroad somewhere<BR> +Of a great impending change.<BR> +There's a message in the air<BR> +Of an import glad and strange.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not an idler in the street,<BR> +But is better off to-day.<BR> +Not a traveller you meet,<BR> +But has something wise to say.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now there's not a road too long,<BR> +Not a day that is not good,<BR> +Not a mile but hears a song<BR> +Lifted from the misty wood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Down along the Silvermine<BR> +That's the blackbird's cheerful note!<BR> +You can see him flash and shine<BR> +With the scarlet on his coat.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the winds are soft with rain,<BR> +And the twilight has a spell,<BR> +Who from gladness could refrain<BR> +Or with olden sorrows dwell?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="iris"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +White Iris<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +White Iris was a princess<BR> +In a kingdom long ago,<BR> +Mysterious as moonlight<BR> +And silent as the snow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She drew the world in wonder<BR> +And swayed it with desire,<BR> +Ere Babylon was builded<BR> +Or a stone laid in Tyre.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet here within my garden<BR> +Her loveliness appears,<BR> +Undimmed by any sorrow<BR> +Of all the tragic years.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How kind that earth should treasure<BR> +So beautiful a thing—<BR> +All mystical enchantment,<BR> +To stir our hearts in spring!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="tree"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Tree of Heaven<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Young foreign-born Ailanthus,<BR> +Because he grew so fast,<BR> +We scorned his easy daring<BR> +And doubted it would last.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But lo, when autumn gathers<BR> +And all the woods are old,<BR> +He stands in green and salmon,<BR> +A glory to behold!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Among the ancient monarchs<BR> +His airy tent is spread.<BR> +His robe of coronation<BR> +Is tasseled rosy red.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With something strange and Eastern,<BR> +His height and grace proclaim<BR> +His lineage and title<BR> +Is that celestial name.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the Tree of Heaven,<BR> +Which seems to say to us,<BR> +"Behold how rife is beauty,<BR> +And how victorious!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="peony"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Peony +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"<I>Pionia virtutem habet occultam.</I>"<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Arnoldus Villanova—1235-1313.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Arnoldus Villanova<BR> +Six hundred years ago<BR> +Said Peonies have magic,<BR> +And I believe it so.<BR> +There stands his learned dictum<BR> +Which any boy may read,<BR> +But he who learns the secret<BR> +Will be made wise indeed.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Astrologer and doctor<BR> +In the science of his day,<BR> +Have we so far outstripped him?<BR> +What more is there to say?<BR> +His medieval Latin<BR> +Records the truth for us,<BR> +Which I translate—virtutem<BR> +Habet occultam—thus:</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She hath a deep-hid virtue<BR> +No other flower hath.<BR> +When summer comes rejoicing<BR> +A-down my garden path,<BR> +In opulence of color,<BR> +In robe of satin sheen,<BR> +She casts o'er all the hours<BR> +Her sorcery serene.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A subtile, heartening fragrance<BR> +Comes piercing the warm hush,<BR> +And from the greening woodland<BR> +I hear the first wild thrush.<BR> +They move my heart to pity<BR> +For all the vanished years,<BR> +With ecstasy of longing<BR> +And tenderness of tears.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +By many names we call her,—<BR> +Pale exquisite Aurore,<BR> +Luxuriant Gismonda<BR> +Or sunny Couronne D'Or.<BR> +What matter,—Grandiflora,<BR> +A queen in some proud book,<BR> +Or sweet familiar Piny<BR> +With her old-fashioned look?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The crowding Apple blossoms<BR> +Above the orchard wall;<BR> +The Moonflower in August<BR> +When eerie nights befall;<BR> +Chrysanthemum in autumn,<BR> +Whose pageantries appear<BR> +With mystery and silence<BR> +To deck the dying year;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And many a mystic flower<BR> +Of the wildwood I have known,<BR> +But Pionia Arnoldi<BR> +Hath a transport all her own.<BR> +For Peony, my Peony,<BR> +Hath strength to make me whole,—<BR> +She gives her heart of beauty<BR> +For the healing of my soul.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Arnoldus Villanova,<BR> +Though earth is growing old,<BR> +As long as life has longing<BR> +Your guess at truth will hold.<BR> +Still works the hidden power<BR> +After a thousand springs,—<BR> +The medicine for heartache<BR> +That lurks in lovely things.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="pan"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Urban Pan<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Once more the magic days are come<BR> +With stronger sun and milder air;<BR> +The shops are full of daffodils;<BR> +There's golden leisure everywhere.<BR> +I heard my Lou this morning shout:<BR> +"Here comes the hurdy-gurdy man!"<BR> +And through the open window caught<BR> +The piping of the urban Pan.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I laid my wintry task aside,<BR> +And took a day to follow joy:<BR> +The trail of beauty and the call<BR> +That lured me when I was a boy.<BR> +I looked, and there looked up at me<BR> +A smiling, swarthy, hairy man<BR> +With kindling eye—and well I knew<BR> +The piping of the urban Pan.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He caught my mood; his hat was off;<BR> +I tossed the ungrudged silver down.<BR> +The cunning vagrant, every year<BR> +He casts his spell upon the town!<BR> +And we must fling him, old and young,<BR> +Our dimes or coppers, as we can;<BR> +And every heart must leap to hear<BR> +The piping of the urban Pan.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The music swells and fades again,<BR> +And I in dreams am far away,<BR> +Where a bright river sparkles down<BR> +To meet a blue Aegean bay.<BR> +There, in the springtime of the world,<BR> +Are dancing fauns, and in their van,<BR> +Is one who pipes a deathless tune—<BR> +The earth-born and the urban Pan.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And so he follows down the block,<BR> +A troop of children in his train,<BR> +The light-foot dancers of the street<BR> +Enamored of the reedy strain.<BR> +I hear their laughter rise and ring<BR> +Above the noise of truck and van,<BR> +As down the mellow wind fades out<BR> +The piping of the urban Pan.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="sailing"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Sailing of the Fleets<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the spring is in the town,<BR> +Now the wind is in the tree,<BR> +And the wintered keels go down<BR> +To the calling of the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Out from mooring, dock, and slip,<BR> +Through the harbor buoys they glide,<BR> +Drawing seaward till they dip<BR> +To the swirling of the tide.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One by one and two by two,<BR> +Down the channel turns they go,<BR> +Steering for the open blue<BR> +Where the salty great airs blow;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Craft of many a build and trim,<BR> +Every stitch of sail unfurled,<BR> +Till they hang upon the rim<BR> +Of the azure ocean world.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who has ever, man or boy,<BR> +Seen the sea all flecked with gold,<BR> +And not longed to go with joy<BR> +Forth upon adventures bold?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who could bear to stay indoor,<BR> +Now the wind is in the street,<BR> +For the creaking of the oar<BR> +And the tugging of the sheet!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the spring is in the town,<BR> +Who would not a rover be,<BR> +When the wintered keels go down<BR> +To the calling of the sea?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="newengland"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'Tis May now in New England<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +'Tis May now in New England<BR> +And through the open door<BR> +I see the creamy breakers,<BR> +I hear the hollow roar.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Back to the golden marshes<BR> +Comes summer at full tide,<BR> +But not the golden comrade<BR> +Who was the summer's pride.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="earlymay"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In Early May<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O my dear, the world to-day<BR> +Is more lovely than a dream!<BR> +Magic hints from far away<BR> +Haunt the woodland, and the stream<BR> +Murmurs in his rocky bed<BR> +Things that never can be said.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Starry dogwood is in flower,<BR> +Gleaming through the mystic woods.<BR> +It is beauty's perfect hour<BR> +In the wild spring solitudes.<BR> +Now the orchards in full blow<BR> +Shed their petals white as snow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the air is honey-sweet<BR> +With the lilacs white and red,<BR> +Where the blossoming branches meet<BR> +In an arbor overhead.<BR> +And the laden cherry trees<BR> +Murmur with the hum of bees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the earth is fairy green,<BR> +And the sunlight filmy gold,<BR> +Full of ecstasies unseen,<BR> +Full of mysteries untold.<BR> +Who would not be out-of-door,<BR> +Now the spring is here once more!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="fireflies"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Fireflies<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The fireflies across the dusk<BR> +Are flashing signals through the gloom—<BR> +Courageous messengers of light<BR> +That dare immensities of doom.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +About the seeding meadow-grass,<BR> +Like busy watchmen in the street,<BR> +They come and go, they turn and pass,<BR> +Lighting the way for Beauty's feet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Or up they float on viewless wings<BR> +To twinkle high among the trees,<BR> +And rival with soft glimmerings<BR> +The shining of the Pleiades.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The stars that wheel above the hill<BR> +Are not more wonderful to see,<BR> +Nor the great tasks that they fulfill<BR> +More needed in eternity.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="sankoty"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Path to Sankoty<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It winds along the headlands<BR> +Above the open sea—<BR> +The lonely moorland footpath<BR> +That leads to Sankoty.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The crooning sea spreads sailless<BR> +And gray to the world's rim,<BR> +Where hang the reeking fog-banks<BR> +Primordial and dim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There fret the ceaseless currents,<BR> +And the eternal tide<BR> +Chafes over hidden shallows<BR> +Where the white horses ride.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The wistful fragrant moorlands<BR> +Whose smile bids panic cease,<BR> +Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed<BR> +In grave and lonely peace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Across their flowering bosom,<BR> +From the far end of day<BR> +Blow clean the great soft moor-winds<BR> +All sweet with rose and bay.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A world as large and simple<BR> +As first emerged for man,<BR> +Cleared for the human drama,<BR> +Before the play began.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O well the soul must treasure<BR> +The calm that sets it free—<BR> +The vast and tender skyline,<BR> +The sea-turn's wizardry,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Solace of swaying grasses,<BR> +The friendship of sweet-fern—<BR> +And in the world's confusion<BR> +Remembering, must yearn<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To tread the moorland footpath<BR> +That leads to Sankoty,<BR> +Hearing the field-larks shrilling<BR> +Beside the sailless sea.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="monomoy"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Off Monomoy<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Have you sailed Nantucket Sound<BR> +By lightship, buoy, and bell,<BR> +And lain becalmed at noon<BR> +On an oily summer swell?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lazily drooped the sail,<BR> +Moveless the pennant hung,<BR> +Sagging over the rail<BR> +Idle the main boom swung;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sea, one mirror of shine<BR> +A single breath would destroy,<BR> +Save for the far low line<BR> +Of treacherous Monomoy.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet eastward there toward Spain,<BR> +What castled cities rise<BR> +From the Atlantic plain,<BR> +To our enchanted eyes!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Turret and spire and roof<BR> +Looming out of the sea,<BR> +Where the prosy chart gives proof<BR> +No cape nor isle can be!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Can a vision shine so clear<BR> +Wherein no substance dwells?<BR> +One almost harks to hear<BR> +The sound of the city's bells.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And yet no pealing notes<BR> +Within those belfries be,<BR> +Save echoes from the throats<BR> +Of ship-bells lost at sea.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For none shall anchor there<BR> +Save those who long of yore,<BR> +When tide and wind were fair,<BR> +Sailed and came back no more.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And none shall climb the stairs<BR> +Within those ghostly towers,<BR> +Save those for whom sad prayers<BR> +Went up through fateful hours.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O image of the world,<BR> +O mirage of the sea,<BR> +Cloud-built and foam-impearled.<BR> +What sorcery fashioned thee?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What architect of dream,<BR> +What painter of desire,<BR> +Conceived that fairy scheme<BR> +Touched with fantastic fire?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Even so our city of hope<BR> +We mortal dreamers rear<BR> +Upon the perilous slope<BR> +Above the deep of fear;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Leaving half-known the good<BR> +Our kindly earth bestows,<BR> +For the feigned beatitude<BR> +Of a future no man knows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lord of the summer sea,<BR> +Whose tides are in thy hand,<BR> +Into immensity<BR> +The vision at thy command<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fades now, and leaves no sign,—<BR> +No light nor bell nor buoy,—<BR> +Only the faint low line<BR> +Of dangerous Monomoy.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="stgermain"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In St. Germain Street<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through the street of St. Germain<BR> +March the tattered hosts of rain,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +While the wind with vagrant fife<BR> +Whips their chilly ranks to life.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From the window I can see<BR> +Their ghostly banners blowing free,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As they pass to where the ships<BR> +Crowd about the wharves and slips.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There at day's end they embark<BR> +To invade the realms of dark,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the sun comes out again<BR> +In the street of St. Germain.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="catskills"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Pan in the Catskills<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They say that he is dead, and now no more<BR> +The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills,<BR> +When the long summer heat is on the land.<BR> +But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing,<BR> +And therefore am incredulous of death,<BR> +Of pain and sorrow and mortality.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In these blue cañons, deep with hemlock shade,<BR> +In solitudes of twilight or of dawn,<BR> +I have been rapt away from time and care<BR> +By the enchantment of a golden strain<BR> +As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild,<BR> +Filling the listener with a mute surmise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +At evening and at morning I have gone<BR> +Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles,<BR> +And heard the haunting music of the wood<BR> +Ring through the silence of the dark ravine,<BR> +Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy<BR> +And all the ardors of creation old.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And then within my pagan heart awoke<BR> +Remembrance of far-off and fabled years<BR> +In the untarnished sunrise of the world,<BR> +When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard<BR> +A slow mysterious piping wild and keen<BR> +Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="june"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A New England June<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>These things I remember<BR> +Of New England June,<BR> +Like a vivid day-dream<BR> +In the azure noon,<BR> +While one haunting figure<BR> +Strays through every scene,<BR> +Like the soul of beauty<BR> +Through her lost demesne.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Gardens full of roses<BR> +And peonies a-blow<BR> +In the dewy morning,<BR> +Row on stately row,<BR> +Spreading their gay patterns,<BR> +Crimson, pied and cream,<BR> +Like some gorgeous fresco<BR> +Or an Eastern dream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Nets of waving sunlight<BR> +Falling through the trees;<BR> +Fields of gold-white daisies<BR> +Rippling in the breeze;<BR> +Lazy lifting groundswells,<BR> +Breaking green as jade<BR> +On the lilac beaches,<BR> +Where the shore-birds wade.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Orchards full of blossom,<BR> +Where the bob-white calls<BR> +And the honeysuckle<BR> +Climbs the old gray walls;<BR> +Groves of silver birches,<BR> +Beds of roadside fern,<BR> +In the stone-fenced pasture<BR> +At the river's turn.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Out of every picture<BR> +Still she comes to me<BR> +With the morning freshness<BR> +Of the summer sea,—<BR> +A glory in her bearing,<BR> +A sea-light in her eyes,<BR> +As if she could not forget<BR> +The spell of Paradise.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thrushes in the deep woods,<BR> +With their golden themes,<BR> +Fluting like the choirs<BR> +At the birth of dreams.<BR> +Fireflies in the meadows<BR> +At the gate of Night,<BR> +With their fairy lanterns<BR> +Twinkling soft and bright.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, not in the roses,<BR> +Nor the azure noon,<BR> +Nor the thrushes' music,<BR> +Lies the soul of June.<BR> +It is something finer,<BR> +More unfading far,<BR> +Than the primrose evening<BR> +And the silver star;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Something of the rapture<BR> +My beloved had,<BR> +When she made the morning<BR> +Radiant and glad,—<BR> +Something of her gracious<BR> +Ecstasy of mien,<BR> +That still haunts the twilight,<BR> +Loving though unseen.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>When the ghostly moonlight<BR> +Walks my garden ground,<BR> +Like a leisurely patrol<BR> +On his nightly round,<BR> +These things I remember<BR> +Of the long ago,<BR> +While the slumbrous roses<BR> +Neither care nor know.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="noon"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Tent of Noon<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Behold, now, where the pageant of high June<BR> +Halts in the glowing noon!<BR> +The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill;<BR> +The bannered hosts are still,<BR> +While over forest crown and mountain head<BR> +The azure tent is spread.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The song is hushed in every woodland throat;<BR> +Moveless the lilies float;<BR> +Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea<BR> +Sighs only fitfully;<BR> +The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade;<BR> +Peace on the world is laid.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is the hour when Nature's caravan,<BR> +That bears the pilgrim Man<BR> +Across the desert of uncharted time<BR> +To his far hope sublime,<BR> +Rests in the green oasis of the year,<BR> +As if the end drew near.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise<BR> +For these fleet halcyon days?—<BR> +No courage to uplift thee from despair<BR> +Born with the breath of prayer?<BR> +Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!<BR> +God stands in his tent door.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="children"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Children of Dream<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The black ash grows in the swampy ground,<BR> +The white ash in the dry;<BR> +The thrush he holds to the woodland bound,<BR> +The hawk to the open sky.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The trout he runs to the mountain brook,<BR> +The swordfish keeps the sea;<BR> +The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows.<BR> +The clover calls the bee.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The locust sings in the August noon,<BR> +The frog in the April night;<BR> +The iris loves the meadow-land,<BR> +The laurel loves the height.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And each will hold his tenure old<BR> +Of earth and sun and stream,<BR> +For all are creatures of desire<BR> +And children of a dream.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="roadside"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + Roadside Flowers +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We are the roadside flowers,<BR> +Straying from garden grounds,—<BR> +Lovers of idle hours,<BR> +Breakers of ordered bounds.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If only the earth will feed us,<BR> +If only the wind be kind,<BR> +We blossom for those who need us,<BR> +The stragglers left behind.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And lo, the Lord of the Garden,<BR> +He makes his sun to rise,<BR> +And his rain to fall with pardon<BR> +On our dusty paradise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On us he has laid the duty,—<BR> +The task of the wandering breed,—<BR> +To better the world with beauty,<BR> +Wherever the way may lead.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who shall inquire of the season,<BR> +Or question the wind where it blows?<BR> +We blossom and ask no reason.<BR> +The Lord of the Garden knows.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="saintrose"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Garden of Saint Rose<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is a holy refuge,<BR> +The garden of Saint Rose,<BR> +A fragrant altar to that peace<BR> +The world no longer knows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Below a solemn hillside,<BR> +Within the folding shade<BR> +Of overhanging beech and pine<BR> +Its walls and walks are laid.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Cool through the heat of summer,<BR> +Still as a sacred grove,<BR> +It has the rapt unworldly air<BR> +Of mystery and love.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All day before its outlook<BR> +The mist-blue mountains loom,<BR> +And in its trees at tranquil dusk<BR> +The early stars will bloom.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Down its enchanted borders<BR> +Glad ranks of color stand,<BR> +Like hosts of silent seraphim<BR> +Awaiting love's command.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lovely in adoration<BR> +They wait in patient line,<BR> +Snow-white and purple and deep gold<BR> +About the rose-gold shrine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there they guard the silence,<BR> +While still from her recess<BR> +Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down<BR> +In mellow loveliness.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She seems to say, "O stranger,<BR> +Behold how loving care<BR> +That gives its life for beauty's sake,<BR> +Makes everything more fair!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Then praise the Lord of gardens<BR> +For tree and flower and vine,<BR> +And bless all gardeners who have wrought<BR> +A resting place like mine!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="voice"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The World Voice<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heard the summer sea<BR> +Murmuring to the shore<BR> +Some endless story of a wrong<BR> +The whole world must deplore.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I heard the mountain wind<BR> +Conversing with the trees<BR> +Of an old sorrow of the hills,<BR> +Mysterious as the sea's.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And all that haunted day<BR> +It seemed that I could hear<BR> +The echo of an ancient speech<BR> +Ring in my listening ear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And then it came to me,<BR> +That all that I had heard<BR> +Was my own heart in the sea's voice<BR> +And the wind's lonely word.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="grass"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Songs of the Grass<BR> +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I<BR> +</H4> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ON THE DUNES.<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here all night on the dunes<BR> +In the rocking wind we sleep,<BR> +Watched by sentry stars,<BR> +Lulled by the drone of the deep.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Till hark, in the chill of the dawn<BR> +A field lark wakes and cries,<BR> +And over the floor of the sea<BR> +We watch the round sun rise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The world is washed once more<BR> +In a tide of purple and gold,<BR> +And the heart of the land is filled<BR> +With desires and dreams untold.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II<BR> +</H4> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LORD OF MORNING.<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lord of morning, light of day,<BR> +Sacred color-kindling sun,<BR> +We salute thee in the way,—<BR> +Pilgrims robed in rose and dun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For thou art a pilgrim too,<BR> +Overlord of all our band.<BR> +In thy fervor we renew<BR> +Quests we do not understand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +At thy summons we arise,<BR> +At thy touch put glory on.<BR> +And with glad unanxious eyes<BR> +Take the journey thou hast gone.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III<BR> +</H4> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE TRAVELLER.<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Before the night-blue fades<BR> +And the stars are quite gone,<BR> +I lift my head<BR> +At the noiseless tread<BR> +Of the angel of dawn.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear no word, yet my heart<BR> +Is beating apace;<BR> +Then in glory all still<BR> +On the eastern hill<BR> +I behold his face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All day through the world he goes,<BR> +Making glad, setting free;<BR> +Then his day's work done,<BR> +On the galleon sun<BR> +He sinks in the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="choristers"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Choristers<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When earth was finished and fashioned well,<BR> +There was never a musical note to tell<BR> +How glad God was, save the voice of the rain<BR> +And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain<BR> +And the rivers among the hills.<BR> +And so God made the marvellous birds<BR> +For a choir of joy transcending words,<BR> +That the world might hear and comprehend<BR> +How rhythm and harmony can mend<BR> +The spirits' hurts and ills.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He filled their tiny bodies with fire,<BR> +He taught them love for their chief desire,<BR> +And gave them the magic of wings to be<BR> +His celebrants over land and sea,<BR> +Wherever man might dwell.<BR> +And to each he apportioned a fragment of song—<BR> +Those broken melodies that belong<BR> +To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn<BR> +The healing of gladness and discern<BR> +In beauty how all is well.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So music dwells in the glorious throats<BR> +Forever, and the enchanted notes<BR> +Fall with rapture upon our ears,<BR> +Moving our hearts to joy and tears<BR> +For things we cannot say.<BR> +In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain<BR> +His pure, serene, half-wistful strain;<BR> +And when twilight falls the sleeping hills<BR> +Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills<BR> +In the blue dusk far away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the great white heart of the winter storm<BR> +The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm,<BR> +And his note is brave to rally the soul<BR> +From doubt and panic to self-control<BR> +And elation that knows no fear.<BR> +The bluebird comes with the winds of March,<BR> +Like a shred of sky on the naked larch;<BR> +The redwing follows the April rain<BR> +To whistle contentment back again<BR> +With his sturdy call of cheer.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The orioles revel through orchard boughs<BR> +In their coats of gold for spring's carouse;<BR> +In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call,<BR> +And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall<BR> +Under the evening star.<BR> +On the verge of June when peonies blow<BR> +And joy comes back to the world we know,<BR> +The bobolinks fill the fields of light<BR> +With a tangle of music silver-bright<BR> +To tell how glad they are.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The tiny warblers fill summer trees<BR> +With their exquisite lesser litanies;<BR> +The tanager in his scarlet coat<BR> +In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat<BR> +His canticle of the sun.<BR> +The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky,<BR> +And the sea-gull—each has a piercing cry,<BR> +Like outposts set in the lonely vast<BR> +To cry "all's well" as Time goes past<BR> +And another hour is gone.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But of all the music in God's plan<BR> +Of a mystical symphony for man,<BR> +I shall remember best of all—<BR> +Whatever hereafter may befall<BR> +Or pass and cease to be—<BR> +The hermit's hymn in the solitudes<BR> +Of twilight through the mountain woods,<BR> +And the field-larks crying about our doors<BR> +On the soft sweet wind across the moors<BR> +At morning by the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="counsel"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Weed's Counsel<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Said a traveller by the way<BR> +Pausing, "What hast thou to say,<BR> +Flower by the dusty road,<BR> +That would ease a mortal's load?"</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Traveller, hearken unto me!<BR> +I will tell thee how to see<BR> +Beauties in the earth and sky<BR> +Hidden from the careless eye.<BR> +I will tell thee how to hear<BR> +Nature's music wild and clear,—<BR> +Songs of midday and of dark<BR> +Such as many never mark,<BR> +Lyrics of creation sung<BR> +Ever since the world was young.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And thereafter thou shalt know<BR> +Neither weariness nor woe.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou shalt see the dawn unfold<BR> +Artistries of rose and gold,<BR> +And the sunbeams on the sea<BR> +Dancing with the wind for glee.<BR> +The red lilies of the moors<BR> +Shall be torches on the floors,<BR> +Where the field-lark lifts his cry<BR> +To rejoice the passer-by,<BR> +In a wide world rimmed with blue<BR> +Lovely as when time was new.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And thereafter thou shalt fare<BR> +Light of foot and free from care.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I will teach thee how to find<BR> +Lost enchantments of the mind<BR> +All about thee, never guessed<BR> +By indifferent unrest.<BR> +Thy distracted thought shall learn<BR> +Patience from the roadside fern,<BR> +And a sweet philosophy<BR> +From the flowering locust tree,—<BR> +While thy heart shall not disdain<BR> +The consolation of the rain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not an acre but shall give<BR> +Of its strength to help thee live.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With the many-wintered sun<BR> +Shall thy hardy course be run.<BR> +And the bright new moon shall be<BR> +A lamp to thy felicity.<BR> +When green-mantled spring shall come<BR> +Past thy door with flute and drum,<BR> +And when over wood and swamp<BR> +Autumn trails her scarlet pomp,<BR> +No misgiving shalt thou know,<BR> +Passing glad to rise and go.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So thy days shall be unrolled<BR> +Like a wondrous cloth of gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When gray twilight with her star<BR> +Makes a heaven that is not far,<BR> +Touched with shadows and with dreams,<BR> +Thou shalt hear the woodland streams<BR> +Singing through the starry night<BR> +Holy anthems of delight.<BR> +So the ecstasy of earth<BR> +Shall refresh thee as at birth,<BR> +And thou shalt arise each morn<BR> +Radiant with a soul reborn.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And this wisdom of a day<BR> +None shall ever take away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What the secret, what the clew<BR> +The wayfarer must pursue?<BR> +Only one thing he must have<BR> +Who would share these transports brave.<BR> +Love within his heart must dwell<BR> +Like a bubbling roadside well,<BR> +For a spring to quicken thought,<BR> +Else my counsel comes to naught.<BR> +For without that quickening trust<BR> +We are less than roadside dust.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This, O traveller, is my creed,—<BR> +All the wisdom of the weed!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Then the traveller set his pack<BR> +Once more on his dusty back,<BR> +And trudged on for many a mile<BR> +Fronting fortune with a smile.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="heron"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Blue Heron<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I see the great blue heron<BR> +Rising among the reeds<BR> +And floating down the wind,<BR> +Like a gliding sail<BR> +With the set of the stream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I hear the two-horse mower<BR> +Clacking among the hay,<BR> +In the heat of a July noon,<BR> +And the driver's voice<BR> +As he turns his team.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I see the meadow lilies<BR> +Flecked with their darker tan,<BR> +The elms, and the great white clouds;<BR> +And all the world<BR> +Is a passing dream.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="woodland"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Woodland Rain<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Shining, shining children<BR> +Of the summer rain,<BR> +Racing down the valley,<BR> +Sweeping o'er the plain!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Rushing through the forest,<BR> +Pelting on the leaves,<BR> +Drenching down the meadow<BR> +With its standing sheaves;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Robed in royal silver,<BR> +Girt with jewels gay,<BR> +With a gust of gladness<BR> +You pass upon your way.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fresh, ah, fresh behind you,<BR> +Sunlit and impearled,<BR> +As it was in Eden,<BR> +Lies the lovely world!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="storm"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Summer Storm<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The hilltop trees are bowing<BR> +Under the coming of storm.<BR> +The low, gray clouds are trailing<BR> +Like squadrons that sweep and form,<BR> +With their ammunition of rain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then the trumpeter wind gives signal<BR> +To unlimber the viewless guns;<BR> +The cattle huddle together;<BR> +Indoors the farmer runs;<BR> +And the first shot lashes the pane.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They charge through the quiet orchard;<BR> +One pear tree is snapped like a wand;<BR> +As they sweep from the shattered hillside,<BR> +Ruffling the blackened pond,<BR> +Ere the sun takes the field again.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="sunbeams"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Dance of the Sunbeams<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When morning is high o'er the hilltops,<BR> +On river and stream and lake,<BR> +Wherever a young breeze whispers,<BR> +The sun-clad dancers wake.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One after one up-springing,<BR> +They flash from their dim retreat.<BR> +Merry as running laughter<BR> +Is the news of their twinkling feet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the floors of azure<BR> +Wherever the wind-flaws run,<BR> +Sparkling, leaping, and racing,<BR> +Their antics scatter the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As long as water ripples<BR> +And weather is clear and glad,<BR> +Day after day they are dancing,<BR> +Never a moment sad.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But when through the field of heaven<BR> +The wings of storm take flight,<BR> +At a touch of the flying shadows<BR> +They falter and slip from sight.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Until at the gray day's ending,<BR> +As the squadrons of cloud retire,<BR> +They pass in the triumph of sunset<BR> +With banners of crimson fire.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="campfire"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Campfire of the Sun<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lo, now, the journeying sun,<BR> +Another day's march done,<BR> +Kindles his campfire at the edge of night!<BR> +And in the twilight pale<BR> +Above his crimson trail,<BR> +The stars move out their cordons still and bright.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now in the darkening hush<BR> +A solitary thrush<BR> +Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep;<BR> +While brooding on her best,<BR> +The wandering soul has rest,<BR> +And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="streams"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Summer Streams<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All day long beneath the sun<BR> +Shining through the fields they run,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Singing in a cadence known<BR> +To the seraphs round the throne.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the traveller drawing near<BR> +Through the meadow, halts to hear<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Anthems of a natural joy<BR> +No disaster can destroy.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All night long from set of sun<BR> +Through the starry woods they run,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Singing through the purple dark<BR> +Songs to make a traveller hark.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All night long, when winds are low,<BR> +Underneath my window go<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The immortal happy streams,<BR> +Making music through my dreams.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="woods"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The God of the Wood<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here all the forces of the wood<BR> +As one converge,<BR> +To make the soul of solitude<BR> +Where all things merge.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain,<BR> +The visiting moon,<BR> +The hurrying cloud by peak and plain,<BR> +Each with its boon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here power attains perfection still<BR> +In mighty ease,<BR> +That the great earth may have her will<BR> +Of joy and peace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And so through me, the mortal born<BR> +Of plasmic clay,<BR> +Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn,<BR> +And glad, have sway.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Eternal passions, ardors fine,<BR> +And monstrous fears,<BR> +Rule and rebel, serene, malign,<BR> +Or loosed in tears;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Until at last they shall evolve<BR> +From griefs and joys<BR> +Some steady light, some firm resolve,<BR> +Some Godlike poise.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="sunrise"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +At Sunrise<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the stars have faded<BR> +In the purple chill,<BR> +Lo, the sun is kindling<BR> +On the eastern hill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Tree by tree the forest<BR> +Takes the golden tinge,<BR> +As the shafts of glory<BR> +Pierce the summit's fringe.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Rock by rock the ledges<BR> +Take the rosy sheen,<BR> +As the tide of splendor<BR> +Floods the dark ravine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Like a shining angel<BR> +At my cabin door,<BR> +Shod with hope and silence,<BR> +Day is come once more.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then, as if in sorrow<BR> +That you are not here,<BR> +All his magic beauties<BR> +Gray and disappear.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="twilight"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +At Twilight +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the fire is lighted<BR> +On the chimney stone,<BR> +Day goes down the valley,<BR> +I am left alone.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the misty purple<BR> +Floods the darkened vale,<BR> +And the stars come out<BR> +On the twilight trail.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The mountain river murmurs<BR> +In his rocky bed,<BR> +And the stealthy shadows<BR> +Fill the house with dread.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then I hear your laughter<BR> +At the open door,—<BR> +Brightly burns the fire,<BR> +I need fear no more.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="moonrise"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Moonrise<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +At the end of the road through the wood<BR> +I see the great moon rise.<BR> +The fields are flooded with shine,<BR> +And my soul with surmise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What if that mystic orb<BR> +With her shadowy beams,<BR> +Should be the revealer at last<BR> +Of my darkest dreams!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What if this tender fire<BR> +In my heart's deep hold<BR> +Should be wiser than all the lore<BR> +Of the sages of old!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="queen"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Queen of Night<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Mortal, mortal, have you seen<BR> +In the scented summer night,<BR> +Great Astarte, clad in green<BR> +With a veil of mystic light,<BR> +Passing on her silent way,<BR> +Pale and lovelier than day?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Mortal, mortal, have you heard,<BR> +On an odorous summer eve,<BR> +Rumors of an unknown word<BR> +Bidding sorrow not to grieve,—<BR> +Echoes of a silver voice<BR> +Bidding every heart rejoice?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Mortal, when the slim new moon<BR> +Hangs above the western hill,<BR> +When the year comes round to June<BR> +And the leafy world is still,<BR> +Then, enraptured, you shall hear<BR> +Secrets for a poet's ear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Mortal, mortal, come with me,<BR> +When the moon is rising large,<BR> +Through the wood or from the sea,<BR> +Or by some lone river marge.<BR> +There, entranced, you shall behold<BR> +Beauty's self, that grows not old.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="nightlyric"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Night Lyric<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the world's far edges<BR> +Faint and blue,<BR> +Where the rocky ledges<BR> +Stand in view,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fades the rosy, tender<BR> +Evening light;<BR> +Then in starry splendor<BR> +Comes the night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So a stormy lifetime<BR> +Comes to close,<BR> +Spirit's mortal strifetime<BR> +Finds repose.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Faith and toil and vision<BR> +Crowned at last,<BR> +Failure and derision<BR> +Overpast,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the daylight splendor<BR> +Far above,<BR> +Calm and sure and tender<BR> +Comes thy love.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="heart"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Heart of Night<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When all the stars are sown<BR> +Across the night-blue space,<BR> +With the immense unknown,<BR> +In silence face to face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We stand in speechless awe<BR> +While Beauty marches by,<BR> +And wonder at the Law<BR> +Which wears such majesty.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How small a thing is man<BR> +In all that world-sown vast,<BR> +That he should hope or plan<BR> +Or dream his dream could last!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O doubter of the light,<BR> +Confused by fear and wrong,<BR> +Lean on the heart of night<BR> +And let love make thee strong!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The Good that is the True<BR> +Is clothed with Beauty still.<BR> +Lo, in their tent of blue,<BR> +The stars above the hill!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="peace"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Peace<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sleeping tarn is dark<BR> +Below the wooded hill.<BR> +Save for its homing sounds,<BR> +The twilit world grows still.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And I am left to muse<BR> +In grave-eyed mystery,<BR> +And watch the stars come out<BR> +As sandalled dusk goes by.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And now the light is gone,<BR> +The drowsy murmurs cease,<BR> +And through the still unknown<BR> +I wonder whence comes peace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then softly falls the word<BR> +Of one beyond a name,<BR> +"Peace only comes to him<BR> +Who guards his life from shame,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Who gives his heart to love,<BR> +And holding truth for guide,<BR> +Girds him with fearless strength,<BR> +That freedom may abide."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="graywall"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Old Gray Wall<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Time out of mind I have stood<BR> +Fronting the frost and the sun,<BR> +That the dream of the world might endure,<BR> +And the goodly will be done.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Did the hand of the builder guess,<BR> +As he laid me stone by stone,<BR> +A heart in the granite lurked,<BR> +Patient and fond as his own?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lovers have leaned on me<BR> +Under the summer moon,<BR> +And mowers laughed in my shade<BR> +In the harvest heat at noon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Children roving the fields<BR> +With early flowers in spring,<BR> +Old men turning to look,<BR> +When they heard a bluebird sing,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Have seen me a thousand times<BR> +Standing here in the sun,<BR> +Yet never a moment dreamed<BR> +Whose likeness they gazed upon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, when will ye understand,<BR> +Mortals who strive and plod,—<BR> +Who rests on this old gray wall<BR> +Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="tedeum"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Te Deum<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">things laid,</SPAN><BR> +The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,<BR> +When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of its glory now,</SPAN><BR> +That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">the head to bow.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">too,—</SPAN><BR> +The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">line and hue;</SPAN><BR> +I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of ours,</SPAN><BR> +Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">all her powers.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of hardwood trees,</SPAN><BR> +A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.<BR> +A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">and dun,</SPAN><BR> +Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of the sun!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">are Etruscan gold,</SPAN><BR> +And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">a signal bold;</SPAN><BR> +The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass<BR> +In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">is brought to pass.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">softer picture lies,</SPAN><BR> +As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of paradise,—</SPAN><BR> +Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">luring the mind</SPAN><BR> +With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">are left behind.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">endless joy,</SPAN><BR> +Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">employ,</SPAN><BR> +Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,<BR> +Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides—our<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">privilege here.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">here and now,</SPAN><BR> +Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">somewhere, somehow?</SPAN><BR> +I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">a journey hence</SPAN><BR> +Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">for spirit and sense.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">filled from a blighted flower?</SPAN><BR> +Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">beatified hour?</SPAN><BR> +Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">command,</SPAN><BR> +Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">heaven at hand."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">feed my soul.</SPAN><BR> +With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">a further dole?</SPAN><BR> +In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of truth,</SPAN><BR> +Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">of dreamful youth.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">shall lend me poise.</SPAN><BR> +I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">and all her joys.</SPAN><BR> +Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">veins like wine;</SPAN><BR> +While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 3em">with the life divine.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="october"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In October<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now come the rosy dogwoods,<BR> +The golden tulip-tree,<BR> +And the scarlet yellow maple,<BR> +To make a day for me.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The ash-trees on the ridges,<BR> +The alders in the swamp,<BR> +Put on their red and purple<BR> +To join the autumn pomp.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The woodbine hangs her crimson<BR> +Along the pasture wall,<BR> +And all the bannered sumacs<BR> +Have heard the frosty call.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who then so dead to valor<BR> +As not to raise a cheer,<BR> +When all the woods are marching<BR> +In triumph of the year?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="waters"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +By Still Waters<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"<I>He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth<BR> +my soul.</I>"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"My tent stands in a garden<BR> +Of aster and goldenrod,<BR> +Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,<BR> +And sown by the hand of God,—<BR> +An old New England pasture<BR> +Abandoned to peace and time,<BR> +And by the magic of beauty<BR> +Reclaimed to the sublime.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +About it are golden woodlands<BR> +Of tulip and hickory;<BR> +On the open ridge behind it<BR> +You may mount to a glimpse of sea,—<BR> +The far-off, blue, Homeric<BR> +Rim of the world's great shield,<BR> +A border of boundless glamor<BR> +For the soul's familiar field.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In purple and gray-wrought lichen<BR> +The boulders lie in the sun;<BR> +Along its grassy footpath<BR> +The white-tailed rabbits run.<BR> +The crickets work and chirrup<BR> +Through the still afternoon;<BR> +And the owl calls from the hillside<BR> +Under the frosty moon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The odorous wild grape clambers<BR> +Over the tumbling wall,<BR> +And through the autumnal quiet<BR> +The chestnuts open and fall.<BR> +Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,<BR> +Part of the earth's great soul,<BR> +Here man's spirit may ripen<BR> +To wisdom serene and whole.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Shall we not grow with the asters—<BR> +Never reluctant nor sad,<BR> +Not counting the cost of being,<BR> +Living to dare and be glad?<BR> +Shall we not lift with the crickets<BR> +A chorus of ready cheer,<BR> +Braving the frost of oblivion,<BR> +Quick to be happy here?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is my will as sweet as the wild grape,<BR> +Spreading delight on the air<BR> +For the passer-by's enchantment,<BR> +Subtle and unaware?<BR> +Have I as brave a spirit,<BR> +Sprung from the self-same mould,<BR> +As this weed from its own contentment<BR> +Lifting its shaft of gold?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The deep red cones of the sumach<BR> +And the woodbine's crimson's sprays<BR> +Have bannered the common roadside<BR> +For the pageant of passing days.<BR> +These are the oracles Nature<BR> +Fills with her holy breath,<BR> +Giving them glory of color,<BR> +Transcending the shadow of death.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here in the sifted sunlight<BR> +A spirit seems to brood<BR> +On the beauty and worth of being,<BR> +In tranquil, instinctive mood;<BR> +And the heart, filled full of gladness<BR> +Such as the wise earth knows,<BR> +Wells with a full thanksgiving<BR> +For the gifts that life bestows:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For the ancient and virile nurture<BR> +Of the teeming primordial ground,<BR> +For the splendid gospel of color,<BR> +The rapt revelations of sound;<BR> +For the morning-blue above us<BR> +And the rusted gold of the fern,<BR> +For the chickadee's call of valor<BR> +Bidding the faint-heart turn;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For fire and running water,<BR> +Snowfall and summer rain;<BR> +For sunsets and quiet meadows,<BR> +The fruit and the standing grain;<BR> +For the solemn hour of moonrise<BR> +Over the crest of trees,<BR> +When the mellow lights are kindled<BR> +In the lamps of the centuries;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For those who wrought aforetime,<BR> +Led by the mystic strain<BR> +To strive for the larger freedom,<BR> +And live for the greater gain;<BR> +For plenty of peace and playtime,<BR> +The homely goods of earth,<BR> +And for rare immaterial treasures<BR> +Accounted of little worth;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For art and learning and friendship,<BR> +Where beneficent truth is supreme,—<BR> +Those everlasting cities<BR> +Built on the hills of dream;<BR> +For all things growing and goodly<BR> +That foster this life, and breed<BR> +The immortal flower of wisdom<BR> +Out of the mortal seed.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But most of all for the spirit<BR> +That cannot rest nor bide<BR> +In stale and sterile convenience,<BR> +Nor safety proven and tried,<BR> +But still inspired and driven,<BR> +Must seek what better may be,<BR> +And up from the loveliest garden<BR> +Must climb for a glimpse of sea.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lines"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Lines for a Picture<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the leaves are flying<BR> +Across the azure sky,<BR> +Autumn on the hill top<BR> +Turns to say good-by;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In her gold-red tunic,<BR> +Like an Eastern queen,<BR> +With untarnished courage<BR> +In her wilding mien.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the earth below her<BR> +Answers to her gaze,<BR> +And her eyes are pensive<BR> +With remembered days.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet, with cheek ensanguined,<BR> +Gay at heart she goes<BR> +On the great adventure<BR> +Where the north wind blows.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="pasture"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Deserted Pasture<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I love the stony pasture<BR> +That no one else will have.<BR> +The old gray rocks so friendly seem,<BR> +So durable and brave.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In tranquil contemplation<BR> +It watches through the year.<BR> +Seeing the frosty stars arise,<BR> +The slender moons appear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Its music is the rain-wind,<BR> +Its choristers the birds,<BR> +And there are secrets in its heart<BR> +Too wonderful for words.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It keeps the bright-eyed creatures<BR> +That play about its walls,<BR> +Though long ago its milking herds<BR> +Were banished from their stalls.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Only the children come there,<BR> +For buttercups in May,<BR> +Or nuts in autumn, where it lies<BR> +Dreaming the hours away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Long since its strength was given<BR> +To making good increase,<BR> +And now its soul is turned again<BR> +To beauty and to peace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There in the early springtime<BR> +The violets are blue,<BR> +And adder-tongues in coats of gold<BR> +Are garmented anew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There bayberry and aster<BR> +Are crowded on its floors,<BR> +When marching summer halts to praise<BR> +The Lord of Out-of-doors.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there October passes<BR> +In gorgeous livery,—<BR> +In purple ash, and crimson oak,<BR> +And golden tulip tree.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And when the winds of winter<BR> +Their bugle blasts begin,<BR> +The snowy hosts of heaven arrive<BR> +And pitch their tents therein.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="autumn"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Autumn<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now when the time of fruit and grain is come,<BR> +When apples hang above the orchard wall,<BR> +And from the tangle by the roadside stream<BR> +A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air,<BR> +Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan,<BR> +Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay<BR> +And tattered colors of the Orient,<BR> +Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills.<BR> +The woods of Wilton at her coming wear<BR> +Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand:<BR> +The maples glow with their Pompeian red,<BR> +The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold;<BR> +And while the crickets fife along her march,<BR> +Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="november"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +November Twilight<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now Winter at the end of day<BR> +Along the ridges takes her way,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Upon her twilight round to light<BR> +The faithful candles of the night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As quiet as the nun she goes<BR> +With silver lamp in hand, to close<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The silent doors of dusk that keep<BR> +The hours of memory and sleep.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She pauses to tread out the fires<BR> +Where Autumn's festal train retires.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The last red embers smoulder down<BR> +Behind the steeples of the town.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Austere and fine the trees stand bare<BR> +And moveless in the frosty air,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Against the pure and paling light<BR> +Before the threshold of the night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On purple valley and dim wood<BR> +The timeless hush of solitude<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is laid, as if the time for some<BR> +Transcending mystery were come,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That shall illumine and console<BR> +The penitent and eager soul,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Setting her free to stand before<BR> +Supernal beauty and adore.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico<BR> +It is the hour of prayer. And lo,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Above the earth, serene and still,<BR> +One star—our star—o'er Lonetree Hill!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ghostyard"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the first silent frost has trod<BR> +The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And laid the blight of his cold hand<BR> +Upon the warm autumnal land,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And all things wait the subtle change<BR> +That men call death, is it not strange<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That I—without a care or need,<BR> +Who only am an idle weed—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,<BR> +The coming of the final cold!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="before"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Before the Snow<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now soon, ah, very soon, I know<BR> +The trumpets of the north will blow,<BR> +And the great winds will come to bring<BR> +The pale, wild riders of the snow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Darkening the sun with level flight,<BR> +At arrowy speed, they will alight,<BR> +Unnumbered as the desert sands,<BR> +To bivouac on the edge of night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then I, within their somber ring,<BR> +Shall hear a voice that seems to sing,<BR> +Deep, deep within my tranquil heart,<BR> +The valiant prophecy of spring.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="winter"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + Winter +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When winter comes along the river line<BR> +And Earth has put away her green attire,<BR> +With all the pomp of her autumnal pride,<BR> +The world is made a sanctuary old,<BR> +Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray,<BR> +And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest<BR> +Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine,<BR> +Showing the sunset glory through the chinks.<BR> +There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul,<BR> +Uplift in adoration, sees the world<BR> +Transfigured to a temple of her Lord;<BR> +While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow<BR> +Night, like a sacristan with silent step,<BR> +Passes to light the tapers of the stars.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="winterpiece"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Winter Piece<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the rim of a lacquered bowl,<BR> +Where a cold blue water-color stands,<BR> +I see the wintry breakers roll<BR> +And heave their froth up the freezing sands.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here in immunity safe and dull,<BR> +Soul treads her circuit of trivial things.<BR> +There soul's brother, a shining gull,<BR> +Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="winterstreams"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Winter Streams<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now the little rivers go<BR> +Muffled safely under snow,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And the winding meadow streams<BR> +Murmur in their wintry dreams,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +While a tinkling music wells<BR> +Faintly from there icy bells,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Telling how their hearts are bold<BR> +Though the very sun be cold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, but wait until the rain<BR> +Comes a-sighing once again,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sweeping softly from the Sound<BR> +Over ridge and meadow ground!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then the little streams will hear<BR> +April calling far and near,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Slip their snowy bands and run<BR> +Sparkling in the welcome sun.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="wintertwilight"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Winter Twilight<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Along the wintry skyline,<BR> +Crowning the rocky crest,<BR> +Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees<BR> +Against the saffron west,—<BR> +Its gray and purple network<BR> +Of branching tracery<BR> +Outspread upon the lucent air,<BR> +Like weed within the sea.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The scarlet robe of autumn<BR> +Renounced and put away,<BR> +The mystic Earth is fairer still,—<BR> +A Puritan in gray.<BR> +The spirit of the winter,<BR> +How tender, how austere!<BR> +Yet all the ardor of the spring<BR> +And summer's dream are here.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Fear not, O timid lover,<BR> +The touch of frost and rime!<BR> +This is the virtue that sustained<BR> +The roses in their prime.<BR> +The anthem of the northwind<BR> +Shall hallow thy despair,<BR> +The benediction of the snow<BR> +Be answer to thy prayer.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And now the star of evening<BR> +That is the pilgrim's sign,<BR> +Is lighted in the primrose dusk,—<BR> +A lamp before a shrine.<BR> +Peace fills the mighty minster,<BR> +Tranquil and gray and old,<BR> +And all the chancel of the west<BR> +Is bright with paling gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A little wind goes sifting<BR> +Along the meadow floor,—<BR> +Like steps of lovely penitents<BR> +Who sighingly adore.<BR> +Then falls the twilight curtain,<BR> +And fades the eerie light,<BR> +And frost and silence turn the keys<BR> +In the great doors of night.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="twelfth"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Twelfth Night Star<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is the bitter time of year<BR> +When iron is the ground,<BR> +With hasp and sheathing of black ice<BR> +The forest lakes are bound,<BR> +The world lies snugly under snow,<BR> +Asleep without a sound.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the night long in trooping squares<BR> +The sentry stars go by,<BR> +The silent and unwearying hosts<BR> +That bear man company,<BR> +And with their pure enkindling fires<BR> +Keep vigils lone and high.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through the dead hours before the dawn,<BR> +When the frost snaps the sill,<BR> +From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea<BR> +The earth lies dark and still,<BR> +Till one great silver planet shines<BR> +Above the eastern hill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is the star of Gabriel,<BR> +The herald of the Word<BR> +In days when messengers of God<BR> +With sons of men conferred,<BR> +Who brought the tidings of great joy<BR> +The watching shepherds heard;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The mystic light that moved to lead<BR> +The wise of long ago,<BR> +Out of the great East where they dreamed<BR> +Of truths they could not know,<BR> +To seek some good that should assuage<BR> +The world's most ancient woe.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O well, believe, they loved their dream,<BR> +Those children of the star,<BR> +Who saw the light and followed it,<BR> +Prophetical, afar,—<BR> +Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior,<BR> +And eager Balthasar.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Another year slips to the void,<BR> +And still with omen bright<BR> +Above the sleeping doubting world<BR> +The day-star is alight,—<BR> +The waking signal flashed of old<BR> +In the blue Syrian night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But who are now as wise as they<BR> +Whose faith could read the sign<BR> +Of the three gifts that shall suffice<BR> +To honor the divine,<BR> +And show the tread of common life<BR> +Ineffably benign?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Whoever wakens on a day<BR> +Happy to know and be,<BR> +To enjoy the air, to love his kind,<BR> +To labor, to be free,—<BR> +Already his enraptured soul<BR> +Lives in eternity.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For him with every rising sun<BR> +The year begins anew;<BR> +The fertile earth receives her lord,<BR> +And prophecy comes true,<BR> +Wondrously as a fall of snow,<BR> +Dear as a drench of dew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who gives his life for beauty's need,<BR> +King Caspar could no more;<BR> +Who serves the truth with single mind<BR> +Shall stand with Melchior;<BR> +And love is all that Balthasar<BR> +In crested censer bore.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="choral"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Christmas Eve Choral<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +What sound is this across the dark<BR> +While all the earth is sleeping? Hark!<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Why are thy tender eyes so bright,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +On the prophetic deep of night<BR> +Joseph, Joseph,<BR> +I see the borders of the light,<BR> +And in the day that is to be<BR> +An aureoled man-child I see,<BR> +Great love's son, Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +He hears not, but she hears afar,<BR> +The Minstrel Angel of the star.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Why is thy gentle smile so deep,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +It is the secret I must keep,<BR> +Joseph, Joseph,—<BR> +The joy that will not let me sleep,<BR> +The glory of the coming days,<BR> +When all the world shall turn to praise<BR> +God's goodness, Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +Clear as the bird that brings the morn<BR> +She hears the heavenly music borne.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Why is thy radiant face so calm,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +His strength is like a royal palm,<BR> +Joseph, Joseph;<BR> +His beauty like the victor's psalm.<BR> +He moves like morning o'er the lands<BR> +And there is healing in his hands<BR> +For sorrow, Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +Tender as dew-fall on the earth<BR> +She hears the choral of love's birth.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What is the message come to thee,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +I hear like wind within the tree,<BR> +Joseph, Joseph,<BR> +Or like a far-off melody<BR> +His deathless voice proclaiming peace,<BR> +And bidding ruthless wrong to cease,<BR> +For love's sake, Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +Moving as rain-wind in the spring<BR> +She hears the angel chorus ring.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Why are thy patient hands so still,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +I see the shadow on the hill,<BR> +Joseph, Joseph,<BR> +And wonder if it is God's will<BR> +That courage, service, and glad youth<BR> +Shall perish in the cause of truth<BR> +Forever, Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +Her heart in that celestial chime<BR> +Has heard the harmony of time.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Why is thy voice so strange and far,<BR> +Mary, Mary?<BR> +I see the glory of the star,<BR> +Joseph, Joseph;<BR> +And in its light all things that are,<BR> +Made glad and wise beyond the sway<BR> +Of death and darkness and dismay,<BR> +In God's time Joseph.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Halleluja!<BR> +To every heart in love 'tis given<BR> +To hear the ecstasy of heaven.<BR> +Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja.</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="song"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Christmas Song<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Above the weary waiting world,<BR> +Asleep in chill despair,<BR> +There breaks a sound of joyous bells<BR> +Upon the frosted air.<BR> +And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo,<BR> +A star is dancing on the snow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What makes the yellow star to dance<BR> +Upon the brink of night?<BR> +What makes the breaking dawn to glow<BR> +So magically bright,—<BR> +And all the earth to be renewed<BR> +With infinite beatitude?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The singing bells, the throbbing star,<BR> +The sunbeams on the snow,<BR> +And the awakening heart that leaps<BR> +New ecstasy to know,—<BR> +They all are dancing in the morn<BR> +Because a little child is born.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="wisemen"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Wise Men from the East<BR> +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +(A LITTLE BOY'S CHRISTMAS LESSON)<BR> +</H4> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Why were the Wise Men three,<BR> +Instead of five or seven?"</I><BR> +They had to match, you see,<BR> +The archangels in Heaven.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +God sent them, sure and swift,<BR> +By his mysterious presage,<BR> +To bear the threefold gift<BR> +And take the threefold message.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thus in their hands were seen<BR> +The gold of purest Beauty,<BR> +The myrrh of Truth all-clean,<BR> +The frankincense of Duty.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And thus they bore away<BR> +The loving heart's great treasure,<BR> +And knowledge clear as day,<BR> +To be our life's new measure.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They went back to the East<BR> +To spread the news of gladness.<BR> +There one became a priest<BR> +To the new word of sadness;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And one a workman, skilled<BR> +Beyond the old earth's fashion;<BR> +And one a scholar, filled<BR> +With learning's endless passion.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +God sent them for a sign<BR> +He would not change nor alter<BR> +His good and fair design,<BR> +However man may falter.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He meant that, as He chose<BR> +His perfect plan and willed it,<BR> +They stood in place of those<BR> +Who elsewhere had fulfilled it;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Whoso would mark and reach<BR> +The height of man's election,<BR> +Must still achieve and teach<BR> +The triplicate perfection.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For since the world was made,<BR> +One thing was needed ever,<BR> +To keep man undismayed<BR> +Through failure and endeavor—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A faultless trinity<BR> +Of body, mind, and spirit,<BR> +And each with its own three<BR> +Strong angels to be near it;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Strength to arise and go<BR> +Wherever dawn is breaking,<BR> +Poise like the tides that flow,<BR> +Instinct for beauty-making;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Imagination bold<BR> +To cross the mystic border,<BR> +Reason to seek and hold,<BR> +Judgment for law and order;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Joy that makes all things well,<BR> +Faith that is all-availing<BR> +Each terror to dispel,<BR> +And Love, ah, Love unfailing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +These are the flaming Nine<BR> +Who walk the world unsleeping,<BR> +Sent forth by the Divine<BR> +With manhood in their keeping.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +These are the seraphs strong<BR> +His mighty soul had need of,<BR> +When He would right the wrong<BR> +And sorrow He took heed of.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And that, I think, is why<BR> +The Wise Men knelt before Him,<BR> +And put their kingdoms by<BR> +To serve Him and adore Him;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So that our Lord, unknown,<BR> +Should not be unattended,<BR> +When He was here alone<BR> +And poor and unbefriended;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That still He might have three<BR> +(Rather than five or seven)<BR> +To stand in their degree,<BR> +Like archangels in Heaven.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="magi"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Sending of the Magi<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In a far Eastern country<BR> +It happened long of yore,<BR> +Where a lone and level sunrise<BR> +Flushes the desert floor,<BR> +That three kings sat together<BR> +And a spearman kept the door.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Caspar, whose wealth was counted<BR> +By city and caravan;<BR> +With Melchior, the seer<BR> +Who read the starry plan;<BR> +And Balthasar, the blameless,<BR> +Who loved his fellow man.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There while they talked, a sudden<BR> +Strange rushing sound arose,<BR> +And as with startled faces<BR> +They thought upon their foes,<BR> +Three figures stood before them<BR> +In imperial repose.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One in flame-gold and one in blue<BR> +And one in scarlet clear,<BR> +With the almighty portent<BR> +Of sunrise they drew near!<BR> +And the kings made obeisance<BR> +With hand on breast, in fear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Arise," said they, "we bring you<BR> +Good tidings of great peace!<BR> +To-day a power is wakened<BR> +Whose working must increase,<BR> +Till fear and greed and malice<BR> +And violence shall cease."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The messengers were Michael,<BR> +By whom all things are wrought<BR> +To shape and hue; and Gabriel<BR> +Who is the lord of thought;<BR> +And Rafael without whose love<BR> +All toil must come to nought.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then Rafael said to Balthasar,<BR> +"In a country west from here<BR> +A lord is born in lowliness,<BR> +In love without a peer.<BR> +Take grievances and gifts to him<BR> +And prove his kingship clear!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"By this sign ye shall know him;<BR> +Within his mother's arm<BR> +Among the sweet-breathed cattle<BR> +He slumbers without harm,<BR> +While wicked hearts are troubled<BR> +And tyrants take alarm."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Gabriel said to Melchior,<BR> +"My comrade, I will send<BR> +My star to go before you,<BR> +That ye may comprehend<BR> +Where leads your mystic learning<BR> +In a humaner trend."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Michael said to Gaspar,<BR> +"Thou royal builder, go<BR> +With tribute of thy riches!<BR> +Though time shall overthrow<BR> +Thy kingdom, no undoing<BR> +His gentle might shall know."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then while the kings' hearts greatened<BR> +And all the chamber shone,<BR> +As when the hills at sundown<BR> +Take a new glory on<BR> +And the air thrills with purple,<BR> +Their visitors were gone.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then straightway up rose Gaspar,<BR> +Melchior and Balthasar,<BR> +And passed out through the murmur<BR> +Of palace and bazar,<BR> +To make without misgiving<BR> +The journey of the Star.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="angels"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + The Angels of Man +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The word of the Lord of the outer worlds<BR> +Went forth on the deeps of space,<BR> +That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael,<BR> +Should stand before his face,<BR> +The seraphs of his threefold will,<BR> +Each in his ordered place.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Brave Michael, the right hand of God,<BR> +Strong Gabriel, his voice,<BR> +Fair Rafael, his holy breath<BR> +That makes the world rejoice,—<BR> +Archangels of omnipotence,<BR> +Of knowledge, and of choice;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Michael, angel of loveliness<BR> +In all things that survive,<BR> +And Gabriel, whose part it is<BR> +To ponder and contrive,<BR> +And Rafael, who puts the heart<BR> +In every thing alive.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Came Rafael, the enraptured soul,<BR> +Stainless as wind or fire,<BR> +The urge within the flux of things,<BR> +The life that must aspire,<BR> +With whom is the beginning,<BR> +The worth, and the desire;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind,<BR> +Bringer of truth and light,<BR> +Who lays the courses of the stars<BR> +In their stupendous flight,<BR> +And calls the migrant flocks of spring<BR> +Across the purple night;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Michael, the artificer<BR> +Of beauty, shape, and hue,<BR> +Lord of the forges of the sun,<BR> +The crucible of the dew,<BR> +And driver of the plowing rain<BR> +When the flowers are born anew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then said the Lord: "Ye shall account<BR> +For the ministry ye hold,<BR> +Since ye have been my sons to keep<BR> +My purpose from of old.<BR> +How fare the realms within your sway<BR> +To perfections still untold?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Answered each as he had the word.<BR> +And a great silence fell<BR> +On all the listening hosts of heaven<BR> +To hear their captains tell,—<BR> +With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird.<BR> +And the cry of a mighty bell.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then the Lord said: "The time is ripe<BR> +For finishing my plan,<BR> +And the accomplishment of that<BR> +For which all time began.<BR> +Therefore on you is laid the task<BR> +Of the fashioning of man;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"In your own likeness shall he be,<BR> +To triumph in the end.<BR> +I only give him Michael's strength<BR> +To guard him and defend,<BR> +With Gabriel to be his guide,<BR> +And Rafael his friend.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Ye shall go forth upon the earth,<BR> +And make there Paradise,<BR> +And be the angels of that place<BR> +To make men glad and wise,<BR> +With loving-kindness in their hearts,<BR> +And knowledge in their eyes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"And ye shall be man's counsellors<BR> +That neither rest nor sleep,<BR> +To cheer the lonely, lift the frail,<BR> +And solace them that weep.<BR> +And ever on his wandering trail<BR> +Your watch-fires ye shall keep;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Till in the far years he shall find<BR> +The country of his quest,<BR> +The empire of the open truth,<BR> +The vision of the best,<BR> +Foreseen by every mother saint<BR> +With her new-born on her breast."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="making"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +At the Making of Man<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>First all the host of Raphael<BR> +In liveries of gold,<BR> +Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm<BR> +The spinning spheres are rolled,—<BR> +The Seraphs of the morning calm<BR> +Whose hearts are never cold.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall be born a spirit,<BR> +Part of the soul that yearns,<BR> +The core of vital gladness<BR> +That suffers and discerns,<BR> +The stir that breaks the budding sheath<BR> +When the green spring returns,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The gist of power and patience<BR> +Hid in the plasmic clay,<BR> +The calm behind the senses,<BR> +The passionate essay<BR> +To make his wise and lovely dream<BR> +Immortal on a day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The soft, Aprilian ardors<BR> +That warm the waiting loam<BR> +Shall whisper in his pulses<BR> +To bid him overcome,<BR> +And he shall learn the wonder-cry<BR> +Beneath the azure dome.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And though all-dying nature<BR> +Should teach him to deplore,<BR> +The ruddy fires of autumn<BR> +Shall lure him but the more<BR> +To pass from joy to stronger joy,<BR> +As through an open door.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall have hope and honor,<BR> +Proud trust and courage stark,<BR> +To hold him to his purpose<BR> +Through the unlighted dark,<BR> +And love that sees the moon's full orb<BR> +In the first silver arc.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And he shall live by kindness<BR> +And the heart's certitude,<BR> +Which moves without misgiving<BR> +In ways not understood,<BR> +Sure only of the vast event,—<BR> +The large and simple good.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Then Gabriel's host in silver gear<BR> +And vesture twilight blue,<BR> +The spirits of immortal mind,<BR> +The warders of the true,<BR> +Took up the theme that gives the world<BR> +Significance anew.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall be born to reason,<BR> +And have the primal need<BR> +To understand and follow<BR> +Wherever truth may lead,—<BR> +To grow in wisdom like a tree<BR> +Unfolding from a seed.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A watcher by the sheepfolds,<BR> +With wonder in his eyes,<BR> +He shall behold the seasons,<BR> +And mark the planets rise,<BR> +Till all the marching firmament<BR> +Shall rouse his vast surmise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Beyond the sweep of vision,<BR> +Or utmost reach of sound,<BR> +This cunning fire-maker,<BR> +This tiller of the ground,<BR> +Shall learn the secrets of the suns<BR> +And fathom the profound.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For he must prove all being<BR> +Sane, beauteous, benign,<BR> +And at the heart of nature<BR> +Discover the divine,—<BR> +Himself the type and symbol<BR> +Of the eternal trine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall perceive the kindling<BR> +Of knowledge, far and dim,<BR> +As of the fire that brightens<BR> +Below the dark sea-rim,<BR> +When ray by ray the splendid sun<BR> +Floats to the world's wide brim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And out of primal instinct,<BR> +The lore of lair and den,<BR> +He shall emerge to question<BR> +How, wherefore, whence, and when,<BR> +Till the last frontier of the truth<BR> +Shall lie within his ken.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<I>Then Michael's scarlet-suited host<BR> +Took up the word and sang;<BR> +As though a trumpet had been loosed<BR> +In heaven, the arches rang;<BR> +For these were they who feel the thrill<BR> +Of beauty like a pang.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall be framed and balanced<BR> +For loveliness and power,<BR> +Lithe as the supple creatures,<BR> +And colored as a flower,<BR> +Sustained by the all-feeding earth,<BR> +Nurtured by wind and shower,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To stand within the vortex<BR> +Where surging forces play,<BR> +A poised and pliant figure<BR> +Immutable as they,<BR> +Till time and space and energy<BR> +Surrenders to his sway.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He shall be free to journey<BR> +Over the teeming earth,<BR> +An insatiable seeker,<BR> +A wanderer from his birth,<BR> +Clothed in the fragile veil of sense,<BR> +With fortitude for girth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +His hands shall have dominion<BR> +Of all created things,<BR> +To fashion in the likeness<BR> +Of his imaginings,<BR> +To make his will and thought survive<BR> +Unto a thousand springs.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The world shall be his province,<BR> +The princedom of his skill;<BR> +The tides shall wear his harness,<BR> +The winds obey his will;<BR> +Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost,<BR> +Shall work to do him ill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A creature fit to carry<BR> +The pure creative fire,<BR> +Whatever truth inform him,<BR> +Whatever good inspire,<BR> +He shall make lovely in all things<BR> +To the end of his desire.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="stmichaels"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +St. Michael's Star<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the pure solitude of dusk<BR> +One star is set to shine<BR> +Above the sundown's dying rose,<BR> +A lamp before a shrine.<BR> +It is the star of Michael lit<BR> +In the minster of the sun,<BR> +That every toiling hand may give<BR> +Thanks for the day's work done.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For when the almighty word went forth<BR> +To bid creation be,—<BR> +The glimmering star-tracks on the blue,<BR> +The tide-belts on the sea,—<BR> +Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand<BR> +The lasting hills arose,<BR> +Their bases on the poppied plain,<BR> +Their peaks in bannered snows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Cedar and thorn and oak were born;<BR> +Green fiddleheads uncurled<BR> +In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues<BR> +Came forth to glad the world;—<BR> +The magic of the punctual seeds,<BR> +Each with its pregnant powers,<BR> +As the lord Michael fashioned them<BR> +To keep their days and hours.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide,<BR> +Soft wings to poise and gleam,<BR> +He formed the pageant tribe by tribe<BR> +As vivid as a dream.<BR> +And still must his beneficence<BR> +Renew, create, sustain,<BR> +Sorcery of the wind and sun,<BR> +Alchemy of the rain.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Teeming with God, the kindly sod<BR> +Yearns through the summer days<BR> +With the mute eloquence of flowers,<BR> +Its only means of praise.<BR> +At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills<BR> +Throb to the song of birds,<BR> +And all the dim blue silence thrills<BR> +To transport not of words.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For earth must breed to spirit's need,<BR> +Clay to the finer clay,<BR> +That soul through sense find recompense<BR> +And rapture on her way.<BR> +And man, from dust and dreaming wrought,<BR> +To all things must impart<BR> +The trend and likeness of his thought,<BR> +The passion of his heart.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The love and lore he shall acquire<BR> +To word and deed must dare;<BR> +Resemblances of God his sire<BR> +His voice and mien must bear.<BR> +His children's children shall portray<BR> +The skill which he bestows<BR> +On living; and what life must mean<BR> +His craftsman's instinct knows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Line upon line and tone by tone,<BR> +The visioned form he gives<BR> +To sound and color, wood and stone,<BR> +Takes loveliness and lives.<BR> +He sees his project's soaring hope<BR> +Grow substance, and expand<BR> +To measure a diviner scope<BR> +Beneath his patient hand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To pencil, brush, and burnisher<BR> +His wizardry he lends,<BR> +And to the care of lathe and loom<BR> +His secret he commends.<BR> +In hues and forms and cadences<BR> +New beauty he instills,<BR> +A brother by the right of craft<BR> +To Michael of the hills.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dreamers"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Dreamers<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Charlemagne with knight and lord,<BR> +In the hill at Ingelheim,<BR> +Slumbers at the council board,<BR> +Seated waiting for the time.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With their swords across their knees<BR> +In that chamber dimly lit,<BR> +Chin on breast life effigies<BR> +Of the dreaming gods, they sit.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Long ago they went to sleep,<BR> +While great wars above them hurled.<BR> +Taking counsel how to keep<BR> +Giant evil from the world.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Golden-armored, iron-crowned,<BR> +There in silence they await<BR> +The last war,—in war renowned,<BR> +Done with doubting and debate.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What is all our clamor for?<BR> +Petty virtue, puny crime,<BR> +Beat in vain against the door<BR> +Of the hill at Ingelheim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When at last shall dawn the day<BR> +For the saving of the world,<BR> +They will forth in war array,<BR> +Iron-armored, golden-curled.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In the hill at Ingelheim,<BR> +Still, they say, the Emperor,<BR> +Like a warrior in his prime,<BR> +Waits the message at the door.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Shall the long enduring fight<BR> +Break above our heads in vain,<BR> +Plunged in lethargy and night,<BR> +Like the men of Charlemagne?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Comrades, through the Council Hall<BR> +Of the heart, inert and dumb,<BR> +Hear ye not the summoning call,<BR> +"Up, my lords, the hour is come!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="eldorado"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +El Dorado<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the story<BR> +Of Santo Domingo,<BR> +The first established<BR> +Permanent city<BR> +Built in the New World.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Miguel Dias,<BR> +A Spanish sailor<BR> +In the fleet of Columbus,<BR> +Fought with a captain,<BR> +Wounded him, then in fear<BR> +Fled from his punishment.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ranging the wilds, he came<BR> +On a secluded<BR> +Indian village<BR> +Of the peace-loving<BR> +Comely Caguisas.<BR> +There he found shelter,<BR> +Food, fire, and hiding,—<BR> +Welcome unstinted.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over this tribe ruled—<BR> +No cunning chieftain<BR> +Grown gray in world-craft,<BR> +But a young soft-eyed<BR> +Girl, tender-hearted,<BR> +Loving, and regal<BR> +Only in beauty,<BR> +With no suspicion<BR> +Of the perfidious<BR> +Merciless gold-lust<BR> +Of the white sea-wolves,—<BR> +Roving, rapacious,<BR> +Conquerors, destroyers.<BR> +Strongly the stranger<BR> +Wooed with his foreign<BR> +Manners, his Latin<BR> +Fervor and graces;<BR> +Beat down her gentle,<BR> +Unreserved strangeness;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Made himself consort<BR> +Of a young queen, all<BR> +Loveliness, ardor,<BR> +And generous devotion.<BR> +Her world she gave him,<BR> +Nothing denied him,<BR> +All, all for love's sake<BR> +Poured out before him,—<BR> +Lived but to pleasure<BR> +And worship her lover.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such is the way<BR> +Of free-hearted women,<BR> +Radiant beings<BR> +Who carry God's secret;<BR> +All their seraphic<BR> +Unworldly wisdom<BR> +Spent without fearing<BR> +Or calculation<BR> +For the enrichment<BR> +Of—whom, what, and wherefore?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ask why the sun shines<BR> +And is not measured,<BR> +Ask why the rain falls<BR> +Aeon by aeon,<BR> +Ask why the wind comes<BR> +Making the strong trees<BR> +Blossom in springtime,<BR> +Forever unwearied!<BR> +Whoever earned these gifts,<BR> +Air, sun, and water?<BR> +Whoever earned his share<BR> +In that unfathomed<BR> +Full benediction,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Passing the old earth's<BR> +Cunningest knowledge,<BR> +Greater than all<BR> +The ambition of ages,<BR> +Light as a thistle-seed,<BR> +Strong as a tide-run,<BR> +Vast and mysterious<BR> +As the night sky,—<BR> +The love of woman?<BR> +Not long did Miguel<BR> +Dias abide content<BR> +With his good fortune.<BR> +Back to his voyaging<BR> +Turned his desire,<BR> +Restless once more to rove<BR> +With boon companions,<BR> +Filled with the covetous<BR> +Thirst for adventure,—<BR> +The white man's folly.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then poor Zamcaca,<BR> +In consternation<BR> +Lest she lack merit<BR> +Worthy to tether<BR> +His wayward fancy,<BR> +Knowing no way but love,<BR> +Guileless, and sedulous<BR> +Only to gladden,<BR> +Quick and sweet-souled<BR> +As another madonna,<BR> +Gave him the secret<BR> +Of her realm's treasure,—<BR> +Raw gold unweighed,<BR> +Stored wealth unimagined;<BR> +Decked him with trappings<BR> +Of that yellow peril;<BR> +And bade him go<BR> +Bring his comrades to settle<BR> +In her dominion.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not long the Spaniards<BR> +Stood on that bidding.<BR> +Gold was their madness,<BR> +Their Siren and Pandar.<BR> +Trooping they followed<BR> +Their friend the explorer,<BR> +Greed-fevered ravagers<BR> +Of all things goodly,<BR> +Hot-foot to plunder<BR> +The land of his love-dream.<BR> +They swooped on that country,<BR> +Founded their city,<BR> +Made Miguel Dias<BR> +Its first Alcalde,—<BR> +Flattered and fooled him,<BR> +Loud in false praises<BR> +For the great wealth he had<BR> +By his love's bounty.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then the old story,<BR> +Older than Adam,—<BR> +Treachery, rapine,<BR> +Ingratitude, bloodshed,<BR> +Wrought by the strong man<BR> +On unsuspecting<BR> +And gentler brothers.<BR> +The rabid Spaniard,<BR> +Christian and ruthless<BR> +(Like any modern<BR> +Magnate of Mammon),<BR> +Harried that fearless,<BR> +Light-hearted, trustful folk<BR> +Under his booted heel.<BR> +Tears (ah, a woman's tears,—<BR> +The grief of angels,—)<BR> +Fell from Zamcaca,<BR> +Sorrowing, hopeless,<BR> +Alone, for her people.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sick from injustice,<BR> +Distraught, and disheartened,<BR> +Tortured by sight and sound<BR> +Of wrong and ruin,<BR> +When the kind, silent,<BR> +Tropical moonlight,<BR> +Lay on the city,<BR> +In the dead hour<BR> +When the soul trembles<BR> +Within the portals<BR> +Of its own province,<BR> +While far away seem<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All deeds of daytime,<BR> +She rose and wondered;<BR> +Gazed on the sleeping<BR> +Face of her loved one,<BR> +Alien and cruel;<BR> +Kissed her strange children,<BR> +Longingly laying a hand<BR> +In farewell on each,<BR> +Crept to the door, and fled<BR> +Back to the forest.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Only the deep heart<BR> +Of the World-mother,<BR> +Brooding below the storms<BR> +Of human madness,<BR> +Can know what desolate<BR> +Anguish possessed her.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Only the far mind<BR> +Of the World-father,<BR> +Seeing the mystic<BR> +End and beginning,<BR> +Knows why the pageant<BR> +Is so betattered<BR> +With mortal sorrow.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="plaza"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + On the Plaza +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One August day I sat beside<BR> +A café window open wide<BR> +To let the shower-freshened air<BR> +Blow in across the Plaza, where<BR> +In golden pomp against the dark<BR> +Green leafy background of the Park,<BR> +St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim,<BR> +Rides on with Victory leading him.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold<BR> +In every hollow pools of gold,<BR> +And clouds of gold and pink and gray<BR> +Were piled up at the end of day,<BR> +Far down the cross street, where one tower<BR> +Still glistened from the drenching shower.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A weary, white-haired man went by,<BR> +Cooling his forehead gratefully<BR> +After the day's great heat. A girl,<BR> +Her thin white garments in a swirl<BR> +Blown back against her breasts and knees,<BR> +Like a Winged Victory in the breeze,<BR> +Alive and modern and superb,<BR> +Crossed from the circle of the curb.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We sat there watching people pass,<BR> +Clinking the ice against the glass<BR> +And talking idly—books or art,<BR> +Or something equally apart<BR> +From the essential stress and strife<BR> +That rudely form and further life,<BR> +Glad of a respite from the heat,<BR> +When down the middle of the street,<BR> +Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay<BR> +In spite of the dull-stifling day,<BR> +Three street-musicians came. The man,<BR> +With hair and beard as black as Pan,<BR> +Strolled on one side with lordly grace,<BR> +While a young girl tugged at a trace<BR> +Upon the other. And between<BR> +The shafts there walked a laughing queen,<BR> +Bright as a poppy, strong and free.<BR> +What likelier land than Italy<BR> +Breeds such abandon? Confident<BR> +And rapturous in mere living spent<BR> +Each moment to the utmost, there<BR> +With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair,<BR> +With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist<BR> +Supple, heroic and free-laced,<BR> +Between her two companions walked<BR> +This splendid woman, chaffed and talked,<BR> +Did half the work, made all the cheer<BR> +Of that small company.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 9em">No fear</SPAN><BR> +Of failure in a soul like hers<BR> +That every moment throbs and stirs<BR> +With merry ardor, virile hope,<BR> +Brave effort, nor in all its scope<BR> +Has room for thought or discontent,<BR> +Each day its own sufficient vent<BR> +And source of happiness.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 9em">Without</SPAN><BR> +A trace of bitterness or doubt<BR> +Of life's true worth, she strode at ease<BR> +Before those empty palaces,<BR> +A simple heiress of the earth<BR> +And all its joys by happy birth,<BR> +Beneficent as breeze or dew,<BR> +And fresh as though the world were new<BR> +And toil and grief were not. How rare<BR> +A personality was there!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="painter"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Painter's Holiday<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We painters sometimes strangely keep<BR> +These holidays. When life runs deep<BR> +And broad and strong, it comes to make<BR> +Its own bright-colored almanack.<BR> +Impulse and incident divine<BR> +Must find their way through tone and line;<BR> +The throb of color and the dream<BR> +Of beauty, giving art its theme<BR> +From dear life's daily miracle,<BR> +Illume the artist's life as well.<BR> +A bird-note, or a turning leaf,<BR> +The first white fall of snow, a brief<BR> +Wild song from the Anthology,<BR> +A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,—<BR> +And there is worth enough for him<BR> +To make the page of history dim.<BR> +Who knows upon what day may come<BR> +The touch of that delirium<BR> +Which lifts plain life to the divine,<BR> +And teaches hand the magic line<BR> +No cunning rule could ever reach,<BR> +Where Soul's necessities find speech?<BR> +None knows how rapture may arrive<BR> +To be our helper, and survive<BR> +Through our essay to help in turn<BR> +All starving eager souls who yearn<BR> +Lightward discouraged and distraught.<BR> +Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught<BR> +And treasured in the heart, how then<BR> +We walk enchanted among men,<BR> +And with the elder gods confer!<BR> +So art is hope's interpreter,<BR> +And with devotion must conspire<BR> +To fan the eternal altar fire.<BR> +Wherefore you find me here to-day,<BR> +Not idling the good hours away,<BR> +But picturing a magic hour<BR> +With its replenishment of power.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Conceive a bleak December day,<BR> +The streets all mire, the sky all gray,<BR> +And a poor painter trudging home<BR> +Disconsolate, when what should come<BR> +Across his vision, but a line<BR> +On a bold-lettered play-house sign,<BR> +<I>A Persian Sun Dance</I>.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 9em">In he turns.</SPAN><BR> +A step, and there the desert burns<BR> +Purple and splendid; molten gold<BR> +The streamers of the dawn unfold,<BR> +Amber and amethyst uphurled<BR> +Above the far rim of the world;<BR> +The long-held sound of temple bells<BR> +Over the hot sand steals and swells;<BR> +A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones<BR> +In barbarous maddening monotones;<BR> +While sandal incense blue and keen<BR> +Hangs in the air. And then the scene<BR> +Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released,<BR> +The sorcery of all the East,<BR> +In rose and saffron gossamer,—<BR> +A young light-hearted worshipper<BR> +Who dances up the sun. She moves<BR> +Like waking woodland flower that loves<BR> +To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve<BR> +Is like a sapling's sway and swerve<BR> +Before the spring wind. Her dark hair<BR> +Framing a face vivid and rare,<BR> +Curled to her throat and then flew wild,<BR> +Like shadows round a radiant child.<BR> +The sunlight from her cymbals played<BR> +About her dancing knees, and made<BR> +A world of rose-lit ecstasy,<BR> +Prophetic of the day to be.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such mystic beauty might have shone<BR> +In Sardis or in Babylon,<BR> +To bring a Satrap to his doom<BR> +Or touch some lad with glory's bloom.<BR> +And now it wrought for me, with sheer<BR> +Enchantment of the dying year,<BR> +Its irresistible reprieve<BR> +From joylessness on New Year's Eve.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mirage"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Mirage<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here hangs at last, you see, my row<BR> +Of sketches,—all I have to show<BR> +Of one enchanted summer spent<BR> +In sweet laborious content,<BR> +At little 'Sconset by the moors,<BR> +With the sea thundering by its doors,<BR> +Its grassy streets, and gardens gay<BR> +With hollyhocks and salvia.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And here upon the easel yet,<BR> +With the last brush of paint still wet,<BR> +(Showing how inspiration toils),<BR> +Is one where the white surf-line boils<BR> +Along the sand, and the whole sea<BR> +Lifts to the skyline, just to be<BR> +The wondrous background from whose verge<BR> +Of blue on blue there should emerge<BR> +This miracle.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 9em">One day of days</SPAN><BR> +I strolled the silent path that strays<BR> +Between the moorlands and the beach<BR> +From Siasconset, till you reach<BR> +Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land<BR> +That fronts the ocean, lone and grand<BR> +As when the Lord first bade it be<BR> +For a surprise and mystery.<BR> +A sailless sea, a cloudless sky,<BR> +The level lonely moors, and I<BR> +The only soul in all that vast<BR> +Of color made intense to last!<BR> +The small white sea-birds piping near;<BR> +The great soft moor-winds; and the dear<BR> +Bright sun that pales each crest to jade,<BR> +Where gulls glint fishing unafraid.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here man, the godlike, might have gone<BR> +With his deep thought, on that wild dawn<BR> +When the first sun came from the sea,<BR> +Glowing and kindling the world to be,<BR> +While time began and joy had birth,—<BR> +No wilder sweeter spot on earth!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As I sat there and mused (the way<BR> +We painters waste our time, you say!)<BR> +On the sheer loneliness and strength<BR> +Whence life must spring, there came at length<BR> +Conviction of the helplessness<BR> +Of earth alone to ban or bless.<BR> +I saw the huge unhuman sea;<BR> +I heard the drear monotony<BR> +Of the waves beating on the shore<BR> +With heedless, futile strife and roar,<BR> +Without a meaning or an aim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And then a revelation came,<BR> +In subtle, sudden, lovely guise,<BR> +Like one of those soft mysteries<BR> +Of Indian jugglers, who evoke<BR> +A flower for you out of smoke.<BR> +I knew sheer beauty without soul<BR> +Could never be perfection's goal,<BR> +Nor satisfy the seeking mind<BR> +With all it longs for and must find<BR> +One day. The lovely things that haunt<BR> +Our senses with an aching want,<BR> +And move our souls, are like the fair<BR> +Lost garments of a soul somewhere.<BR> +Nature is naught, if not the veil<BR> +Of some great good that must prevail<BR> +And break in joy, as woods of spring<BR> +Break into song and blossoming.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But what makes that great goodness start<BR> +Within ourselves? When leaps the heart<BR> +With gladness, only then we know<BR> +Why lovely Nature travails so,—<BR> +Why art must persevere and pray<BR> +In her incomparable way.<BR> +In all the world the only worth<BR> +Is human happiness; its dearth<BR> +The darkest ill. Let joyance be,<BR> +And there is God's sufficiency,—<BR> +Such joy as only can abound<BR> +Where the heart's comrade has been found.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That was my thought. And then the sea<BR> +Broke in upon my revery<BR> +With clamorous beauty,—the superb<BR> +Eternal noun that takes no verb<BR> +But love. The heaven of dove-like blue<BR> +Bent o'er the azure, round and true<BR> +As magic sphere of crystal glass,<BR> +Where faith sees plain the pageant pass<BR> +Of things unseen. So I beheld<BR> +The sheer sky-arches domed and belled,<BR> +As if the sea were the very floor<BR> +Of heaven where walked the gods of yore<BR> +In Plato's imagery, and I<BR> +Uplifted saw their pomps go by.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The House of space and time grew tense<BR> +As if with rapture's imminence,<BR> +When truth should be at last made clear,<BR> +And the great worth of life appear;<BR> +While I, a worshipper at the shrine,<BR> +For very longing grew divine,<BR> +Borne upward on earth's ecstasy,<BR> +And welcomed by the boundless sky.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A mighty prescience seemed to brood<BR> +Over that tenuous solitude<BR> +Yearning for form, till it became<BR> +Vivid as dream and live as flame,<BR> +Through magic art could never match,<BR> +The vision I have tried to catch,—<BR> +All earth's delight and meaning grown<BR> +A lyric presence loved and known.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How otherwise could time evolve<BR> +Young courage, or the high resolve,<BR> +Or gladness to assuage and bless<BR> +The soul's austere great loneliness,<BR> +Than by providing her somehow<BR> +With sympathy of hand and brow,<BR> +And bidding her at last go free,<BR> +Companioned through eternity?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So there appeared before my eyes,<BR> +In a beloved, familiar guise,<BR> +A vivid, questing human face<BR> +In profile, scanning heaven for grace,<BR> +Up-gazing there against the blue<BR> +With eyes that heaven itself shone through;<BR> +The lips soft-parted, half in prayer,<BR> +Half confident of kindness there;<BR> +A brow like Plato's made for dream<BR> +In some immortal Academe,<BR> +And tender as a happy girl's;<BR> +A full dark head of clustered curls<BR> +Round as an emperor's, where meet<BR> +Repose and ardor, strong and sweet,<BR> +Distilling from a mind unmarred<BR> +The glory of her rapt regard.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So eager Mary might have stood,<BR> +In love's adoring attitude,<BR> +And looked into the angel's eyes<BR> +With faith and fearlessness, all wise<BR> +In soul's unfaltering innocence,<BR> +Sure in her woman's supersense<BR> +Of things only the humble know.<BR> +My vision looks forever so.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In other years when men shall say,<BR> +"What was the painter's meaning, pray?<BR> +Why all this vast of sea and space,<BR> +Just to enframe a woman's face?"<BR> +Here is the pertinent reply,<BR> +"What better use for earth and sky?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The great archangel passed that way<BR> +Illuming life with mystic ray.<BR> +Not Lippo's self nor Raphael<BR> +Had lovelier, realer things to tell<BR> +Than I, beholding far away<BR> +How all the melting rose and gray<BR> +Upon the purple sea-line leaned<BR> +About that head that intervened.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How real was she? Ah, my friend,<BR> +In art the fact and fancy blend<BR> +Past telling. All the painter's task<BR> +Is with the glory. Need we ask<BR> +The tulips breaking through the mould<BR> +To their untarnished age of gold,<BR> +Whence their ideals were derived<BR> +That have so gloriously survived?<BR> +Flowers and painters both must give<BR> +The hint they have received, to live,—<BR> +Spend without stint the joy and power<BR> +That lurk in each propitious hour,—<BR> +Yet leave the why untold—God's way.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My sketch is all I have to say.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="victory"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Winged Victory<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou dear and most high Victory,<BR> +Whose home is the unvanquished sea,<BR> +Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keep<BR> +The very freshness, fold, and sweep<BR> +They wore upon the galley's prow,<BR> +By what unwonted favor now<BR> +Hast thou alighted in this place,<BR> +Thou Victory of Samothrace?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O thou to whom in countless lands<BR> +With eager hearts and striving hands<BR> +Strong men in their last need have prayed,<BR> +Greatly desiring, undismayed,<BR> +And thou hast been across the fight<BR> +Their consolation and their might,<BR> +Withhold not now one dearer grace,<BR> +Thou Victory of Samothrace!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Behold, we, too, must cry to thee,<BR> +Who wage our strife with Destiny,<BR> +And give for Beauty and for Truth<BR> +Our love, our valor and our youth.<BR> +Are there no honors for these things<BR> +To match the pageantries of kings?<BR> +Are we more laggard in the race<BR> +Than those who fell at Samothrace?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not only for the bow and sword,<BR> +O Victory, be thy reward!<BR> +The hands that work with paint and clay<BR> +In Beauty's service, shall not they<BR> +Also with mighty faith prevail?<BR> +Let hope not die, nor courage fail,<BR> +But joy come with thee pace for pace,<BR> +As once long since in Samothrace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Grant us the skill to shape the form<BR> +And spread the color living-warm,<BR> +(As they who wrought aforetime did),<BR> +Where love and wisdom shall lie hid,<BR> +In fair impassioned types, to sway<BR> +The cohorts of the world to-day,<BR> +In Truth's eternal cause, and trace<BR> +Thy glory down from Samothrace.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With all the ease and splendid poise<BR> +Of one who triumphs without noise,<BR> +Wilt thou not teach us to attain<BR> +Thy sense of power without strain,<BR> +That we a little may possess<BR> +Our souls with thy sure loveliness,—<BR> +That calm the years cannot deface,<BR> +Thou Victory of Samothrace?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then in the ancient, ceaseless war<BR> +With infamy, go thou before!<BR> +Amid the shoutings and the drums<BR> +Let it be learned that Beauty comes,<BR> +Man's matchless Paladin to be,<BR> +Whose rule shall make his spirit free<BR> +As thine from all things mean or base,<BR> +Thou Victory of Samothrace.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="gatepeace"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Gate of Peace<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, who will build the city of our dream,<BR> +Where beauty shall abound and truth avail,<BR> +With patient love that is too wise for strife,<BR> +Blending in power as gentle as the rain<BR> +With the reviving earth on full spring days?<BR> +Who now will speed us to its gate of peace,<BR> +And reassure us on our doubtful road?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Three centuries ago a fearless man,<BR> +Yearning to set his people in the way,<BR> +Threw all his royal might into a plan<BR> +To found an ideal city that should give<BR> +Freedom to every instinct for the best,<BR> +From humblest impulse in his own domain<BR> +To rumored wisdom from the world's far ends.<BR> +Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve,<BR> +Beneath the patient smile of Indian skies<BR> +This fair dream flourished for a score of years,<BR> +Until the blight of evil touched its bloom<BR> +With fading, and transformed its vivid life<BR> +Into a ghost-flower of its fair design.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir,<BR> +A sad custodian of sacred tombs,<BR> +And scattered feathers from the purple wings<BR> +Of doves who reign in undisputed calm<BR> +Over this Eden of hope and fair essay,<BR> +Recall the valor of this ancient quest.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Great Akbar,—grandfather of Shah Jehan,<BR> +The artist Emperor of India<BR> +Who built the Taj for love of one held dear<BR> +Beyond all other women in the world,<BR> +And left that loveliest memorial,<BR> +The most supreme of wonders wrought by man,<BR> +To move for very joy all hearts to tears<BR> +Beholding how great beauty springs from love,—<BR> +Akbar the wisest ruler over Ind,<BR> +Grandson of Babar in whose veins were mixed<BR> +The blood of Tamerlane and Chinghiz Khan,<BR> +Who beat the Afghans and the Rajputs down<BR> +At Paniput and Buxar in Bengal,<BR> +Making himself the lord of Hindustan,<BR> +And with his restless Tartars founded there<BR> +The Mogul empire with its Moslem faith,<BR> +Its joyousness, enlightenment, and art,—<BR> +Akbar of all the sovereigns of the East<BR> +Is still most deeply loved and gladly praised.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For he who conquered with so strong a hand<BR> +Cabul, Kashmir, and Kandahar, and Sind,<BR> +Oudh and Orissa, Chitor and Ajmir,<BR> +With all their wealth to weld them into one,<BR> +Upholding justice with his sovereignty<BR> +Throughout his borders and imposing peace,<BR> +Was first and last a seeker after truth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +No craven unlaborious truce he sought,<BR> +But that great peace which only comes with light,<BR> +Emerging after chaos has been quelled<BR> +In some long struggle of enduring will,<BR> +To be a proof of order and of law,<BR> +Which cannot rest on falsehood nor on wrong,<BR> +But spreads like generous sunshine on the earth<BR> +When goodness has been gained and truth made clear,<BR> +At whatsoe'er incalculable cost.<BR> +Returning once with his victorious arms<BR> +And war-worn companies on the homeward march<BR> +To Agra and his court's magnificence,<BR> +From a campaign against some turbulent folk,<BR> +He came at evening to a quiet place<BR> +Near Sikri by the roadside through the woods,<BR> +Where there were many doves among the trees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There Salim Chisti a holy man had made<BR> +His lonely dwelling in the wilderness,<BR> +Seeking perfection. And the solitude<BR> +Was sweet to Akbar, and he halted there<BR> +And went to Salim in his lodge and said,<BR> +"O man and brother, thy long days are spent<BR> +In meditation, seeking for the path<BR> +Through this great world's impediments to peace,<BR> +Here in the twilight with the holy stars<BR> +Or when the rose of morning breaks in gold;<BR> +Tell me, I pray, whence comes the gift of peace<BR> +With all its blessings for a people's need,<BR> +And how may true tranquillity be found<BR> +On which man's restless spirit longs to rest?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Salim answered, "Lord, most readily<BR> +In Allah's out-of-doors, for there men live<BR> +More truly, being free from false constraint,<BR> +For learning wisdom with a calmer mind.<BR> +For they who would find peace must conquer fear<BR> +And ignorance and greed,—the ravagers<BR> +Of spirit, mind, and sense,—and learn to live<BR> +Content beneath the shade of Allah's hand.<BR> +Who worships not his own will shall find peace."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then Akbar answered, "I have set my heart<BR> +On making beauty, truth, and justice shine<BR> +As the ordered stars above the darkened earth.<BR> +Are not these also things to be desired,<BR> +And striven for with no uncertain toil?<BR> +And save through them whence comes the gift of peace?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then Salim smiled, and with his finger drew<BR> +In the soft dust before his door, and said,<BR> +"O king, thy words are true, thy heart most wise.<BR> +Thou also shalt find peace, as Allah wills,<BR> +Through following bravely what to thee seems best.<BR> +When any question, 'What is peace?' reply,<BR> +'The shelter of the Gate of Paradise,<BR> +The shadow of the archway, not the arch,<BR> +Within whose shade at need the poor may rest,<BR> +The weary be refreshed, the weak secure,<BR> +And all men pause to gladden as they go.'"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And Akbar pondered Salim Chisti's words.<BR> +Then turning to his ministers, he said,<BR> +"Here will I build my capital, and here<BR> +The world shall come unto a council hall,<BR> +And in a place of peace pursue the quest<BR> +Of wisdom and the finding out of truth,<BR> +That there be no more discord upon earth,<BR> +But only knowledge, beauty, and good will."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And it was done according to Akbar's word.<BR> +There in the wilderness as by magic rose<BR> +Futtehpur Sikri, the victorious city,<BR> +Of marble and red sandstone among the trees,<BR> +A rose unfolding in the kindling dawn.<BR> +Palace and mosque and garden and serai,<BR> +Bazaars and baths and spacious pleasure grounds,<BR> +By favor of Allah to perfection sprang.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thus Akbar wrought to make his dream come true.<BR> +From the four corners of the world he brought<BR> +His master workmen, from Iran and Ind,<BR> +From wild Mongolia and the Arabian wastes;<BR> +Masons from Bagdad, Delhi, and Multan;<BR> +Dome builders from the North, from Samarkand;<BR> +Cunning mosaic workers from Kanauj;<BR> +And carvers of inscriptions from Shiraz;<BR> +And they all labored with endearing skill,<BR> +Each at his handicraft, to make beauty be.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the first ax-blade on the timber rang,<BR> +The timid doves, as if foreboding ill,<BR> +Had fled from Sikri and its quiet groves.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But as he promised, Akbar sent and bade<BR> +The wise men of all nations to his court,<BR> +Brahman and Christian, Buddhist and Parsee,<BR> +Jain and stiff Mohammedan and Jew,<BR> +All followers of the One with many names,<BR> +Bringing the ghostly wisdom of the earth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And so they came of every hue and creed.<BR> +From the twelve winds of heaven their caravans<BR> +Drew into Sikri as Akbar summoned them,<BR> +To spend long afternoons in council grave,<BR> +Sifting tradition for the seed of truth,<BR> +In the great mosque in Futtehpur at peace.<BR> +And Salim Chisti lived his holy life,<BR> +Beloved and honored there as Akbar's friend.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But light and changeable are the hearts of men.<BR> +Soon in that city dedicate to peace<BR> +Dissensions spread and rivalries grew rife,<BR> +Envy and bitterness and strife returned<BR> +Once more, and truth before them fled away.<BR> +Then Salim Chisti, coming to Akbar spoke,<BR> +"Lord, give thy servant leave now to depart<BR> +And follow where the fluttered wings have gone,<BR> +For here there is no longer any peace,<BR> +And truth cannot prevail where discord dwells."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Nay then," said Akbar, "'tis not thou but I<BR> +Who am the servant here and must go hence.<BR> +I found thee master of this solitude,<BR> +Lord of the princedom of a quiet mind,<BR> +A sovereign vested in tranquillity,<BR> +And I have done thee wrong and stayed thy feet<BR> +From following perfection, with my horde<BR> +Of turbulent malcontents; and my loved dream<BR> +To build a city of abiding peace<BR> +Was but a vain illusion. Therefore now<BR> +This foolish people shall be driven forth<BR> +From this fair place, to live as they may choose<BR> +In disputance and wrangling longer still,<BR> +Until they learn, if Allah wills it so,<BR> +To lay aside their folly for the truth."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And as the king commanded, so it was.<BR> +More quickly than he came, with all his court<BR> +And hosts of followers he went away,<BR> +Leaving the place to solitude once more,—<BR> +A rose to wither where it once had blown.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To-day the all-kind unpolluted sun<BR> +Shines through the marble fret-work with no sound;<BR> +The winds play hide and seek through corridors<BR> +Where stately women with dark glowing eyes<BR> +Have laughed and frolicked in their fluttering robes;<BR> +The rose leaves drop with none to gather them,<BR> +In gardens where no footfall comes with eve,<BR> +Nor any lovers watch the rising moon;<BR> +And ancient silence, truer than all speech,<BR> +Still holds the secrets of the Council Hall,<BR> +Upon whose walls frescoes of many faiths<BR> +Attest the courtesy of open minds.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Before the last camp-follower was gone,<BR> +The doves returned and took up their abode<BR> +In the main gate of those deserted walls.<BR> +And in their custody this "Gate of Peace"<BR> +Bears still the grandeur of its origin,<BR> +Firing anew the wistful hearts of men<BR> +To brave endeavor with replenished hope,<BR> +Though since that time three hundred years ago,<BR> +The magic hush of those forsaken streets<BR> +And empty courtyards has been undisturbed<BR> +Save by the gentle whirring of grey wings,<BR> +With cooing murmurs uttered all day long,<BR> +And reverent tread of those from near and far,<BR> +Who still pursue the immemorial quest.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +<I>Warwick Bros. & Rutter, Limited</I> +<BR> +<I>Printers and Bookbinders</I> +<BR> +<I>Toronto</I> +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When all my writing has been done<BR> +Except the final colophon,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And I must bid beloved verse<BR> +Farewell for better or for worse,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let me not linger o'er the page<BR> +In doubting and regretful age;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But as an unknown scribe in some<BR> +Monastic dim scriptorium,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When twilight on his labour fell<BR> +At the glad-heard refection bell,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Might add poor Body's thanks to be<BR> +From spiritual toils set free,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let me conclude with hearty zest<BR> +<I>Laus Deo! Nunc bibendum est!</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-bpaper"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-bpaper.jpg" ALT="back end papers" BORDER="" WIDTH="743" HEIGHT="503"> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Later Poems, by Bliss Carman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33417-h.htm or 33417-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/4/1/33417/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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: Later Poems + +Author: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: August 12, 2010 [EBook #33417] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: cover art] + + + + +[Illustration: front end papers] + + + + + Oh, well the world is dreaming + Under the April moon, + Her soul in love with beauty, + Her senses all a-swoon! + + Pure hangs the silver crescent + Above the twilight wood, + And pure the silver music + Wakes from the marshy flood. + + O Earth, with all thy transport, + How comes it life should seem + A shadow in the moonlight, + A murmur in a dream? + + + + +[Frontispiece: Bliss Carman] + + + + + +LATER POEMS + + +BY BLISS CARMAN + + +WITH AN APPRECIATION + +BY R. H. HATHAWAY + + + +_And decorations by J. E. H. MacDonald A.R.C.A_ + + + +MCCLELLAND & STEWART + +PUBLISHERS -- TORONTO + + + + +Copyright, Canada, 1921 + +By MCCLELLAND & STEWART, Limited, TORONTO + + + + First Printing 1921 + Second " 1922 + Third " 1922 + Fourth " 1923 + + +Printed in Canada + + + + +Publisher's Note + +The present volume is made up of poems from Mr. Carman's three latest +books, _The Rough Rider_, _Echoes from Vagabondia_, and _April Airs_, +together with a number of more recent poems which have not before been +issued in book form. + + + + +Bliss Carman: An Appreciation + +How many Canadians--how many even among the few who seek to keep +themselves informed of the best in contemporary literature, who are +ever on the alert for the new voices--realise, or even suspect, that +this Northern land of theirs has produced a poet of whom it may be +affirmed with confidence and assurance that he is of the great +succession of English poets? Yet such--strange and unbelievable though +it may seem--is in very truth the case, that poet being (to give him +his full name) William Bliss Carman. Canada has full right to be proud +of her poets, a small body though they are; but not only does Mr. +Carman stand high and clear above them all--his place (and time cannot +but confirm and justify the assertion) is among those men whose poetry +is the shining glory of that great English literature which is our +common heritage. + +If any should ask why, if what has been just said is so, there has +been--as must be admitted--no general recognition of the fact in the +poet's home land, I would answer that there are various and plausible, +if not good, reasons for it. + +First of all, the poet, as thousands more of our young men of ambition +and confidence have done, went early to the United States, and until +recently, except for rare and brief visits to his old home down by the +sea, has never returned to Canada--though for all that, I am able to +state, on his own authority, he is still a Canadian citizen. Then all +his books have had their original publication in the United States, and +while a few of them have subsequently carried the imprints of Canadian +publishers, none of these can be said ever to have made any special +effort to push their sale. Another reason for the fact above mentioned +is that Mr. Carman has always scorned to advertise himself, while his +work has never been the subject of the log-rolling and booming which +the work of many another poet has had--to his ultimate loss. A further +reason is that he follows a rule of his own in preparing his books for +publication. Most poets publish a volume of their work as soon as, +through their industry and perseverance, they have material enough on +hand to make publication desirable in their eyes. Not so with Mr. +Carman, however, his rule being not to publish until he has done +sufficient work of a certain general character or key to make a volume. +As a result, you cannot fully know or estimate his work by one book, or +two books, or even half a dozen; you must possess or be familiar with +every one of the score and more volumes which contain his output of +poetry before you can realise how great and how many-sided is his +genius. + +It is a common remark on the part of those who respond readily to the +vigorous work of Kipling, or Masefield, even our own Service, that +Bliss Carman's poetry has no relation to or concern with ordinary, +everyday life. One would suppose that most persons who cared for +poetry at all turned to it as a relief from or counter to the burdens +and vexations of the daily round; but in any event, the remark referred +to seems to me to indicate either the most casual acquaintance with Mr. +Carman's work, or a complete misunderstanding and misapprehension of +the meaning of it. I grant that you will find little or nothing in it +all to remind you of the grim realities and vexing social problems of +this modern existence of ours; but to say or to suggest that these +things do not exist for Mr. Carman is to say or to suggest something +which is the reverse of true. The truth is, he is aware of them as +only one with the sensitive organism of a poet can be; but he does not +feel that he has a call or mission to remedy them, and still less to +sing of them. He therefore leaves the immediate problems of the day to +those who choose, or are led, to occupy themselves therewith, and turns +resolutely away to dwell upon those things which for him possess +infinitely greater importance. + +"What are they?" one who knows Mr. Carman only as, say, a lyrist of +spring or as a singer of the delights of vagabondia probably will ask +in some wonder. Well, the things which concern him above all, I would +answer, are first, and naturally, the beauty and wonder of this world +of ours, and next the mystery of the earthly pilgrimage of the human +soul out of eternity and back into it again. + +The poems in the present volume--which, by the way, can boast the high +honor of being the very first regular Canadian edition of his +work--will be evidence ample and conclusive to every reader, I am sure, +of the place which + + The perennial enchanted + Lovely world and all its lore + +occupy in the heart and soul of Bliss Carman, as well as of the magical +power with which he is able to convey the deep and unfailing +satisfaction and delight which they possess for him. They, however, +represent his latest period (he has had three well-defined periods), +comprising selections from three of his last published volumes: _The +Rough Rider_, _Echoes from Vagabondia_, and _April Airs_, together with +a number of new poems, and do not show, except here and there and by +hints and flashes, how great is his preoccupation with the problem of +man's existence-- + + the hidden import + Of man's eternal plight. + + +This is manifest most in certain of his earlier books, for in these he +turns and returns to the greatest of all the problems of man almost +constantly, probing, with consummate and almost unrivalled use of the +art of expression, for the secret which surely, he clearly feels, lies +hidden somewhere, to be discovered if one could but pierce deeply +enough. Pick up _Behind the Arras_, and as you turn over page after +page you cannot but observe how incessantly the poet's mind--like the +minds of his two great masters, Browning and Whitman--works at this +problem. In "Behind the Arras," the title poem; "In the Wings," "The +Crimson House," "The Lodger," "Beyond the Gamut," "The Juggler"--yes, +in every poem in the book--he takes up and handles the strange thing we +know as, or call, life, turning it now this way, now that, in an effort +to find out its meaning and purpose. He comes but little nearer +success in this than do most of the rest of men, of course; but the +magical and ever-fresh beauty of his expression, the haunting melody of +his lines, the variety of his images and figures and the depth and +range of his thought, put his searchings and ponderings in a class by +themselves. + +Lengthy quotation from Mr. Carman's books is not permitted here, and I +must guide myself accordingly, though with reluctance, because I +believe that in a study such as this the subject should be allowed to +speak for himself as much as possible. In "Behind the Arras" the poet +describes the passage from life to death as + + A cadence dying down unto its source + In music's course, + +and goes on to speak of death as + + the broken rhythm of thought and man, + The sweep and span + Of memory and hope + About the orbit where they still must grope + For wider scope, + + To be through thousand springs restored, renewed, + With love imbrued, + With increments of will + Made strong, perceiving unattainment still + From each new skill. + + +Now follow some verses from "Behind the Gamut," to my mind the poet's +greatest single achievement; + + As fine sand spread on a disc of silver, + At some chord which bids the motes combine, + Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse, + Shifts and dances into curve and line, + + The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote, + Was set whirling her assigned sure way, + Round this little orb of her ecliptic + To some harmony she must obey. + +And what of man? + + Linked to all his half-accomplished fellows, + Through unfrontiered provinces to range-- + Man is but the morning dream of nature, + Roused to some wild cadence weird and strange. + + +Here, now, are some verses from "Pulvis et Umbra," which is to be found +in Mr. Carman's first book, _Low Tide on Grand Pre_, and in which the +poet addresses a moth which a storm has blown into his window: + + For man walks the world with mourning + Down to death and leaves no trace, + With the dust upon his forehead, + And the shadow on his face. + + Pillared dust and fleeing shadow + As the roadside wind goes by, + And the fourscore years that vanish + In the twinkling of an eye. + + +"Pillared dust and fleeing shadow." Where in all our English +literature will one find the life history of man summed up more briefly +and, at the same time, more beautifully, than in that wonderful line? +Now follows a companion verse to those just quoted, taken from "Lord of +My Heart's Elation," which stands in the forefront of _From the Green +Book of the Bards_. It may be remarked here that while the poet recurs +again and again to some favorite thought or idea, it is never in the +same words. His expression is always new and fresh, showing how deep +and true is his inspiration. Again it is man who is pictured: + + A fleet and shadowy column + Of dust and mountain rain, + To walk the earth a moment + And be dissolved again. + + +But while Mr. Carman's speculations upon life's meaning and the mystery +of the future cannot but appeal to the thoughtful-minded, it is as an +interpreter of nature that he makes his widest appeal. Bliss Carman, I +must say here, and emphatically, is no mere landscape-painter; he +never, or scarcely ever, paints a picture of nature for its own sake. +He goes beyond the outward aspect of things and interprets or +translates for us with less keen senses as only a poet whose feeling +for nature is of the deepest and profoundest, who has gone to her +whole-heartedly and been taken close to her warm bosom, can do. Is +this not evident from these verses from "The Great Return"--originally +called "The Pagan's Prayer," and for some inscrutable reason to be +found only in the limited _Collected Poems_, issued in two stately +volumes in 1905 (1904)? + + When I have lifted up my heart to thee, + Thou hast ever hearkened and drawn near, + And bowed thy shining face close over me, + Till I could hear thee as the hill-flowers hear. + + When I have cried to thee in lonely need, + Being but a child of thine bereft and wrung, + Then all the rivers in the hills gave heed; + And the great hill-winds in thy holy tongue-- + + That ancient incommunicable speech-- + The April stars and autumn sunsets know-- + Soothed me and calmed with solace beyond reach + Of human ken, mysterious and low. + + +Who can read or listen to those moving lines without feeling that Mr. +Carman is in very truth a poet of nature--nay, Nature's own poet? But +how could he be other when, in "The Breath of the Reed" (_From the +Green Book of the Bards_), he makes the appeal? + + Make me thy priest, O Mother, + And prophet of thy mood, + With all the forest wonder + Enraptured and imbued. + + +As becomes such a poet, and particularly a poet whose birth-month is +April, Mr. Carman sings much of the early spring. Again and again he +takes up his woodland pipe, and lo! Pan himself and all his train troop +joyously before us. Yet the singer's notes for all his singing never +become wearied or strident; his airs are ever new and fresh; his latest +songs are no less spontaneous and winning than were his first, written +how many years ago, while at the same time they have gained in beauty +and melody. What heart will not stir to the vibrant music of his +immortal "Spring Song," which was originally published in the first +_Songs from Vagabondia_, and the opening verses of which follow? + + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + When thy flowery hand delivers + All the mountain-prisoned rivers, + And thy great heart beats and quivers + To revive the days that were, + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + + Take my dust and all my dreaming, + Count my heart-beats one by one, + Send them where the winters perish; + Then some golden noon recherish + And restore them in the sun, + Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, + With their heart-beats every one! + + +That poem is sufficient in itself to prove that Bliss Carman has full +right and title to be called Spring's own lyrist, though it may be +remarked here that not all his spring poems are so unfeignedly joyous. +Many of them indeed, have a touch, or more than a touch, of +wistfulness, for the poet knows well that sorrow lurks under all joy, +deep and well hidden though it may be. + +Mr. Carman sings equally finely, though perhaps not so frequently, of +summer and the other seasons; but as he has other claims upon our +attention, I shall forbear to labor the fact, particularly as the +following collection demonstrates it sufficiently. One of those other +claims is as a writer of sea poetry. Few poets, it may be said, have +pictured the majesty and the mystery, the beauty and the terror of the +sea, better than he. His _Ballads of Lost Haven_ is a veritable +treasure-house for those whose spirits find kinship in wide expanses of +moving waters. One of the best known poems in this volume is "The +Gravedigger," which opens thus: + + Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, + And well his work is done. + With an equal grave for lord and knave, + He buries them every one. + + Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, + He makes for the nearest shore; + And God, who sent him a thousand ship, + Will send him a thousand more; + But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, + And shoulder them in to shore-- + Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, + Shoulder them in to shore. + + +In "The City of the Sea" (_Last Songs from Vagabondia_) Mr. Carman +speaks of the seabells sounding + + The eternal cadence of sea sorrow + For Man's lot and immemorial wrong-- + The lost strains that haunt the human dwelling + With the ghost of song. + + +Elsewhere he speaks of + + The great sea, mystic and musical. + +And here from another poem is a striking picture: + + ... the old sea + Seems to whimper and deplore + Mourning like a childless crone + With her sorrow left alone-- + The eternal human cry + To the heedless passer-by. + + +I have said above that Mr. Carman has had three distinct periods, and +intimated that the poems in the following collection are of his third +period. The first period may be said to be represented by the _Low +Tide_ and _Behind the Arras_ volumes, while the second is displayed in +the three volumes of _Songs from Vagabondia_, which he published in +association with his friend Richard Hovey. Bliss Carman was from the +first too original and individual a poet to be directly influenced by +anyone else; but there can be no doubt that his friendship with Hovey +helped to turn him from over-preoccupation with mysteries which, for +all their greatness, are not for man to solve, to an intenser +realisation of the beauty and loveliness of the world about him and of +the joys of human fellowship. The result is seen in such poems as +"Spring Song," quoted in part above, and his perhaps equally well-known +"The Joys of the Road," which appeared in the same volume with that +poem, and a few verses from which follow: + + Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: + A crimson touch on the hardwood trees; + + A vagrant's morning wide and blue, + In early fall, when the wind walks, too; + + A shadowy highway cool and brown, + Alluring up and enticing down + + From rippled waters and dappled swamp, + From purple glory to scarlet pomp; + + The outward eye, the quiet will, + And the striding heart from hill to hill. + + +Some of the finest of Mr. Carman's work is contained in his elegiac or +memorial poems, in which he commemorates Keats, Shelley, William Blake, +Lincoln, Stevenson, and other men for whom he has a kindred feeling, +and also friends whom he has loved and lost. Listen to these moving +lines from "Non Omnis Moriar," written in memory of Gleeson White, and +to be found in _Last Songs from Vagabondia_: + + There is a part of me that knows, + Beneath incertitude and fear, + I shall not perish when I pass + Beyond mortality's frontier; + + But greatly having joyed and grieved, + Greatly content, shall hear the sigh + Of the strange wind across the lone + Bright lands of taciturnity. + + In patience therefore I await + My friend's unchanged benign regard,-- + Some April when I too shall be + Spilt water from a broken shard. + + +In "The White Gull," written for the centenary of the birth of Shelley +in 1892, and included in _By the Aurelian Wall_, he thus apostrophizes +that clear and shining spirit: + + O captain of the rebel host, + Lead forth and far! + Thy toiling troopers of the night + Press on the unavailing fight; + The sombre field is not yet lost, + With thee for star. + + Thy lips have set the hail and haste + Of clarions free + To bugle down the wintry verge + Of time forever, where the surge + Thunders and trembles on a waste + And open sea. + + +In "A Seamark," a threnody for Robert Louis Stevenson, which appears in +the same volume, the poet hails "R.L.S." (of whose tribe he may be said +to be truly one) as + + The master of the roving kind, + +and goes on: + + O all you hearts about the world + In whom the truant gypsy blood, + Under the frost of this pale time, + Sleeps like the daring sap and flood + That dreams of April and reprieve! + You whom the haunted vision drives, + Incredulous of home and ease. + Perfection's lovers all your lives! + + You whom the wander-spirit loves + To lead by some forgotten clue + Forever vanishing beyond + Horizon brinks forever new; + Our restless loved adventurer, + On secret orders come to him, + Has slipped his cable, cleared the reef, + And melted on the white sea-rim. + + +"Perfection's lovers all your lives." Of these, it may be said without +qualification, is Bliss Carman himself. + +No summary of Mr. Carman's work, however cursory, would be worthy of +the name if it omitted mention of his ventures in the realm of Greek +myth. _From the Book of Myths_ is made up of work of that sort, every +poem in it being full of the beauty of phrase and melody of which Mr. +Carman alone has the secret. The finest poems in the book, barring the +opening one, "Overlord," are "Daphne," "The Dead Faun," "Hylas," and +"At Phaedra's Tomb," but I can do no more here than name them, for +extracts would fail to reveal their full beauty. And beauty, after all +is said, is the first and last thing with Mr. Carman. As he says +himself somewhere: + + The joy of the hand that hews for beauty + Is the dearest solace under the sun. + +And again + + The eternal slaves of beauty + Are the masters of the world. + +A slave--a happy, willing slave--to beauty is the poet himself, and the +world can never repay him for the message of beauty which he has +brought it. + +Kindred to _From the Book of Myths_, but much more important, is +_Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics_, one of the most successful of the +numerous attempts which have been made to recapture the poems by that +high priestess of song which remain to us only in fragments. Mr. +Carman, as Charles G. D. Roberts points out in an introduction to the +volume, has made no attempt here at translation or paraphrasing; his +venture has been "the most perilous and most alluring in the whole +field of poetry"--that of imaginative and, at the same time, +interpretive construction. Brief quotation again would fail to convey +an adequate idea of the exquisiteness of the work, and all I can do, +therefore, is to urge all lovers of real poetry to possess themselves +of _Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics_, for it is literally a storehouse of +lyric beauty. + +I must not fail here to speak of _From the Book of Valentines_, which +contains some lovely things, notably "At the Great Release." This is +not only one of the finest of all Mr. Carman's poems, but it is also +one of the finest poems of our time. It is a love poem, and no one +possessing any real feeling for poetry can read it without experiencing +that strange thrill of the spirit which only the highest form of poetry +can communicate. "Morning and Evening," "In an Iris Meadow," and "A +letter from Lesbos" must be also mentioned. In the last named poem, +Sappho is represented as writing to Gorgo, and expresses herself in +these moving words: + + If the high gods in that triumphant time + Have calendared no day for thee to come + Light-hearted to this doorway as of old, + Unmoved I shall behold their pomps go by-- + The painted seasons in their pageantry, + The silvery progressions of the moon, + And all their infinite ardors unsubdued, + Pass with the wind replenishing the earth + + Incredulous forever I must live + And, once thy lover, without joy behold, + The gradual uncounted years go by, + Sharing the bitterness of all things made. + + +Mention must be now made of _Songs of the Sea Children_, which can be +described only as a collection of the sweetest and tenderest love +lyrics written in our time-- + + the lyric songs + The earthborn children sing, + When wild-wood laughter throngs + The shy bird-throats of spring; + When there's not a joy of the heart + But flies like a flag unfurled, + And the swelling buds bring back + The April of the world. + + +So perfect and complete are these lyrics that it would be almost +sacrilege to quote any of them unless entire. Listen however, to these +verses: + + The day is lost without thee, + The night has not a star. + Thy going is an empty room + Whose door is left ajar. + + Depart: it is the footfall + Of twilight on the hills. + Return: and every rood of ground + Breaks into daffodils. + + +There are those who will have it that Bliss Carman has been away from +Canada so long that he has ceased to be, in a real sense, a Canadian. +Such assume rather than know, for a very little study of his work would +show them that it is shot through and through with the poet's feeling +for the land of his birth. Memories of his childhood and youthful +years down by the sea are still fresh in Mr. Carman's mind, and inspire +him again and again in his writing. "A Remembrance," at the beginning +of the present collection, may be pointed to as a striking instance of +this, but proof positive is the volume, _Songs from a Northern Garden_, +for it could have been written only by a Canadian, born and bred, one +whose heart and soul thrill to the thought of Canada. I would single +out from this volume for special mention as being "Canadian" in the +fullest sense "In a Grand Pre Garden," "The Keeper's Silence," "At Home +and Abroad," "Killoleet," and "Above the Gaspereau," but have no space +to quote from them. + +But Mr. Carman is not only a Canadian, he is also a Briton; and +evidence of this is his _Ode on the Coronation_, written on the +occasion of the crowning of King Edward VII in 1902. This poem--the +very existence of which is hardly known among us--ought to be put in +the hands of every child and youth who speaks the English tongue, for +no other, I dare maintain--nothing by Kipling, or Newbolt, or any other +of our so-called "Imperial singers"--expresses more truly and more +movingly the deep feeling of love and reverence which the very thought +of England evokes in every son of hers, even though it may never have +been his to see her white cliffs rise or to tread her storied ground: + + O England, little mother by the sleepless Northern tide, + Having bred so many nations to devotion, trust, and pride, + Very tenderly we turn + With welling hearts that yearn + Still to love you and defend you,--let the sons of men discern + Wherein your right and title, might and majesty, reside. + + +In concluding this, I greatly fear, lamentably inadequate study, I come +to the collection which follows, and which, as intimated above, +represents the work of Mr. Carman's latest period. I must say at once +that, while I yield to no one in admiration for _Low Tide_ and the +other books of that period, or for the work of the second period, as +represented by the _Songs from Vagabondia_ volumes, I have no +hesitation in declaring that I regard the poet's work of the past few +years with even higher admiration. It may not possess the force and +vigor of the work which preceded it; but anything seemingly missing in +that respect is more than made up for me by increased beauty and +clarity of expression. The mysticism--verging, or more than verging, +at times on symbolism--which marked his earlier poems, and which hung, +as it were, as a veil between them and the reader, has gone, and the +poet's thought or theme now lies clearly before us as in a mirror. +What--to take a verse from the following pages at random--could be more +pellucid, more crystal clear in expression--what indeed, could come +closer to that achieving of the impossible at which every real poet +must aim--than this from "In Gold Lacquer" (page 12)? + + Gold are the great trees overhead, + And gold the leaf-strewn grass, + As though a cloth of gold were spread + To let a seraph pass. + And where the pageant should go by, + Meadow and wood and stream, + The world is all of lacquered gold, + Expectant as a dream. + + +The poet, happily, has fully recovered from the serious illness which +laid him low some two years ago, and which for a time caused his +friends and admirers the gravest concern, and so we may look forward +hopefully to seeing further volumes of verse come from the press to +make certain his name and fame. But if, for any reason, this should +not be--which the gods forfend!--_Later Poems_, I dare affirm, must and +will be regarded as the fine flower and crowning achievement of the +genius and art of Bliss Carman. + +R. H. HATHAWAY. + +Toronto, 1921. + + + + +THE BOOKS OF BLISS CARMAN: POETRY AND PROSE + + +LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRE: A BOOK OF LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1893 + +SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH RICHARD HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . 1894 + +BEHIND THE ARRAS: A BOOK OF THE UNSEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1895 + +A SEAMARK: A THRENODY FOR ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON . . . . . . . . 1895 + +MORE SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1896 + +BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN: A BOOK OF THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . . . 1897 + +BY THE AURELIAN WALL, AND OTHER ELEGIES . . . . . . . . . . . . 1898 + +A WINTER HOLIDAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1899 + +LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA (WITH HOVEY) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1901 + +BALLADS AND LYRICS (A SELECTION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +ODE ON THE CORONATION OF KING EDWARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE BOOK OF MYTHS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. I.) . . . . . . . . 1902 + +FROM THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS ("PIPES OF PAN," No. II.) . . . 1903 + +THE KINSHIP OF NATURE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. III.) . . . . . . 1904 + +SONGS FROM A NORTHERN GARDEN ("PIPES OF PAN," No. IV.) . . . . . 1904 + +THE FRIENDSHIP OF ART (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1904 + +SAPPHO: ONE HUNDRED LYRICS (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +FROM THE BOOK OF VALENTINES ("PIPES OF PAN," No. V.) . . . . . . 1905 + +THE POETRY OF LIFE (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1905 + +COLLECTED POEMS, 2 VOLS. (500 COPIES) . . . . . . . . . 1905 (1904) + +THE PIPES OF PAN (DEFINITIVE EDITION) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1906 + +THE MAKING OF PERSONALITY (ESSAYS) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1908 + +THE ROUGH RIDER, AND OTHER POEMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1909 + +ECHOES FROM VAGABONDIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1912 + +DAUGHTERS OF DAWN: A LYRICAL PAGEANT (WITH MARY PERRY KING) . . 1913 + +EARTH DEITIES, AND OTHER RYTHMIC MASQUES (WITH MARY PERRY KING) 1914 + +APRIL AIRS: A BOOK OF NEW ENGLAND LYRICS . . . . . . . . . . . . 1916 + + + + +Contents + + + BLISS CARMAN: AN APPRECIATION + VESTIGIA + A REMEMBRANCE + THE SHIPS OF YULE + THE SHIPS OF SAINT JOHN + THE GARDEN OF DREAMS + GARDEN MAGIC + IN GOLD LACQUER + APRILIAN + GARDEN SHADOWS + IN THE DAY OF BATTLE + TREES + THE GIVERS OF LIFE + A FIRESIDE VISION + A WATER COLOR + THRENODY FOR A POET + DUST OF THE STREET + TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY + THE GIFT + THE CRY OF THE HILLBORN + A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY + MORNING IN THE HILLS + A WOODPATH + WEATHER OF THE SOUL + HERE AND NOW + THE ANGEL OF JOY + THE HOMESTEAD + "THE STARRY MIDNIGHT WHISPERS" + A LYRIC + "APRIL NOW IN MORNING CLAD" + NIKE + THE ENCHANTED TRAVELLER + SPRING'S SARABAND + TRIUMPHALIS + "NOW THE LENGTHENING TWILIGHTS HOLD" + THE SOUL OF APRIL + AN APRIL MORNING + EARTH VOICES + RESURGAM + EASTER EVE + NOW IS THE TIME OF YEAR + THE REDWING + THE RAINBIRD + LAMENT + UNDER THE APRIL MOON + THE FLUTE OF SPRING + SPRING NIGHT + BLOODROOT + DAFFODIL'S RETURN + NOW THE LILAC TREE'S IN BUD + WHITE IRIS + THE TREE OF HEAVEN + PEONY + THE URBAN PAN + THE SAILING OF THE FLEETS + "'TIS MAY NOW IN NEW ENGLAND" + IN EARLY MAY + FIREFLIES + THE PATH TO SANKOTY + OFF MONOMOY + IN ST GERMAIN STREET + PAN IN THE CATSKILLS + A NEW ENGLAND JUNE + THE TENT OF NOON + CHILDREN OF DREAM + ROADSIDE FLOWERS + THE GARDEN OF SAINT ROSE + THE WORLD VOICE + SONGS OF THE GRASS + THE CHORISTERS + THE WEED'S COUNSEL + THE BLUE HERON + WOODLAND RAIN + SUMMER STORM + DANCE OF THE SUNBEAMS + THE CAMPFIRE OF THE SUN + SUMMER STREAMS + THE GOD OF THE WOODS + AT SUNRISE + AT TWILIGHT + MOONRISE + THE QUEEN OF NIGHT + NIGHT LYRIC + THE HEART OF NIGHT + PEACE + THE OLD GRAY WALL + TE DEUM + IN OCTOBER + BY STILL WATERS + LINES FOR A PICTURE + THE DESERTED PASTURE + AUTUMN + NOVEMBER TWILIGHT + THE GHOSTYARD OF THE GOLDENROD + BEFORE THE SNOW + WINTER + A WINTER PIECE + WINTER STREAMS + WINTER TWILIGHT + THE TWELFTH NIGHT STAR + A CHRISTMAS EVE CHORAL + CHRISTMAS SONG + THE WISE MEN FROM THE EAST + THE SENDING OF THE MAGI + THE ANGELS OF MAN + AT THE MAKING OF MAN + ST. MICHAEL'S STAR + THE DREAMERS + EL DORADO + ON THE PLAZA + A PAINTER'S HOLIDAY + MIRAGE + THE WINGED VICTORY + THE GATE OF PEACE + + + + +Later Poems + + + + Vestigia. + + _I took a day to search for God, + And found Him not. But as I trod + By rocky ledge, through woods untamed, + Just where one scarlet lily flamed, + I saw His footprint in the sod._ + + _Then suddenly, all unaware, + Far off in the deep shadows, where + A solitary hermit thrush + Sang through the holy twilight hush-- + I heard His voice upon the air._ + + _And even as I marvelled how + God gives us Heaven here and now, + In a stir of wind that hardly shook + The poplar leaves beside the brook-- + His hand was light upon my brow._ + + _At last with evening as I turned + Homeward, and thought what I had learned + And all that there was still to probe-- + I caught the glory of His robe + Where the last fires of sunset burned._ + + _Back to the world with quickening start + I looked and longed for any part + In making saving Beauty be.... + And from that kindling ecstasy + I knew God dwelt within my heart._ + + + + + A Remembrance. + + Here in lovely New England + When summer is come, a sea-turn + Flutters a page of remembrance + In the volume of long ago. + + Soft is the wind over Grand Pre, + Stirring the heads of the grasses, + Sweet is the breath of the orchards + White with their apple-blow. + + There at their infinite business + Of measuring time forever, + Murmuring songs of the sea, + The great tides come and go. + + Over the dikes and the uplands + Wander the great cloud shadows, + Strange as the passing of sorrow, + Beautiful, solemn, and slow. + + For, spreading her old enchantment + Of tender ineffable wonder, + Summer is there in the Northland! + How should my heart not know? + + + + + The Ships of Yule + + When I was just a little boy, + Before I went to school, + I had a fleet of forty sail + I called the Ships of Yule; + + Of every rig, from rakish brig + And gallant barkentine, + To little Fundy fishing boats + With gunwales painted green. + + They used to go on trading trips + Around the world for me, + For though I had to stay on shore + My heart was on the sea. + + They stopped at every port to call + From Babylon to Rome, + To load with all the lovely things + We never had at home; + + With elephants and ivory + Bought from the King of Tyre, + And shells and silk and sandal-wood + That sailor men admire; + + With figs and dates from Samarcand, + And squatty ginger-jars, + And scented silver amulets + From Indian bazaars; + + With sugar-cane from Port of Spain, + And monkeys from Ceylon, + And paper lanterns from Pekin + With painted dragons on; + + With cocoanuts from Zanzibar, + And pines from Singapore; + And when they had unloaded these + They could go back for more. + + And even after I was big + And had to go to school, + My mind was often far away + Aboard the Ships of Yule. + + + + + The Ships of Saint John + + Where are the ships I used to know, + That came to port on the Fundy tide + Half a century ago, + In beauty and stately pride? + + In they would come past the beacon light, + With the sun on gleaming sail and spar, + Folding their wings like birds in flight + From countries strange and far. + + Schooner and brig and barkentine, + I watched them slow as the sails were furled, + And wondered what cities they must have seen + On the other side of the world. + + Frenchman and Britisher and Dane, + Yankee, Spaniard and Portugee, + And many a home ship back again + With her stories of the sea. + + Calm and victorious, at rest + From the relentless, rough sea-play, + The wild duck on the river's breast + Was not more sure than they. + + The creatures of a passing race, + The dark spruce forests made them strong, + The sea's lore gave them magic grace, + The great winds taught them song. + + And God endowed them each with life-- + His blessing on the craftsman's skill-- + To meet the blind unreasoned strife + And dare the risk of ill. + + Not mere insensate wood and paint + Obedient to the helm's command, + But often restive as a saint + Beneath the Heavenly hand. + + All the beauty and mystery + Of life were there, adventure bold, + Youth, and the glamour of the sea + And all its sorrows old. + + And many a time I saw them go + Out on the flood at morning brave, + As the little tugs had them in tow, + And the sunlight danced on the wave. + + There all day long you could hear the sound + Of the caulking iron, the ship's bronze bell, + And the clank of the capstan going round + As the great tides rose and fell. + + The sailors' songs, the Captain's shout, + The boatswain's whistle piping shrill, + And the roar as the anchor chain runs out,-- + I often hear them still. + + I can see them still, the sun on their gear, + The shining streak as the hulls careen, + And the flag at the peak unfurling,--clear + As a picture on a screen. + + The fog still hangs on the long tide-rips, + The gulls go wavering to and fro, + But where are all the beautiful ships + I knew so long ago? + + + + + The Garden of Dreams + + My heart is a garden of dreams + Where you walk when day is done, + Fair as the royal flowers, + Calm as the lingering sun. + + Never a drouth comes there, + Nor any frost that mars, + Only the wind of love + Under the early stars,-- + + The living breath that moves + Whispering to and fro, + Like the voice of God in the dusk + Of the garden long ago. + + + + + Garden Magic + + Within my stone-walled garden + (I see her standing now, + Uplifted in the twilight, + With glory on her brow!) + + I love to walk at evening + And watch, when winds are low, + The new moon in the tree-tops, + Because she loved it so! + + And there entranced I listen, + While flowers and winds confer, + And all their conversation + Is redolent of her. + + I love the trees that guard it, + Upstanding and serene, + So noble, so undaunted, + Because that was her mien. + + I love the brook that bounds it, + Because its silver voice + Is like her bubbling laughter + That made the world rejoice. + + I love the golden jonquils, + Because she used to say, + If soul could choose a color + It would be clothed as they. + + I love the blue-gray iris, + Because her eyes were blue, + Sea-deep and heaven-tender + In meaning and in hue. + + I love the small wild roses, + Because she used to stand + Adoringly above them + And bless them with her hand. + + These were her boon companions. + But more than all the rest + I love the April lilac, + Because she loved it best. + + Soul of undying rapture! + How love's enchantment clings, + With sorcery and fragrance, + About familiar things! + + + + + In Gold Lacquer + + Gold are the great trees overhead, + And gold the leaf-strewn grass, + As though a cloth of gold were spread + To let a seraph pass. + And where the pageant should go by, + Meadow and wood and stream, + The world is all of lacquered gold, + Expectant as a dream. + + Against the sunset's burning gold, + Etched in dark monotone + Behind its alley of grey trees + And gateposts of grey stone, + Stands the Old Manse, about whose eaves + An air of mystery clings, + Abandoned to the lonely peace + Of bygone ghostly things. + + In molten gold the river winds + With languid sweep and turn, + Beside the red-gold wooded hill + Yellowed with ash and fern. + The streets are tiled with gold-green shade + And arched with fretted gold, + Ecstatic aisles that richly thread + This minster grim and old. + + The air is flecked with filtered gold,-- + The shimmer of romance + Whose ageless glamour still must hold + The world as in a trance, + Pouring o'er every time and place + Light of an amber sea, + The spell of all the gladsome things + That have been or shall be. + + + + + Aprilian + + When April came with sunshine + And showers and lilac bloom, + My heart with sudden gladness + Was like a fragrant room. + + Her eyes were heaven's own azure, + As deep as God's own truth. + Her soul was made of rapture + And mystery and youth. + + She knew the sorry burden + Of all the ancient years, + Yet could not dwell with sadness + And memory and tears. + + With her there was no shadow + Of failure nor despair, + But only loving joyance. + O Heart, how glad we were! + + + + + Garden Shadows + + When the dawn winds whisper + To the standing corn, + And the rose of morning + From the dark is born, + All my shadowy garden + Seems to grow aware + Of a fragrant presence, + Half expected there. + + In the golden shimmer + Of the burning noon, + When the birds are silent + And the poppies swoon, + Once more I behold her + Smile and turn her face, + With its infinite regard, + Its immortal grace. + + When the twilight silvers + Every nodding flower, + And the new moon hallows + The first evening hour, + Is it not her footfall + Down the garden walks, + Where the drowsy blossoms + Slumber on their stalks? + + In the starry quiet, + When the soul is free, + And a vernal message + Stirs the lilac tree, + Surely I have felt her + Pass and brush my cheek, + With the eloquence of love + That does not need to speak! + + + + + In The Day of Battle + + In the day of battle, + In the night of dread, + Let one hymn be lifted, + Let one prayer be said. + + Not for pride of conquest, + Not for vengeance wrought, + Nor for peace and safety + With dishonour bought! + + Praise for faith in freedom, + Our fighting fathers' stay, + Born of dreams and daring, + Bred above dismay. + + Prayer for cloudless vision, + And the valiant hand, + That the right may triumph + To the last demand. + + + + + Trees + + In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, + There were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- + + Trees of beauty and height and grace, + To stand in splendor before His face. + + Apple and hickory, ash and pear, + Oak and beech and the tulip rare, + + The trembling aspen, the noble pine, + The sweeping elm by the river line; + + Trees for the birds to build and sing, + And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; + + Trees to turn at the frosty call + And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall; + + Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, + Trees for the cunning builder's trade; + + Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, + The keel and the mast of the daring sail; + + He made them of every grain and girth + For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. + + Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes + From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, + + On the crown of a hill, for all to see, + God planted a scarlet maple tree. + + + + + The Givers of Life + + I + + Who called us forth out of darkness and gave us the gift of life, + Who set our hands to the toiling, our feet in the field of strife? + + Darkly they mused, predestined to knowledge of viewless things, + Sowing the seed of wisdom, guarding the living springs. + + Little they reckoned privation, hunger or hardship or cold, + If only the life might prosper, and the joy that grows not old. + + With sorceries subtler than music, with knowledge older than speech, + Gentle as wind in the wheat-field, strong as the tide on the beach, + + Out of their beauty and longing, out of their raptures and tears, + In patience and pride they bore us, to war with the warring years. + + + II + + Who looked on the world before them, and summoned and chose + our sires, + Subduing the wayward impulse to the will of their deep desires? + + Sovereigns of ultimate issues under the greater laws, + Theirs was the mystic mission of the eternal cause; + + Confident, tender, courageous, leaving the low for the higher, + Lifting the feet of the nations out of the dust and the mire; + Luring civilization on to the fair and new, + Given God's bidding to follow, having God's business to do. + + + III + + Who strengthened our souls with courage, and taught us the ways + of Earth? + Who gave us our patterns of beauty, our standards of flawless worth? + + Mothers, unmilitant, lovely, moulding our manhood then, + Walked in their woman's glory, swaying the might of men. + + They schooled us to service and honor, modest and clean and fair,-- + The code of their worth of living, taught with the sanction + of prayer. + They were our sharers of sorrow, they were our makers of joy, + Lighting the lamp of manhood in the heart of the lonely boy. + + Haloed with love and with wonder, in sheltered ways they trod, + Seers of sublime divination, keeping the truce of God. + + + IV + + Who called us from youth and dreaming, and set ambition alight, + And made us fit for the contest,--men, by their tender rite? + + Sweethearts above our merit, charming our strength and skill + To be the pride of their loving, to be the means of their will. + + If we be the builders of beauty, if we be the masters of art, + Theirs were the gleaming ideals, theirs the uplift of the heart. + + Truly they measure the lightness of trappings and ease and fame, + For the teeming desire of their yearning is ever and ever the same: + + To crown their lovers with gladness, to clothe their sons + with delight, + And see the men of their making lords in the best man's right. + + Lavish of joy and labor, broken only by wrong, + These are the guardians of being, spirited, sentient and strong. + + Theirs is the starry vision, theirs the inspiriting hope, + Since Night, the brooding enchantress, promised that day + should ope. + + + V + + Lo, we have built and invented, reasoned, discovered and planned, + To rear us a palace of splendor, and make us a heaven by hand. + + We are shaken with dark misgiving, as kingdoms rise and fall; + But the women who went to found them are never counted at all. + + Versed in the soul's traditions, skilled in humanity's lore, + They wait for their crown of rapture, and weep for the sins of war. + + And behold they turn from our triumphs, as it was in the first + of days, + For a little heaven of ardor and a little heartening of praise. + + These are the rulers of kingdoms beyond the domains of state, + Martyrs of all men's folly, over-rulers of fate. + These we will love and honor, these we will serve and defend, + Fulfilling the pride of nature, till nature shall have an end. + + + VI + + This is the code unwritten, this is the creed we hold, + Guarding the little and lonely, gladdening the helpless and old,-- + + Apart from the brunt of the battle our wondrous women shall bide, + For the sake of a tranquil wisdom and the need of a spirit's guide. + + Come they into assembly, or keep they another door, + Our makers of life shall lighten the days as the years of yore. + + The lure of their laughter shall lead us, the lilt of their words + shall sway. + Though life and death should defeat us, their solace shall be + our stay. + + Veiled in mysterious beauty, vested in magical grace, + They have walked with angels at twilight and looked upon glory's face. + + Life we will give for their safety, care for their fruitful ease, + Though we break at the toiling benches or go down in the smoky seas. + + This is the gospel appointed to govern a world of men. + Till love has died, and the echoes have whispered the last Amen. + + + + + A Fireside Vision + + Once I walked the world enchanted + Through the scented woods of spring, + Hand in hand with Love, in rapture + Just to hear a bluebird sing. + + Now the lonely winds of autumn + Moan about my gusty eaves, + As I sit beside the fire + Listening to the flying leaves. + + As the dying embers settle + And the twilight falls apace, + Through the gloom I see a vision + Full of ardor, full of grace. + + When the Architect of Beauty + Breathed the lyric soul in man, + Lo, the being that he fashioned + Was of such a mould and plan! + + Bravely through the deepening shadows + Moves that figure half divine, + With its tenderness of bearing, + With its dignity of line. + + Eyes more wonderful than evening + With the new moon on the hill, + Mouth with traces of God's humor + In its corners lurking still. + + Ah, she smiles, in recollection; + Lays a hand upon my brow; + Rests this head upon Love's bosom! + Surely it is April now! + + + + + A Water Color + + There's a picture in my room + Lightens many an hour of gloom,-- + + Cheers me under fortune's frown + And the drudgery of town. + + Many and many a winter day + When my soul sees all things gray, + + Here is veritable June, + Heart's content and spirit's boon. + + It is scarce a hand-breadth wide, + Not a span from side to side, + + Yet it is an open door + Looking back to joy once more, + + Where the level marshes lie, + A quiet journey of the eye, + + And the unsubstantial blue + Makes the fine illusion true. + + So I forth and travel there + In the blessed light and air, + + Miles of green tranquillity + Down the river to the sea. + + Here the sea-birds roam at will, + And the sea-wind on the hill + + Brings the hollow pebbly roar + From the dim and rosy shore, + + With the very scent and draft + Of the old sea's mighty craft. + + I am standing on the dunes, + By some charm that must be June's, + + When the magic of her hand + Lays a sea-spell on the land. + + And the old enchantment falls + On the blue-gray orchard walls + + And the purple high-top boles, + While the orange orioles + + Flame and whistle through the green + Of that paradisal scene. + + Strolling idly for an hour + Where the elder is in flower, + + I can hear the bob-white call + Down beyond the pasture wall. + + Musing in the scented heat, + Where the bayberry is sweet, + + I can see the shadows run + Up the cliff-side in the sun. + + Or I cross the bridge and reach + The mossers' houses on the beach, + + Where the bathers on the sand + Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned. + + Thus I pass the gates of time + And the boundaries of clime, + + Change the ugly man-made street + For God's country green and sweet. + + Fag of body, irk of mind, + In a moment left behind, + + Once more I possess my soul + With the poise and self-control + + Beauty gives the free of heart + Through the sorcery of art. + + + + + Threnody for a Poet + + Not in the ancient abbey, + Nor in the city ground, + Not in the lonely mountains, + Nor in the blue profound, + Lay him to rest when his time is come + And the smiling mortal lips are dumb; + + But here in the decent quiet + Under the whispering pines, + Where the dogwood breaks in blossom + And the peaceful sunlight shines, + Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold, + When spring comes back in her green and gold. + + And when that mortal likeness + Has been dissolved by fire, + Say not above the ashes, + "Here ends a man's desire." + For every year when the bluebirds sing, + He shall be part of the lyric spring. + + Then dreamful-hearted lovers + Shall hear in wind and rain + The cadence of his music, + The rhythm of his refrain, + For he was a blade of the April sod + That bowed and blew with the whisper of God. + + + + + Dust of the Street + + This cosmic dust beneath our feet + Rising to hurry down the street, + + Borne by the wind and blown astray + In its erratic, senseless way, + + Is the same stuff as you and I-- + With knowledge and desire put by. + + Thousands of times since time began + It has been used for making man, + + Freighted like us with every sense + Of spirit and intelligence, + + To walk the world and know the fine + Large consciousness of things divine. + + These wandering atoms in their day + Perhaps have passed this very way, + + With eager step and flowerlike face, + With lovely ardor, poise, and grace, + + On what delightful errands bent, + Passionate, generous, and intent,-- + + An angel still, though veiled and gloved, + Made to love us and to be loved. + + Friends, when the summons comes for me + To turn my back (reluctantly) + + On this delightful play, I claim + Only one thing in friendship's name; + + And you will not decline a task + So slight, when it is all I ask: + + Scatter my ashes in the street + Where avenue and crossway meet. + + I beg you of your charity, + No granite and cement for me, + + To needlessly perpetuate + An unimportant name and date. + + Others may wish to lay them down + On some fair hillside far from town, + + Where slim white birches wave and gleam + Beside a shadowy woodland stream, + + Or in luxurious beds of fern, + But I would have my dust return + + To the one place it loved the best + In days when it was happiest. + + + + + To a Young Lady on Her Birthday + + The marching years go by + And brush your garment's hem. + The bandits by and by + Will bid you go with them. + + Trust not that caravan! + Old vagabonds are they; + They'll rob you if they can, + And make believe it's play. + + Make the old robbers give + Of all the spoils they bear,-- + Their truth, to help you live,-- + Their joy, to keep you fair. + + Ask not for gauds nor gold, + Nor fame that falsely rings; + The foolish world grows old + Caring for all these things. + + Make all your sweet demands + For happiness alone, + And the years will fill your hands + With treasures rarely known. + + + + + The Gift + + I said to Life, "How comes it, + With all this wealth in store, + Of beauty, joy, and knowledge, + Thy cry is still for more? + + "Count all the years of striving + To make thy burden less,-- + The things designed and fashioned + To gladden thy success! + + "The treasures sought and gathered + Thy lightest whim to please,-- + The loot of all the ages, + The spoil of all the seas! + + "Is there no end of labor, + No limit to thy need? + Must man go bowed forever + In bondage to thy greed?" + + With tears of pride and passion + She answered, "God above! + I only wait the asking, + To spend it all for love!" + + + + + The Cry of the Hillborn + + I am homesick for the mountains-- + My heroic mother hills-- + And the longing that is on me + No solace ever stills. + + I would climb to brooding summits + With their old untarnished dreams, + Cool my heart in forest shadows + To the lull of falling streams; + + Hear the innocence of aspens + That babble in the breeze, + And the fragrant sudden showers + That patter on the trees. + + I am lonely for my thrushes + In their hermitage withdrawn, + Toning the quiet transports + Of twilight and of dawn. + + I need the pure, strong mornings, + When the soul of day is still, + With the touch of frost that kindles + The scarlet on the hill; + + Lone trails and winding woodroads + To outlooks wild and high, + And the pale moon waiting sundown + Where ledges cut the sky. + + I dream of upland clearings + Where cones of sumac burn, + And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders + Lie deep in beds of fern; + + The gray and mottled beeches, + The birches' satin sheen, + The majesty of hemlocks + Crowning the blue ravine. + + My eyes dim for the skyline + Where purple peaks aspire, + And the forges of the sunset + Flare up in golden fire. + + There crests look down unheeding + And see the great winds blow, + Tossing the huddled tree-tops + In gorges far below; + + Where cloud-mists from the warm earth + Roll up about their knees, + And hang their filmy tatters + Like prayers upon the trees. + + I cry for night-blue shadows + On plain and hill and dome,-- + The spell of old enchantments, + The sorcery of home. + + + + + A Mountain Gateway + + I know a vale where I would go one day, + When June comes back and all the world once more + Is glad with summer. Deep in shade it lies + A mighty cleft between the bosoming hills, + A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart. + + On either side the wooded slopes come down, + Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there + Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, + Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness. + Among the sunlit shadows I can see + That still perfection from the world withdrawn, + As if the wood-gods had arrested there + Immortal beauty in her breathless flight. + + The road winds in from the broad river-lands, + Luring the happy traveller turn by turn + Up to the lofty mountains of the sky. + And as he marches with uplifted face, + Far overhead against the arching blue + Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, + Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. + + And where the road runs in the valley's foot, + Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down, + Singing and dancing all its youth away + Among the boulders and the shallow runs, + Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang + Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. + + There light of heart and footfree, I would go + Up to my home among the lasting hills. + Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road, + Turn to the left and take the steeper trail + That climbs among the hemlocks, and at last + In my own cabin doorway sit me down, + Companioned in that leafy solitude + By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, + While evening passes to absolve the day + And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars. + + And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, + Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, + The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn. + So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, + They well might be, in wisdom and in joy, + The seraphs singing at the birth of time + The unworn ritual of eternal things. + + + + + Morning in the Hills + + How quiet is the morning in the hills! + The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds + Trail through the canyon, and the mountain stream + Sounds his sonorous music far below + In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove. + + Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir + Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge, + While in the hollows of the dark ravine + See the red road emerge, then disappear + Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands. + + My forest cabin half-way up the glen + Is solitary, save for one wise thrush, + The sound of falling water, and the wind + Mysteriously conversing with the leaves. + + Here I abide unvisited by doubt, + Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair, + The race of men and love and fleeting time, + What life may be, or beauty, caught and held + For a brief moment at eternal poise. + + What impulse now shall quicken and make live + This outward semblance and this inward self? + One breath of being fills the bubble world, + Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change. + + Surely some God contrived so fair a thing + In a vast leisure of uncounted days, + And touched it with the breath of living joy, + Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so. + + + + + A Wood-path + + At evening and at morning + By an enchanted way + I walk the world in wonder, + And have no word to say. + + It is the path we traversed + One twilight, thou and I; + Thy beauty all a rapture, + My spirit all a cry. + + The red leaves fall upon it, + The moon and mist and rain, + But not the magic footfall + That made its meaning plain. + + + + + Weather of the Soul + + There is a world of being + We range from pole to pole, + Through seasons of the spirit + And weather of the soul. + + It has its new-born Aprils, + With gladness in the air, + Its golden Junes of rapture, + Its winters of despair. + + And in its tranquil autumns + We halt to re-enforce + Our tattered scarlet pennons + With valor and resource. + + From undiscovered regions + Only the angels know, + Great winds of aspiration + Perpetually blow, + + To free the sap of impulse + From torpor of distrust, + And into flowers of joyance + Quicken the sentient dust. + + From nowhere of a sudden + Loom sudden clouds of fault, + With thunders of oppression + And lightnings of revolt. + + With hush of apprehension + And quaking of the heart, + There breed the storms of anger, + And floods of sorrow start. + + And there shall fall,--how gently!-- + To make them fertile yet, + The rain of absolution + On acres of regret. + + Till snows of mercy cover + The dream that shall come true, + When time makes all things wondrous, + And life makes all things new. + + + + + Here and Now + + Where is Heaven? Is it not + Just a friendly garden plot, + Walled with stone and roofed with sun, + Where the days pass one by one, + Not too fast and not too slow, + Looking backward as they go + At the beauties left behind + To transport the pensive mind! + + Is it not a greening ground + With a river for its bound, + And a wood-thrush to prolong + Fragrant twilights with his song, + When the peonies in June + Wait the rising of the moon, + And the music of the stream + Voices its immortal dream! + + There each morning will renew + The miracle of light and dew, + And the soul may joy to praise + The Lord of roses and of days; + There the caravan of noon + Halts to hear the cricket's tune, + Fifing there for all who pass + The anthem of the summer grass! + + Does not Heaven begin that day + When the eager heart can say, + Surely God is in this place, + I have seen Him face to face + In the loveliness of flowers, + In the service of the showers, + And His voice has talked to me + In the sunlit apple tree. + + I can feel Him in my heart, + When the tears of knowledge start + For another's joy or woe, + Where the lonely soul must go. + Yea, I learned His very look, + When we walked beside the brook, + And you smiled and touched my hand. + God is love... I understand. + + + + + The Angel of Joy + + There is no grief for me + Nor sadness any more; + For since I first knew thee + Great Joy has kept my door. + + That angel of the calm + All-comprehending smile, + No menace can dismay, + No falsity beguile. + + Out of the house of life + Before him fled away + Languor, regret, and strife + And sorrow on that day. + + Grim fear, unmanly doubt, + And impotent despair + Went at his bidding forth + Among the things that were,-- + + Leaving a place all clean, + Resounding of the sea + And decked with forest green, + To be a home for thee. + + + + + The Homestead. + + Here we came when love was young. + Now that love is old, + Shall we leave the floor unswept + And the hearth acold? + + Here the hill-wind in the dusk. + Wandering to and fro, + Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost + Of the long ago. + + Here from every doorway looks + A remembered face, + Every sill and panel wears + A familiar grace. + + Let the windows smile again + To the morning light, + And the door stand open wide + When the moon is bright. + + Let the breeze of twilight blow + Through the silent hall, + And the dreaming rafters hear + How the thrushes call. + + Oh, be merciful and fond + To the house that gave + All its best to shelter love, + Built when love was brave! + + Here we came when love was young, + Now that love is old, + Never let its day be lone, + Nor its heart acold! + + + + + "The Starry Midnight Whispers" + + The starry midnight whispers, + As I muse before the fire + On the ashes of ambition + And the embers of desire, + + "Life has no other logic, + And time no other creed, + Than: 'I for joy will follow. + Where thou for love dost lead!'" + + + + + A Lyric + + Oh, once I could not understand + The sob within the throat of spring,-- + The shrilling of the frogs, nor why + The birds so passionately sing. + + That was before your beauty came + And stooped to teach my soul desire, + When on these mortal lips you laid + The magic and immortal fire. + + I wondered why the sea should seem + So gray, so lonely, and so old; + The sigh of level-driving snows + In winter so forlornly cold. + + I wondered what it was could give + The scarlet autumn pomps their pride. + And paint with colors not of earth + The glory of the mountainside. + + I could not tell why youth should dream + And worship at the evening star, + And yet must go with eager feet + Where danger and where splendor are. + + I could not guess why men at times, + Beholding beauty, should go mad + With joy or sorrow or despair + Or some unknown delight they had. + + I wondered what they had received + From Time's inexorable hand + So full of loveliness and doom. + But now, ah, now I understand! + + + + + "April now in Morning Clad" + + April now in morning clad + Like a gleaming oread, + With the south wind in her voice, + Comes to bid the world rejoice. + + With the sunlight on her brow, + Through her veil of silver showers, + April o'er New England now + Trails her robe of woodland flowers,-- + + Violet and anemone; + While along the misty sea, + Pipe at lip, she seems to blow + Haunting airs of long ago. + + + + + Nike + + What do men give thanks for? + I give thanks for one, + Lovelier than morning, + Dearer than the sun. + + Such a head the victors + Must have praised and known, + With that breast and bearing, + Nike's very own-- + + As superb, untrammeled, + Rhythmed and poised and free + As the strong pure sea-wind + Walking on the sea; + + Such a hand as Beauty + Uses with full heart, + Seeking for her freedom + In new shapes of art; + + Soft as rain in April, + Quiet as the days + Of the purple asters + And the autumn haze; + + With a soul more subtle + Than the light of stars, + Frailer than a moth's wing + To the touch that mars; + + Wise with all the silence + Of the waiting hills, + When the gracious twilight + Wakes in them and thrills; + + With a voice more tender + Than the early moon + Hears among the thrushes + In the woods of June; + + Delicate as grasses + When they lift and stir-- + One sweet lyric woman-- + I give thanks for her. + + + + + The Enchanted Traveller + + We travelled empty-handed + With hearts all fear above, + For we ate the bread of friendship, + We drank the wine of love. + + Through many a wondrous autumn, + Through many a magic spring, + We hailed the scarlet banners, + We heard the blue-bird sing. + + We looked on life and nature + With the eager eyes of youth, + And all we asked or cared for + Was beauty, joy, and truth. + + We found no other wisdom, + We learned no other way, + Than the gladness of the morning, + The glory of the day. + + So all our earthly treasure + Shall go with us, my dears, + Aboard the Shadow Liner, + Across the sea of years. + + + + + Spring's Saraband + + Over the hills of April + With soft winds hand in hand, + Impassionate and dreamy-eyed, + Spring leads her saraband. + Her garments float and gather + And swirl along the plain, + Her headgear is the golden sun, + Her cloak the silver rain. + + With color and with music, + With perfumes and with pomp, + By meadowland and upland, + Through pasture, wood, and swamp, + With promise and enchantment + Leading her mystic mime, + She comes to lure the world anew + With joy as old as time. + + Quick lifts the marshy chorus + To transport, trill on trill; + There's not a rod of stony ground + Unanswering on the hill. + The brooks and little rivers + Dance down their wild ravines, + And children in the city squares + Keep time, to tambourines. + + The bluebird in the orchard + Is lyrical for her, + The blackbird with his meadow pipe + Sets all the wood astir, + The hooded white spring-beauties + Are curtsying in the breeze, + The blue hepaticas are out + Under the chestnut trees. + + The maple buds make glamor, + Viburnum waves its bloom, + The daffodils and tulips + Are risen from the tomb. + The lances of Narcissus + Have pierced the wintry mold; + The commonplace seems paradise + Through veils of greening gold. + + O heart, hear thou the summons, + Put every grief away, + When all the motley masques of earth + Are glad upon a day. + Alack, that any mortal + Should less than gladness bring + Into the choral joy that sounds + The saraband of spring! + + + + + Triumphalis + + Soul, art thou sad again + With the old sadness? + Thou shalt be glad again + With a new gladness, + When April sun and rain + Mount to the teeming brain + With the earth madness. + + When from the mould again, + Spurning disaster, + Spring shoots unfold again, + Follow thou faster + Out of the drear domain + Of dark, defeat, and pain, + Praising the Master. + + Hope for thy guide again, + Ample and splendid; + Love at thy side again, + All doubting ended; + (Ah, by the dragon slain, + For nothing small or vain + Michael contended!) + + Thou shalt take heart again, + No more despairing; + Play thy great part again, + Loving and caring. + Hark, how the gold refrain + Runs through the iron strain, + Splendidly daring! + + Thou shalt grow strong again, + Confident, tender,-- + Battle with wrong again, + Be truth's defender,-- + Of the immortal train, + Born to attempt, attain, + Never surrender! + + + + + "Now the Lengthening Twilights Hold" + + Now the lengthening twilights hold + Tints of lavender and gold, + And the marshy places ring + With the pipers of the spring. + + Now the solitary star + Lays a path on meadow streams, + And I know it is not far + To the open door of dreams. + + Lord of April, in my hour + May the dogwood be in flower, + And my angel through the dome + Of spring twilight lead me home. + + + + + The Soul of April + + Over the wintry threshold + Who comes with joy to-day, + So frail, yet so enduring, + To triumph o'er dismay? + + Ah, quick her tears are springing, + And quickly they are dried, + For sorrow walks before her, + But gladness walks beside. + + She comes with gusts of laughter,-- + The music as of rills; + With tenderness and sweetness,-- + The wisdom of the hills. + + Her hands are strong to comfort, + Her heart is quick to heed. + She knows the signs of sadness, + She knows the voice of need. + + There is no living creature, + However poor or small, + But she will know its trouble, + And hasten to its call. + + Oh, well they fare forever, + By mighty dreams possessed, + Whose hearts have lain a moment + On that eternal breast. + + + + + An April Morning + + Once more in misted April + The world is growing green. + Along the winding river + The plumey willows lean. + + Beyond the sweeping meadows + The looming mountains rise, + Like battlements of dreamland + Against the brooding skies. + + In every wooded valley + The buds are breaking through, + As though the heart of all things + No languor ever knew. + + The golden-wings and bluebirds + Call to their heavenly choirs. + The pines are blued and drifted + With smoke of brushwood fires. + + And in my sister's garden + Where little breezes run, + The golden daffodillies + Are blowing in the sun. + + + + + Earth Voices + + I + + I heard the spring wind whisper + Above the brushwood fire, + "The world is made forever + Of transport and desire. + + I am the breath of being, + The primal urge of things; + I am the whirl of star dust, + I am the lift of wings. + + "I am the splendid impulse + That comes before the thought, + The joy and exaltation + Wherein the life is caught. + + "Across the sleeping furrows + I call the buried seed, + And blade and bud and blossom + Awaken at my need. + + "Within the dying ashes + I blow the sacred spark, + And make the hearts of lovers + To leap against the dark." + + + II + + I heard the spring light whisper + Above the dancing stream, + "The world is made forever + In likeness of a dream. + + "I am the law of planets, + I am the guide of man; + The evening and the morning + Are fashioned to my plan. + + "I tint the dawn with crimson, + I tinge the sea with blue; + My track is in the desert, + My trail is in the dew. + + "I paint the hills with color, + And in my magic dome + I light the star of evening + To steer the traveller home. + + "Within the house of being, + I feed the lamp of truth + With tales of ancient wisdom + And prophecies of youth." + + + III + + I heard the spring rain murmur + Above the roadside flower, + "The world is made forever + In melody and power. + + "I keep the rhythmic measure + That marks the steps of time, + And all my toil is fashioned + To symmetry and rhyme. + + "I plow the untilled upland, + I ripe the seeding grass, + And fill the leafy forest + With music as I pass. + + "I hew the raw, rough granite + To loveliness of line, + And when my work is finished, + Behold, it is divine! + + "I am the master-builder + In whom the ages trust. + I lift the lost perfection + To blossom from the dust." + + + IV + + Then Earth to them made answer, + As with a slow refrain + Born of the blended voices + Of wind and sun and rain, + + "This is the law of being + That links the threefold chain: + The life we give to beauty + Returns to us again." + + + + + Resurgam + + Lo, now comes the April pageant + And the Easter of the year. + Now the tulip lifts her chalice, + And the hyacinth his spear; + All the daffodils and jonquils + With their hearts of gold are here. + Child of the immortal vision, + What hast thou to do with fear? + + When the summons wakes the impulse, + And the blood beats in the vein, + Let no grief thy dream encumber, + No regret thy thought detain. + Through the scented bloom-hung valleys, + Over tillage, wood and plain, + Comes the soothing south wind laden + With the sweet impartial rain. + + All along the roofs and pavements + Pass the volleying silver showers, + To unfold the hearts of humans + And the frail unanxious flowers. + Breeding fast in sunlit places, + Teeming life puts forth her powers, + And the migrant wings come northward + On the trail of golden hours. + + Over intervale and upland + Sounds the robin's interlude + From his tree-top spire at evening + Where no unbeliefs intrude. + Every follower of beauty + Finds in the spring solitude + Sanctuary and persuasion + Where the mysteries still brood. + + Now the bluebird in the orchard, + A warm sighing at the door, + And the soft haze on the hillside, + Lure the houseling to explore + The perennial enchanted + Lovely world and all its lore; + While the early tender twilight + Breathes of those who come no more. + + By full brimming river margins + Where the scents of brush fires blow, + Through the faint green mist of springtime, + Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go, + Touched with such immortal madness + Not a thing they care to know + More than those who caught life's secret + Countless centuries ago. + + In old Egypt for Osiris, + Putting on the green attire, + With soft hymns and choric dancing + They went forth to greet the fire + Of the vernal sun, whose ardor + His earth children could inspire; + And the ivory flutes would lead them + To the slake of their desire. + + In remembrance of Adonis + Did the Dorian maidens sing + Linus songs of joy and sorrow + For the coming back of spring,-- + Sorrow for the wintry death + Of each irrevocable thing, + Joy for all the pangs of beauty + The returning year could bring. + + Now the priests and holy women + With sweet incense, chant and prayer, + Keep His death and resurrection + Whose new love bade all men share + Immortality of kindness, + Living to make life more fair. + Wakened to such wealth of being, + Who would not arise and dare? + + Seeing how each new fulfilment + Issues at the call of need + From infinitudes of purpose + In the core of soul and seed, + Who shall set the bounds of puissance + Or the formulas of creed? + Truth awaits the test of beauty, + Good is proven in the deed. + + Therefore, give thy spring renascence,-- + Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,-- + To make perfect and replenish + All the sorry fault and dearth + Of the life from whose enrichment + Thine aspiring will had birth; + Take thy part in the redemption + Of thy kind from bonds of earth. + + So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty, + Even in this mortal clime + Share the life that is eternal, + Brother to the lords of time,-- + Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,-- + Builders of the world sublime. + Yesterday was not earth's evening + Every morning is our prime. + + All that can be worth the rescue + From oblivion and decay,-- + Joy and loveliness and wisdom,-- + In thyself, without dismay + Thou shalt save and make enduring + Through each word and act, to sway + The hereafter to a likeness + Of thyself in other clay. + + Still remains the peradventure, + Soul pursues an orbit here + Like those unreturning comets, + Sweeping on a vast career, + By an infinite directrix, + Focussed to a finite sphere,-- + Nurtured in an earthly April, + In what realm to reappear? + + + + + Easter Eve + + If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows + of Silvermine, + Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began + to shine; + Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking + in Ponus Street; + You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of + enough red meat!" + + Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating + on Wampanaw, + Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard black + ice I saw + An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house + to rights, + Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare + for the winter nights. + + And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm + as you please. + But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden, + who kept the keys? + Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the + lily roots, + And then in the first warm days of April--out to the sun + with the greening shoots? + + By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails + of air, + The spring express--but who despatched it, equipped with speed + and cunning care? + Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant + of the happy heart, + As full of light as a theme of Mozart's--but where did he learn + that more than art? + + Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as the + south wind brings the rain, + Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back + to his nest again. + Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose + of natural fact; + Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures, + that bids them act." + + Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that + of the beasts and birds, + Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic, + too vague for words. + No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty + is somewhere born; + No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow + as the growing corn. + + Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days + of earth. + To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import + and lovely worth. + If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit + of will and power, + To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and the + waiting hour, + + It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me + and sorrows scar, + Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the + evening star. + The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the + wind, my friend. + Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare + ill in the end? + + + + + Now is the Time of Year + + Now is the time of year + When all the flutes begin,-- + The redwing bold and clear, + The rainbird far and thin. + + In all the waking lands + There's not a wilding thing + But knows and understands + The burden of the spring. + + Now every voice alive + By rocky wood and stream + Is lifted to revive + The ecstasy, the dream. + + For Nature, never old, + But busy as of yore, + From sun and rain and mould + Is making spring once more. + + She sounds her magic note + By river-marge and hill, + And every woodland throat + Re-echoes with a thrill. + + O mother of our days, + Hearing thy music call. + Teach us to know thy ways + And fear no more at all! + + + + + The Redwing + + I hear you, Brother, I hear you, + Down in the alder swamp, + Springing your woodland whistle + To herald the April pomp! + + First of the moving vanguard, + In front of the spring you come, + Where flooded waters sparkle + And streams in the twilight hum. + + You sound the note of the chorus + By meadow and woodland pond, + Till, one after one up-piping, + A myriad throats respond. + + I see you, Brother, I see you, + With scarlet under your wing, + Flash through the ruddy maples, + Leading the pageant of spring. + + Earth has put off her raiment + Wintry and worn and old, + For the robe of a fair young sibyl. + Dancing in green and gold. + + I heed you, Brother. To-morrow + I, too, in the great employ, + Will shed my old coat of sorrow + For a brand-new garment of joy. + + + + + The Rainbird + + I hear a rainbird singing + Far off. How fine and clear + His plaintive voice comes ringing + With rapture to the ear! + + Over the misty wood-lots, + Across the first spring heat, + Comes the enchanted cadence, + So clear, so solemn-sweet. + + How often I have hearkened + To that high pealing strain + Across wild cedar barrens, + Under the soft gray rain! + + How often I have wondered, + And longed in vain to know + The source of that enchantment, + That touch of human woe! + + O brother, who first taught thee + To haunt the teeming spring + With that sad mortal wisdom + Which only age can bring? + + + + + Lament + + When you hear the white-throat pealing + From a tree-top far away, + And the hills are touched with purple + At the borders of the day; + + When the redwing sounds his whistle + At the coming on of spring, + And the joyous April pipers + Make the alder marshes ring; + + When the wild new breath of being + Whispers to the world once more, + And before the shrine of beauty + Every spirit must adore; + + When long thoughts come back with twilight, + And a tender deepened mood + Shows the eyes of the beloved + Like the hepaticas in the wood; + + Ah, remember, when to nothing + Save to love your heart gives heed, + And spring takes you to her bosom,-- + So it was with Golden Weed! + + + + + Under the April Moon + + Oh, well the world is dreaming + Under the April moon, + Her soul in love with beauty, + Her senses all a-swoon! + + Pure hangs the silver crescent + Above the twilight wood, + And pure the silver music + Wakes from the marshy flood. + + O Earth, with all thy transport, + How comes it life should seem + A shadow in the moonlight, + A murmur in a dream? + + + + + The Flute of Spring + + I know a shining meadow stream + That winds beneath an Eastern hill, + And all year long in sun or gloom + Its murmuring voice is never still. + + The summer dies more gently there, + The April flowers are earlier,-- + The first warm rain-wind from the Sound + Sets all their eager hearts astir. + + And there when lengthening twilights fall + As softly as a wild bird's wing, + Across the valley in the dusk + I hear the silver flute of spring. + + + + + Spring Night + + In the wondrous star-sown night, + In the first sweet warmth of spring, + I lie awake and listen + To hear the glad earth sing. + + I hear the brook in the wood + Murmuring, as it goes, + The song of the happy journey + Only the wise heart knows. + + I hear the trilling note + Of the tree-frog under the hill, + And the clear and watery treble + Of his brother, silvery shrill. + + And then I wander away + Through the mighty forest of Sleep, + To follow the fairy music + To the shore of an endless deep. + + + + + Bloodroot + + When April winds arrive + And the soft rains are here, + Some morning by the roadside + These Fairy folk appear. + + We never see their coming, + However sharp our eyes; + Each year as if by magic + They take us by surprise. + + Along the ragged woodside + And by the green spring-run, + Their small white heads are nodding + And twinkling in the sun. + + They crowd across the meadow + In innocence and mirth, + As if there were no sorrow + In all this wondrous earth. + + So frail, so unregarded, + And yet about them clings + A sorcery of welcome,-- + The joy of common things. + + Perhaps their trail of beauty + Across the pasture sod + In jubilant procession + Is where an angel trod. + + + + + Daffodil's Return + + What matter if the sun be lost? + What matter though the sky be gray? + There's joy enough about the house, + For Daffodil comes home to-day. + + There's news of swallows on the air, + There's word of April on the way, + They're calling flowers within the street, + And Daffodil comes home to-day. + + O who would care what fate may bring, + Or what the years may take away! + There's life enough within the hour, + For Daffodil comes home to-day. + + + + + Now the Lilac Tree's in Bud + + Now the lilac tree's in bud, + And the morning birds are loud. + Now a stirring in the blood + Moves the heart of every crowd. + + Word has gone abroad somewhere + Of a great impending change. + There's a message in the air + Of an import glad and strange. + + Not an idler in the street, + But is better off to-day. + Not a traveller you meet, + But has something wise to say. + + Now there's not a road too long, + Not a day that is not good, + Not a mile but hears a song + Lifted from the misty wood. + + Down along the Silvermine + That's the blackbird's cheerful note! + You can see him flash and shine + With the scarlet on his coat. + + Now the winds are soft with rain, + And the twilight has a spell, + Who from gladness could refrain + Or with olden sorrows dwell? + + + + + White Iris + + White Iris was a princess + In a kingdom long ago, + Mysterious as moonlight + And silent as the snow. + + She drew the world in wonder + And swayed it with desire, + Ere Babylon was builded + Or a stone laid in Tyre. + + Yet here within my garden + Her loveliness appears, + Undimmed by any sorrow + Of all the tragic years. + + How kind that earth should treasure + So beautiful a thing-- + All mystical enchantment, + To stir our hearts in spring! + + + + + The Tree of Heaven + + Young foreign-born Ailanthus, + Because he grew so fast, + We scorned his easy daring + And doubted it would last. + + But lo, when autumn gathers + And all the woods are old, + He stands in green and salmon, + A glory to behold! + + Among the ancient monarchs + His airy tent is spread. + His robe of coronation + Is tasseled rosy red. + + With something strange and Eastern, + His height and grace proclaim + His lineage and title + Is that celestial name. + + This is the Tree of Heaven, + Which seems to say to us, + "Behold how rife is beauty, + And how victorious!" + + + + + Peony + + "_Pionia virtutem habet occultam._" + Arnoldus Villanova--1235-1313. + + _Arnoldus Villanova + Six hundred years ago + Said Peonies have magic, + And I believe it so. + There stands his learned dictum + Which any boy may read, + But he who learns the secret + Will be made wise indeed._ + + _Astrologer and doctor + In the science of his day, + Have we so far outstripped him? + What more is there to say? + His medieval Latin + Records the truth for us, + Which I translate--virtutem + Habet occultam--thus:_ + + She hath a deep-hid virtue + No other flower hath. + When summer comes rejoicing + A-down my garden path, + In opulence of color, + In robe of satin sheen, + She casts o'er all the hours + Her sorcery serene. + + A subtile, heartening fragrance + Comes piercing the warm hush, + And from the greening woodland + I hear the first wild thrush. + They move my heart to pity + For all the vanished years, + With ecstasy of longing + And tenderness of tears. + + By many names we call her,-- + Pale exquisite Aurore, + Luxuriant Gismonda + Or sunny Couronne D'Or. + What matter,--Grandiflora, + A queen in some proud book, + Or sweet familiar Piny + With her old-fashioned look? + + The crowding Apple blossoms + Above the orchard wall; + The Moonflower in August + When eerie nights befall; + Chrysanthemum in autumn, + Whose pageantries appear + With mystery and silence + To deck the dying year; + + And many a mystic flower + Of the wildwood I have known, + But Pionia Arnoldi + Hath a transport all her own. + For Peony, my Peony, + Hath strength to make me whole,-- + She gives her heart of beauty + For the healing of my soul. + + _Arnoldus Villanova, + Though earth is growing old, + As long as life has longing + Your guess at truth will hold. + Still works the hidden power + After a thousand springs,-- + The medicine for heartache + That lurks in lovely things._ + + + + + The Urban Pan + + Once more the magic days are come + With stronger sun and milder air; + The shops are full of daffodils; + There's golden leisure everywhere. + I heard my Lou this morning shout: + "Here comes the hurdy-gurdy man!" + And through the open window caught + The piping of the urban Pan. + + I laid my wintry task aside, + And took a day to follow joy: + The trail of beauty and the call + That lured me when I was a boy. + I looked, and there looked up at me + A smiling, swarthy, hairy man + With kindling eye--and well I knew + The piping of the urban Pan. + + He caught my mood; his hat was off; + I tossed the ungrudged silver down. + The cunning vagrant, every year + He casts his spell upon the town! + And we must fling him, old and young, + Our dimes or coppers, as we can; + And every heart must leap to hear + The piping of the urban Pan. + + The music swells and fades again, + And I in dreams am far away, + Where a bright river sparkles down + To meet a blue Aegean bay. + There, in the springtime of the world, + Are dancing fauns, and in their van, + Is one who pipes a deathless tune-- + The earth-born and the urban Pan. + + And so he follows down the block, + A troop of children in his train, + The light-foot dancers of the street + Enamored of the reedy strain. + I hear their laughter rise and ring + Above the noise of truck and van, + As down the mellow wind fades out + The piping of the urban Pan. + + + + + The Sailing of the Fleets + + Now the spring is in the town, + Now the wind is in the tree, + And the wintered keels go down + To the calling of the sea. + + Out from mooring, dock, and slip, + Through the harbor buoys they glide, + Drawing seaward till they dip + To the swirling of the tide. + + One by one and two by two, + Down the channel turns they go, + Steering for the open blue + Where the salty great airs blow; + + Craft of many a build and trim, + Every stitch of sail unfurled, + Till they hang upon the rim + Of the azure ocean world. + + Who has ever, man or boy, + Seen the sea all flecked with gold, + And not longed to go with joy + Forth upon adventures bold? + + Who could bear to stay indoor, + Now the wind is in the street, + For the creaking of the oar + And the tugging of the sheet! + + Now the spring is in the town, + Who would not a rover be, + When the wintered keels go down + To the calling of the sea? + + + + + 'Tis May now in New England + + 'Tis May now in New England + And through the open door + I see the creamy breakers, + I hear the hollow roar. + + Back to the golden marshes + Comes summer at full tide, + But not the golden comrade + Who was the summer's pride. + + + + + In Early May + + O my dear, the world to-day + Is more lovely than a dream! + Magic hints from far away + Haunt the woodland, and the stream + Murmurs in his rocky bed + Things that never can be said. + + Starry dogwood is in flower, + Gleaming through the mystic woods. + It is beauty's perfect hour + In the wild spring solitudes. + Now the orchards in full blow + Shed their petals white as snow. + + All the air is honey-sweet + With the lilacs white and red, + Where the blossoming branches meet + In an arbor overhead. + And the laden cherry trees + Murmur with the hum of bees. + + All the earth is fairy green, + And the sunlight filmy gold, + Full of ecstasies unseen, + Full of mysteries untold. + Who would not be out-of-door, + Now the spring is here once more! + + + + + Fireflies + + The fireflies across the dusk + Are flashing signals through the gloom-- + Courageous messengers of light + That dare immensities of doom. + + About the seeding meadow-grass, + Like busy watchmen in the street, + They come and go, they turn and pass, + Lighting the way for Beauty's feet. + + Or up they float on viewless wings + To twinkle high among the trees, + And rival with soft glimmerings + The shining of the Pleiades. + + The stars that wheel above the hill + Are not more wonderful to see, + Nor the great tasks that they fulfill + More needed in eternity. + + + + + The Path to Sankoty + + It winds along the headlands + Above the open sea-- + The lonely moorland footpath + That leads to Sankoty. + + The crooning sea spreads sailless + And gray to the world's rim, + Where hang the reeking fog-banks + Primordial and dim. + + There fret the ceaseless currents, + And the eternal tide + Chafes over hidden shallows + Where the white horses ride. + + The wistful fragrant moorlands + Whose smile bids panic cease, + Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed + In grave and lonely peace. + + Across their flowering bosom, + From the far end of day + Blow clean the great soft moor-winds + All sweet with rose and bay. + + A world as large and simple + As first emerged for man, + Cleared for the human drama, + Before the play began. + + O well the soul must treasure + The calm that sets it free-- + The vast and tender skyline, + The sea-turn's wizardry, + + Solace of swaying grasses, + The friendship of sweet-fern-- + And in the world's confusion + Remembering, must yearn + + To tread the moorland footpath + That leads to Sankoty, + Hearing the field-larks shrilling + Beside the sailless sea. + + + + + Off Monomoy + + Have you sailed Nantucket Sound + By lightship, buoy, and bell, + And lain becalmed at noon + On an oily summer swell? + + Lazily drooped the sail, + Moveless the pennant hung, + Sagging over the rail + Idle the main boom swung; + + The sea, one mirror of shine + A single breath would destroy, + Save for the far low line + Of treacherous Monomoy. + + Yet eastward there toward Spain, + What castled cities rise + From the Atlantic plain, + To our enchanted eyes! + + Turret and spire and roof + Looming out of the sea, + Where the prosy chart gives proof + No cape nor isle can be! + + Can a vision shine so clear + Wherein no substance dwells? + One almost harks to hear + The sound of the city's bells. + + And yet no pealing notes + Within those belfries be, + Save echoes from the throats + Of ship-bells lost at sea. + + For none shall anchor there + Save those who long of yore, + When tide and wind were fair, + Sailed and came back no more. + + And none shall climb the stairs + Within those ghostly towers, + Save those for whom sad prayers + Went up through fateful hours. + + O image of the world, + O mirage of the sea, + Cloud-built and foam-impearled. + What sorcery fashioned thee? + + What architect of dream, + What painter of desire, + Conceived that fairy scheme + Touched with fantastic fire? + + Even so our city of hope + We mortal dreamers rear + Upon the perilous slope + Above the deep of fear; + + Leaving half-known the good + Our kindly earth bestows, + For the feigned beatitude + Of a future no man knows. + + Lord of the summer sea, + Whose tides are in thy hand, + Into immensity + The vision at thy command + + Fades now, and leaves no sign,-- + No light nor bell nor buoy,-- + Only the faint low line + Of dangerous Monomoy. + + + + + In St. Germain Street + + Through the street of St. Germain + March the tattered hosts of rain, + + While the wind with vagrant fife + Whips their chilly ranks to life. + + From the window I can see + Their ghostly banners blowing free, + + As they pass to where the ships + Crowd about the wharves and slips. + + There at day's end they embark + To invade the realms of dark, + + And the sun comes out again + In the street of St. Germain. + + + + + Pan in the Catskills + + They say that he is dead, and now no more + The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, + When the long summer heat is on the land. + But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, + And therefore am incredulous of death, + Of pain and sorrow and mortality. + + In these blue canyons, deep with hemlock shade, + In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, + I have been rapt away from time and care + By the enchantment of a golden strain + As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, + Filling the listener with a mute surmise. + + At evening and at morning I have gone + Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, + And heard the haunting music of the wood + Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, + Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy + And all the ardors of creation old. + + And then within my pagan heart awoke + Remembrance of far-off and fabled years + In the untarnished sunrise of the world, + When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard + A slow mysterious piping wild and keen + Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!" + + + + + A New England June + + _These things I remember + Of New England June, + Like a vivid day-dream + In the azure noon, + While one haunting figure + Strays through every scene, + Like the soul of beauty + Through her lost demesne._ + + Gardens full of roses + And peonies a-blow + In the dewy morning, + Row on stately row, + Spreading their gay patterns, + Crimson, pied and cream, + Like some gorgeous fresco + Or an Eastern dream. + + Nets of waving sunlight + Falling through the trees; + Fields of gold-white daisies + Rippling in the breeze; + Lazy lifting groundswells, + Breaking green as jade + On the lilac beaches, + Where the shore-birds wade. + + Orchards full of blossom, + Where the bob-white calls + And the honeysuckle + Climbs the old gray walls; + Groves of silver birches, + Beds of roadside fern, + In the stone-fenced pasture + At the river's turn. + + _Out of every picture + Still she comes to me + With the morning freshness + Of the summer sea,-- + A glory in her bearing, + A sea-light in her eyes, + As if she could not forget + The spell of Paradise._ + + Thrushes in the deep woods, + With their golden themes, + Fluting like the choirs + At the birth of dreams. + Fireflies in the meadows + At the gate of Night, + With their fairy lanterns + Twinkling soft and bright. + + Ah, not in the roses, + Nor the azure noon, + Nor the thrushes' music, + Lies the soul of June. + It is something finer, + More unfading far, + Than the primrose evening + And the silver star; + + Something of the rapture + My beloved had, + When she made the morning + Radiant and glad,-- + Something of her gracious + Ecstasy of mien, + That still haunts the twilight, + Loving though unseen. + + _When the ghostly moonlight + Walks my garden ground, + Like a leisurely patrol + On his nightly round, + These things I remember + Of the long ago, + While the slumbrous roses + Neither care nor know._ + + + + + The Tent of Noon + + Behold, now, where the pageant of high June + Halts in the glowing noon! + The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; + The bannered hosts are still, + While over forest crown and mountain head + The azure tent is spread. + + The song is hushed in every woodland throat; + Moveless the lilies float; + Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea + Sighs only fitfully; + The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; + Peace on the world is laid. + + It is the hour when Nature's caravan, + That bears the pilgrim Man + Across the desert of uncharted time + To his far hope sublime, + Rests in the green oasis of the year, + As if the end drew near. + + Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise + For these fleet halcyon days?-- + No courage to uplift thee from despair + Born with the breath of prayer? + Then turn thee to the lilied field once more! + God stands in his tent door. + + + + + Children of Dream + + The black ash grows in the swampy ground, + The white ash in the dry; + The thrush he holds to the woodland bound, + The hawk to the open sky. + + The trout he runs to the mountain brook, + The swordfish keeps the sea; + The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows. + The clover calls the bee. + + The locust sings in the August noon, + The frog in the April night; + The iris loves the meadow-land, + The laurel loves the height. + + And each will hold his tenure old + Of earth and sun and stream, + For all are creatures of desire + And children of a dream. + + + + + Roadside Flowers + + We are the roadside flowers, + Straying from garden grounds,-- + Lovers of idle hours, + Breakers of ordered bounds. + + If only the earth will feed us, + If only the wind be kind, + We blossom for those who need us, + The stragglers left behind. + + And lo, the Lord of the Garden, + He makes his sun to rise, + And his rain to fall with pardon + On our dusty paradise. + + On us he has laid the duty,-- + The task of the wandering breed,-- + To better the world with beauty, + Wherever the way may lead. + + Who shall inquire of the season, + Or question the wind where it blows? + We blossom and ask no reason. + The Lord of the Garden knows. + + + + + The Garden of Saint Rose + + This is a holy refuge, + The garden of Saint Rose, + A fragrant altar to that peace + The world no longer knows. + + Below a solemn hillside, + Within the folding shade + Of overhanging beech and pine + Its walls and walks are laid. + + Cool through the heat of summer, + Still as a sacred grove, + It has the rapt unworldly air + Of mystery and love. + + All day before its outlook + The mist-blue mountains loom, + And in its trees at tranquil dusk + The early stars will bloom. + + Down its enchanted borders + Glad ranks of color stand, + Like hosts of silent seraphim + Awaiting love's command. + + Lovely in adoration + They wait in patient line, + Snow-white and purple and deep gold + About the rose-gold shrine. + + And there they guard the silence, + While still from her recess + Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down + In mellow loveliness. + + She seems to say, "O stranger, + Behold how loving care + That gives its life for beauty's sake, + Makes everything more fair! + + "Then praise the Lord of gardens + For tree and flower and vine, + And bless all gardeners who have wrought + A resting place like mine!" + + + + + The World Voice + + I heard the summer sea + Murmuring to the shore + Some endless story of a wrong + The whole world must deplore. + + I heard the mountain wind + Conversing with the trees + Of an old sorrow of the hills, + Mysterious as the sea's. + + And all that haunted day + It seemed that I could hear + The echo of an ancient speech + Ring in my listening ear. + + And then it came to me, + That all that I had heard + Was my own heart in the sea's voice + And the wind's lonely word. + + + + + Songs of the Grass + + I + + ON THE DUNES. + + Here all night on the dunes + In the rocking wind we sleep, + Watched by sentry stars, + Lulled by the drone of the deep. + + Till hark, in the chill of the dawn + A field lark wakes and cries, + And over the floor of the sea + We watch the round sun rise. + + The world is washed once more + In a tide of purple and gold, + And the heart of the land is filled + With desires and dreams untold. + + + II + + LORD OF MORNING. + + Lord of morning, light of day, + Sacred color-kindling sun, + We salute thee in the way,-- + Pilgrims robed in rose and dun. + + For thou art a pilgrim too, + Overlord of all our band. + In thy fervor we renew + Quests we do not understand. + + At thy summons we arise, + At thy touch put glory on. + And with glad unanxious eyes + Take the journey thou hast gone. + + + III + + THE TRAVELLER. + + Before the night-blue fades + And the stars are quite gone, + I lift my head + At the noiseless tread + Of the angel of dawn. + + I hear no word, yet my heart + Is beating apace; + Then in glory all still + On the eastern hill + I behold his face. + + All day through the world he goes, + Making glad, setting free; + Then his day's work done, + On the galleon sun + He sinks in the sea. + + + + + The Choristers + + When earth was finished and fashioned well, + There was never a musical note to tell + How glad God was, save the voice of the rain + And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain + And the rivers among the hills. + And so God made the marvellous birds + For a choir of joy transcending words, + That the world might hear and comprehend + How rhythm and harmony can mend + The spirits' hurts and ills. + + He filled their tiny bodies with fire, + He taught them love for their chief desire, + And gave them the magic of wings to be + His celebrants over land and sea, + Wherever man might dwell. + And to each he apportioned a fragment of song-- + Those broken melodies that belong + To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn + The healing of gladness and discern + In beauty how all is well. + + So music dwells in the glorious throats + Forever, and the enchanted notes + Fall with rapture upon our ears, + Moving our hearts to joy and tears + For things we cannot say. + In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain + His pure, serene, half-wistful strain; + And when twilight falls the sleeping hills + Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills + In the blue dusk far away. + + In the great white heart of the winter storm + The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm, + And his note is brave to rally the soul + From doubt and panic to self-control + And elation that knows no fear. + The bluebird comes with the winds of March, + Like a shred of sky on the naked larch; + The redwing follows the April rain + To whistle contentment back again + With his sturdy call of cheer. + + The orioles revel through orchard boughs + In their coats of gold for spring's carouse; + In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call, + And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall + Under the evening star. + On the verge of June when peonies blow + And joy comes back to the world we know, + The bobolinks fill the fields of light + With a tangle of music silver-bright + To tell how glad they are. + + The tiny warblers fill summer trees + With their exquisite lesser litanies; + The tanager in his scarlet coat + In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat + His canticle of the sun. + The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky, + And the sea-gull--each has a piercing cry, + Like outposts set in the lonely vast + To cry "all's well" as Time goes past + And another hour is gone. + + But of all the music in God's plan + Of a mystical symphony for man, + I shall remember best of all-- + Whatever hereafter may befall + Or pass and cease to be-- + The hermit's hymn in the solitudes + Of twilight through the mountain woods, + And the field-larks crying about our doors + On the soft sweet wind across the moors + At morning by the sea. + + + + + The Weed's Counsel + + _Said a traveller by the way + Pausing, "What hast thou to say, + Flower by the dusty road, + That would ease a mortal's load?"_ + + Traveller, hearken unto me! + I will tell thee how to see + Beauties in the earth and sky + Hidden from the careless eye. + I will tell thee how to hear + Nature's music wild and clear,-- + Songs of midday and of dark + Such as many never mark, + Lyrics of creation sung + Ever since the world was young. + + And thereafter thou shalt know + Neither weariness nor woe. + + Thou shalt see the dawn unfold + Artistries of rose and gold, + And the sunbeams on the sea + Dancing with the wind for glee. + The red lilies of the moors + Shall be torches on the floors, + Where the field-lark lifts his cry + To rejoice the passer-by, + In a wide world rimmed with blue + Lovely as when time was new. + + And thereafter thou shalt fare + Light of foot and free from care. + + I will teach thee how to find + Lost enchantments of the mind + All about thee, never guessed + By indifferent unrest. + Thy distracted thought shall learn + Patience from the roadside fern, + And a sweet philosophy + From the flowering locust tree,-- + While thy heart shall not disdain + The consolation of the rain. + + Not an acre but shall give + Of its strength to help thee live. + + With the many-wintered sun + Shall thy hardy course be run. + And the bright new moon shall be + A lamp to thy felicity. + When green-mantled spring shall come + Past thy door with flute and drum, + And when over wood and swamp + Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, + No misgiving shalt thou know, + Passing glad to rise and go. + + So thy days shall be unrolled + Like a wondrous cloth of gold. + + When gray twilight with her star + Makes a heaven that is not far, + Touched with shadows and with dreams, + Thou shalt hear the woodland streams + Singing through the starry night + Holy anthems of delight. + So the ecstasy of earth + Shall refresh thee as at birth, + And thou shalt arise each morn + Radiant with a soul reborn. + + And this wisdom of a day + None shall ever take away. + + What the secret, what the clew + The wayfarer must pursue? + Only one thing he must have + Who would share these transports brave. + Love within his heart must dwell + Like a bubbling roadside well, + For a spring to quicken thought, + Else my counsel comes to naught. + For without that quickening trust + We are less than roadside dust. + + This, O traveller, is my creed,-- + All the wisdom of the weed! + + _Then the traveller set his pack + Once more on his dusty back, + And trudged on for many a mile + Fronting fortune with a smile._ + + + + + The Blue Heron + + I see the great blue heron + Rising among the reeds + And floating down the wind, + Like a gliding sail + With the set of the stream. + + I hear the two-horse mower + Clacking among the hay, + In the heat of a July noon, + And the driver's voice + As he turns his team. + + I see the meadow lilies + Flecked with their darker tan, + The elms, and the great white clouds; + And all the world + Is a passing dream. + + + + + Woodland Rain + + Shining, shining children + Of the summer rain, + Racing down the valley, + Sweeping o'er the plain! + + Rushing through the forest, + Pelting on the leaves, + Drenching down the meadow + With its standing sheaves; + + Robed in royal silver, + Girt with jewels gay, + With a gust of gladness + You pass upon your way. + + Fresh, ah, fresh behind you, + Sunlit and impearled, + As it was in Eden, + Lies the lovely world! + + + + + Summer Storm + + The hilltop trees are bowing + Under the coming of storm. + The low, gray clouds are trailing + Like squadrons that sweep and form, + With their ammunition of rain. + + Then the trumpeter wind gives signal + To unlimber the viewless guns; + The cattle huddle together; + Indoors the farmer runs; + And the first shot lashes the pane. + + They charge through the quiet orchard; + One pear tree is snapped like a wand; + As they sweep from the shattered hillside, + Ruffling the blackened pond, + Ere the sun takes the field again. + + + + + Dance of the Sunbeams + + When morning is high o'er the hilltops, + On river and stream and lake, + Wherever a young breeze whispers, + The sun-clad dancers wake. + + One after one up-springing, + They flash from their dim retreat. + Merry as running laughter + Is the news of their twinkling feet. + + Over the floors of azure + Wherever the wind-flaws run, + Sparkling, leaping, and racing, + Their antics scatter the sun. + + As long as water ripples + And weather is clear and glad, + Day after day they are dancing, + Never a moment sad. + + But when through the field of heaven + The wings of storm take flight, + At a touch of the flying shadows + They falter and slip from sight. + + Until at the gray day's ending, + As the squadrons of cloud retire, + They pass in the triumph of sunset + With banners of crimson fire. + + + + + The Campfire of the Sun + + Lo, now, the journeying sun, + Another day's march done, + Kindles his campfire at the edge of night! + And in the twilight pale + Above his crimson trail, + The stars move out their cordons still and bright. + + Now in the darkening hush + A solitary thrush + Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep; + While brooding on her best, + The wandering soul has rest, + And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep. + + + + + Summer Streams + + All day long beneath the sun + Shining through the fields they run, + + Singing in a cadence known + To the seraphs round the throne. + + And the traveller drawing near + Through the meadow, halts to hear + + Anthems of a natural joy + No disaster can destroy. + + All night long from set of sun + Through the starry woods they run, + + Singing through the purple dark + Songs to make a traveller hark. + + All night long, when winds are low, + Underneath my window go + + The immortal happy streams, + Making music through my dreams. + + + + + The God of the Wood + + Here all the forces of the wood + As one converge, + To make the soul of solitude + Where all things merge. + + The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, + The visiting moon, + The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, + Each with its boon. + + Here power attains perfection still + In mighty ease, + That the great earth may have her will + Of joy and peace. + + And so through me, the mortal born + Of plasmic clay, + Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, + And glad, have sway. + + Eternal passions, ardors fine, + And monstrous fears, + Rule and rebel, serene, malign, + Or loosed in tears; + + Until at last they shall evolve + From griefs and joys + Some steady light, some firm resolve, + Some Godlike poise. + + + + + At Sunrise + + Now the stars have faded + In the purple chill, + Lo, the sun is kindling + On the eastern hill. + + Tree by tree the forest + Takes the golden tinge, + As the shafts of glory + Pierce the summit's fringe. + + Rock by rock the ledges + Take the rosy sheen, + As the tide of splendor + Floods the dark ravine. + + Like a shining angel + At my cabin door, + Shod with hope and silence, + Day is come once more. + + Then, as if in sorrow + That you are not here, + All his magic beauties + Gray and disappear. + + + + + At Twilight + + Now the fire is lighted + On the chimney stone, + Day goes down the valley, + I am left alone. + + Now the misty purple + Floods the darkened vale, + And the stars come out + On the twilight trail. + + The mountain river murmurs + In his rocky bed, + And the stealthy shadows + Fill the house with dread. + + Then I hear your laughter + At the open door,-- + Brightly burns the fire, + I need fear no more. + + + + + Moonrise + + At the end of the road through the wood + I see the great moon rise. + The fields are flooded with shine, + And my soul with surmise. + + What if that mystic orb + With her shadowy beams, + Should be the revealer at last + Of my darkest dreams! + + What if this tender fire + In my heart's deep hold + Should be wiser than all the lore + Of the sages of old! + + + + + The Queen of Night + + Mortal, mortal, have you seen + In the scented summer night, + Great Astarte, clad in green + With a veil of mystic light, + Passing on her silent way, + Pale and lovelier than day? + + Mortal, mortal, have you heard, + On an odorous summer eve, + Rumors of an unknown word + Bidding sorrow not to grieve,-- + Echoes of a silver voice + Bidding every heart rejoice? + + Mortal, when the slim new moon + Hangs above the western hill, + When the year comes round to June + And the leafy world is still, + Then, enraptured, you shall hear + Secrets for a poet's ear. + + Mortal, mortal, come with me, + When the moon is rising large, + Through the wood or from the sea, + Or by some lone river marge. + There, entranced, you shall behold + Beauty's self, that grows not old. + + + + + Night Lyric + + In the world's far edges + Faint and blue, + Where the rocky ledges + Stand in view, + + Fades the rosy, tender + Evening light; + Then in starry splendor + Comes the night. + + So a stormy lifetime + Comes to close, + Spirit's mortal strifetime + Finds repose. + + Faith and toil and vision + Crowned at last, + Failure and derision + Overpast,-- + + All the daylight splendor + Far above, + Calm and sure and tender + Comes thy love. + + + + + The Heart of Night + + When all the stars are sown + Across the night-blue space, + With the immense unknown, + In silence face to face. + + We stand in speechless awe + While Beauty marches by, + And wonder at the Law + Which wears such majesty. + + How small a thing is man + In all that world-sown vast, + That he should hope or plan + Or dream his dream could last! + + O doubter of the light, + Confused by fear and wrong, + Lean on the heart of night + And let love make thee strong! + + The Good that is the True + Is clothed with Beauty still. + Lo, in their tent of blue, + The stars above the hill! + + + + + Peace + + The sleeping tarn is dark + Below the wooded hill. + Save for its homing sounds, + The twilit world grows still. + + And I am left to muse + In grave-eyed mystery, + And watch the stars come out + As sandalled dusk goes by. + + And now the light is gone, + The drowsy murmurs cease, + And through the still unknown + I wonder whence comes peace. + + Then softly falls the word + Of one beyond a name, + "Peace only comes to him + Who guards his life from shame,-- + + "Who gives his heart to love, + And holding truth for guide, + Girds him with fearless strength, + That freedom may abide." + + + + + The Old Gray Wall + + Time out of mind I have stood + Fronting the frost and the sun, + That the dream of the world might endure, + And the goodly will be done. + + Did the hand of the builder guess, + As he laid me stone by stone, + A heart in the granite lurked, + Patient and fond as his own? + + Lovers have leaned on me + Under the summer moon, + And mowers laughed in my shade + In the harvest heat at noon. + + Children roving the fields + With early flowers in spring, + Old men turning to look, + When they heard a bluebird sing, + + Have seen me a thousand times + Standing here in the sun, + Yet never a moment dreamed + Whose likeness they gazed upon. + + Ah, when will ye understand, + Mortals who strive and plod,-- + Who rests on this old gray wall + Lays a hand on the shoulder of God! + + + + + Te Deum + + If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all + things laid, + The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade, + When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush + of its glory now, + That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and + the head to bow. + + I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, + too,-- + The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from + line and hue; + I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth + of ours, + Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with + all her powers. + + See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside + of hardwood trees, + A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries. + A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion + and dun, + Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue + of the sun! + + The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves + are Etruscan gold, + And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for + a signal bold; + The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass + In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring + is brought to pass. + + Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and + softer picture lies, + As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream + of paradise,-- + Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and + luring the mind + With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap + are left behind. + + So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and + endless joy, + Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine + employ, + Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear, + Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides--our + privilege here. + + Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is + here and now, + Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by + somewhere, somehow? + I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for + a journey hence + Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made + for spirit and sense. + + "Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit + filled from a blighted flower? + Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy + beatified hour? + Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our + command, + Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of + heaven at hand." + + So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to + feed my soul. + With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for + a further dole? + In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain + of truth, + Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor + of dreamful youth. + + The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun + shall lend me poise. + I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth + and all her joys. + Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my + veins like wine; + While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge + with the life divine. + + + + + In October + + Now come the rosy dogwoods, + The golden tulip-tree, + And the scarlet yellow maple, + To make a day for me. + + The ash-trees on the ridges, + The alders in the swamp, + Put on their red and purple + To join the autumn pomp. + + The woodbine hangs her crimson + Along the pasture wall, + And all the bannered sumacs + Have heard the frosty call. + + Who then so dead to valor + As not to raise a cheer, + When all the woods are marching + In triumph of the year? + + + + + By Still Waters + + "_He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth + my soul._" + + "My tent stands in a garden + Of aster and goldenrod, + Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, + And sown by the hand of God,-- + An old New England pasture + Abandoned to peace and time, + And by the magic of beauty + Reclaimed to the sublime. + + About it are golden woodlands + Of tulip and hickory; + On the open ridge behind it + You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- + The far-off, blue, Homeric + Rim of the world's great shield, + A border of boundless glamor + For the soul's familiar field. + + In purple and gray-wrought lichen + The boulders lie in the sun; + Along its grassy footpath + The white-tailed rabbits run. + The crickets work and chirrup + Through the still afternoon; + And the owl calls from the hillside + Under the frosty moon. + + The odorous wild grape clambers + Over the tumbling wall, + And through the autumnal quiet + The chestnuts open and fall. + Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, + Part of the earth's great soul, + Here man's spirit may ripen + To wisdom serene and whole. + + Shall we not grow with the asters-- + Never reluctant nor sad, + Not counting the cost of being, + Living to dare and be glad? + Shall we not lift with the crickets + A chorus of ready cheer, + Braving the frost of oblivion, + Quick to be happy here? + + Is my will as sweet as the wild grape, + Spreading delight on the air + For the passer-by's enchantment, + Subtle and unaware? + Have I as brave a spirit, + Sprung from the self-same mould, + As this weed from its own contentment + Lifting its shaft of gold? + + The deep red cones of the sumach + And the woodbine's crimson's sprays + Have bannered the common roadside + For the pageant of passing days. + These are the oracles Nature + Fills with her holy breath, + Giving them glory of color, + Transcending the shadow of death. + + Here in the sifted sunlight + A spirit seems to brood + On the beauty and worth of being, + In tranquil, instinctive mood; + And the heart, filled full of gladness + Such as the wise earth knows, + Wells with a full thanksgiving + For the gifts that life bestows: + + For the ancient and virile nurture + Of the teeming primordial ground, + For the splendid gospel of color, + The rapt revelations of sound; + For the morning-blue above us + And the rusted gold of the fern, + For the chickadee's call of valor + Bidding the faint-heart turn; + + For fire and running water, + Snowfall and summer rain; + For sunsets and quiet meadows, + The fruit and the standing grain; + For the solemn hour of moonrise + Over the crest of trees, + When the mellow lights are kindled + In the lamps of the centuries; + + For those who wrought aforetime, + Led by the mystic strain + To strive for the larger freedom, + And live for the greater gain; + For plenty of peace and playtime, + The homely goods of earth, + And for rare immaterial treasures + Accounted of little worth; + + For art and learning and friendship, + Where beneficent truth is supreme,-- + Those everlasting cities + Built on the hills of dream; + For all things growing and goodly + That foster this life, and breed + The immortal flower of wisdom + Out of the mortal seed. + + But most of all for the spirit + That cannot rest nor bide + In stale and sterile convenience, + Nor safety proven and tried, + But still inspired and driven, + Must seek what better may be, + And up from the loveliest garden + Must climb for a glimpse of sea. + + + + + Lines for a Picture + + When the leaves are flying + Across the azure sky, + Autumn on the hill top + Turns to say good-by; + + In her gold-red tunic, + Like an Eastern queen, + With untarnished courage + In her wilding mien. + + All the earth below her + Answers to her gaze, + And her eyes are pensive + With remembered days. + + Yet, with cheek ensanguined, + Gay at heart she goes + On the great adventure + Where the north wind blows. + + + + + The Deserted Pasture + + I love the stony pasture + That no one else will have. + The old gray rocks so friendly seem, + So durable and brave. + + In tranquil contemplation + It watches through the year. + Seeing the frosty stars arise, + The slender moons appear. + + Its music is the rain-wind, + Its choristers the birds, + And there are secrets in its heart + Too wonderful for words. + + It keeps the bright-eyed creatures + That play about its walls, + Though long ago its milking herds + Were banished from their stalls. + + Only the children come there, + For buttercups in May, + Or nuts in autumn, where it lies + Dreaming the hours away. + + Long since its strength was given + To making good increase, + And now its soul is turned again + To beauty and to peace. + + There in the early springtime + The violets are blue, + And adder-tongues in coats of gold + Are garmented anew. + + There bayberry and aster + Are crowded on its floors, + When marching summer halts to praise + The Lord of Out-of-doors. + + And there October passes + In gorgeous livery,-- + In purple ash, and crimson oak, + And golden tulip tree. + + And when the winds of winter + Their bugle blasts begin, + The snowy hosts of heaven arrive + And pitch their tents therein. + + + + + Autumn + + Now when the time of fruit and grain is come, + When apples hang above the orchard wall, + And from the tangle by the roadside stream + A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air, + Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan, + Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay + And tattered colors of the Orient, + Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills. + The woods of Wilton at her coming wear + Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand: + The maples glow with their Pompeian red, + The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold; + And while the crickets fife along her march, + Behind her banners burns the crimson sun. + + + + + November Twilight + + Now Winter at the end of day + Along the ridges takes her way, + + Upon her twilight round to light + The faithful candles of the night. + + As quiet as the nun she goes + With silver lamp in hand, to close + + The silent doors of dusk that keep + The hours of memory and sleep. + + She pauses to tread out the fires + Where Autumn's festal train retires. + + The last red embers smoulder down + Behind the steeples of the town. + + Austere and fine the trees stand bare + And moveless in the frosty air, + + Against the pure and paling light + Before the threshold of the night. + + On purple valley and dim wood + The timeless hush of solitude + + Is laid, as if the time for some + Transcending mystery were come, + + That shall illumine and console + The penitent and eager soul, + + Setting her free to stand before + Supernal beauty and adore. + + Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico + It is the hour of prayer. And lo, + + Above the earth, serene and still, + One star--our star--o'er Lonetree Hill! + + + + + The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod + + When the first silent frost has trod + The ghost-yard of the goldenrod, + + And laid the blight of his cold hand + Upon the warm autumnal land, + + And all things wait the subtle change + That men call death, is it not strange + + That I--without a care or need, + Who only am an idle weed-- + + Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, + The coming of the final cold! + + + + + Before the Snow + + Now soon, ah, very soon, I know + The trumpets of the north will blow, + And the great winds will come to bring + The pale, wild riders of the snow. + + Darkening the sun with level flight, + At arrowy speed, they will alight, + Unnumbered as the desert sands, + To bivouac on the edge of night. + + Then I, within their somber ring, + Shall hear a voice that seems to sing, + Deep, deep within my tranquil heart, + The valiant prophecy of spring. + + + + + Winter + + When winter comes along the river line + And Earth has put away her green attire, + With all the pomp of her autumnal pride, + The world is made a sanctuary old, + Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray, + And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest + Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine, + Showing the sunset glory through the chinks. + There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul, + Uplift in adoration, sees the world + Transfigured to a temple of her Lord; + While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow + Night, like a sacristan with silent step, + Passes to light the tapers of the stars. + + + + + A Winter Piece + + Over the rim of a lacquered bowl, + Where a cold blue water-color stands, + I see the wintry breakers roll + And heave their froth up the freezing sands. + + Here in immunity safe and dull, + Soul treads her circuit of trivial things. + There soul's brother, a shining gull, + Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings. + + + + + Winter Streams + + Now the little rivers go + Muffled safely under snow, + + And the winding meadow streams + Murmur in their wintry dreams, + + While a tinkling music wells + Faintly from there icy bells, + + Telling how their hearts are bold + Though the very sun be cold. + + Ah, but wait until the rain + Comes a-sighing once again, + + Sweeping softly from the Sound + Over ridge and meadow ground! + + Then the little streams will hear + April calling far and near,-- + + Slip their snowy bands and run + Sparkling in the welcome sun. + + + + + Winter Twilight + + Along the wintry skyline, + Crowning the rocky crest, + Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees + Against the saffron west,-- + Its gray and purple network + Of branching tracery + Outspread upon the lucent air, + Like weed within the sea. + + The scarlet robe of autumn + Renounced and put away, + The mystic Earth is fairer still,-- + A Puritan in gray. + The spirit of the winter, + How tender, how austere! + Yet all the ardor of the spring + And summer's dream are here. + + Fear not, O timid lover, + The touch of frost and rime! + This is the virtue that sustained + The roses in their prime. + The anthem of the northwind + Shall hallow thy despair, + The benediction of the snow + Be answer to thy prayer. + + And now the star of evening + That is the pilgrim's sign, + Is lighted in the primrose dusk,-- + A lamp before a shrine. + Peace fills the mighty minster, + Tranquil and gray and old, + And all the chancel of the west + Is bright with paling gold. + + A little wind goes sifting + Along the meadow floor,-- + Like steps of lovely penitents + Who sighingly adore. + Then falls the twilight curtain, + And fades the eerie light, + And frost and silence turn the keys + In the great doors of night. + + + + + The Twelfth Night Star + + It is the bitter time of year + When iron is the ground, + With hasp and sheathing of black ice + The forest lakes are bound, + The world lies snugly under snow, + Asleep without a sound. + + All the night long in trooping squares + The sentry stars go by, + The silent and unwearying hosts + That bear man company, + And with their pure enkindling fires + Keep vigils lone and high. + + Through the dead hours before the dawn, + When the frost snaps the sill, + From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea + The earth lies dark and still, + Till one great silver planet shines + Above the eastern hill. + + It is the star of Gabriel, + The herald of the Word + In days when messengers of God + With sons of men conferred, + Who brought the tidings of great joy + The watching shepherds heard; + + The mystic light that moved to lead + The wise of long ago, + Out of the great East where they dreamed + Of truths they could not know, + To seek some good that should assuage + The world's most ancient woe. + + O well, believe, they loved their dream, + Those children of the star, + Who saw the light and followed it, + Prophetical, afar,-- + Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior, + And eager Balthasar. + + Another year slips to the void, + And still with omen bright + Above the sleeping doubting world + The day-star is alight,-- + The waking signal flashed of old + In the blue Syrian night. + + But who are now as wise as they + Whose faith could read the sign + Of the three gifts that shall suffice + To honor the divine, + And show the tread of common life + Ineffably benign? + + Whoever wakens on a day + Happy to know and be, + To enjoy the air, to love his kind, + To labor, to be free,-- + Already his enraptured soul + Lives in eternity. + + For him with every rising sun + The year begins anew; + The fertile earth receives her lord, + And prophecy comes true, + Wondrously as a fall of snow, + Dear as a drench of dew. + + Who gives his life for beauty's need, + King Caspar could no more; + Who serves the truth with single mind + Shall stand with Melchior; + And love is all that Balthasar + In crested censer bore. + + + + + A Christmas Eve Choral + + _Halleluja! + What sound is this across the dark + While all the earth is sleeping? Hark! + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why are thy tender eyes so bright, + Mary, Mary? + On the prophetic deep of night + Joseph, Joseph, + I see the borders of the light, + And in the day that is to be + An aureoled man-child I see, + Great love's son, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + He hears not, but she hears afar, + The Minstrel Angel of the star. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy gentle smile so deep, + Mary, Mary? + It is the secret I must keep, + Joseph, Joseph,-- + The joy that will not let me sleep, + The glory of the coming days, + When all the world shall turn to praise + God's goodness, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Clear as the bird that brings the morn + She hears the heavenly music borne. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy radiant face so calm, + Mary, Mary? + His strength is like a royal palm, + Joseph, Joseph; + His beauty like the victor's psalm. + He moves like morning o'er the lands + And there is healing in his hands + For sorrow, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Tender as dew-fall on the earth + She hears the choral of love's birth. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + What is the message come to thee, + Mary, Mary? + I hear like wind within the tree, + Joseph, Joseph, + Or like a far-off melody + His deathless voice proclaiming peace, + And bidding ruthless wrong to cease, + For love's sake, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Moving as rain-wind in the spring + She hears the angel chorus ring. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why are thy patient hands so still, + Mary, Mary? + I see the shadow on the hill, + Joseph, Joseph, + And wonder if it is God's will + That courage, service, and glad youth + Shall perish in the cause of truth + Forever, Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + Her heart in that celestial chime + Has heard the harmony of time. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!_ + + Why is thy voice so strange and far, + Mary, Mary? + I see the glory of the star, + Joseph, Joseph; + And in its light all things that are, + Made glad and wise beyond the sway + Of death and darkness and dismay, + In God's time Joseph. + + _Halleluja! + To every heart in love 'tis given + To hear the ecstasy of heaven. + Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja._ + + + + + Christmas Song + + Above the weary waiting world, + Asleep in chill despair, + There breaks a sound of joyous bells + Upon the frosted air. + And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo, + A star is dancing on the snow. + + What makes the yellow star to dance + Upon the brink of night? + What makes the breaking dawn to glow + So magically bright,-- + And all the earth to be renewed + With infinite beatitude? + + The singing bells, the throbbing star, + The sunbeams on the snow, + And the awakening heart that leaps + New ecstasy to know,-- + They all are dancing in the morn + Because a little child is born. + + + + + The Wise Men from the East + + (A LITTLE BOY'S CHRISTMAS LESSON) + + _Why were the Wise Men three, + Instead of five or seven?"_ + They had to match, you see, + The archangels in Heaven. + + God sent them, sure and swift, + By his mysterious presage, + To bear the threefold gift + And take the threefold message. + + Thus in their hands were seen + The gold of purest Beauty, + The myrrh of Truth all-clean, + The frankincense of Duty. + + And thus they bore away + The loving heart's great treasure, + And knowledge clear as day, + To be our life's new measure. + + They went back to the East + To spread the news of gladness. + There one became a priest + To the new word of sadness; + + And one a workman, skilled + Beyond the old earth's fashion; + And one a scholar, filled + With learning's endless passion. + + God sent them for a sign + He would not change nor alter + His good and fair design, + However man may falter. + + He meant that, as He chose + His perfect plan and willed it, + They stood in place of those + Who elsewhere had fulfilled it; + + Whoso would mark and reach + The height of man's election, + Must still achieve and teach + The triplicate perfection. + + For since the world was made, + One thing was needed ever, + To keep man undismayed + Through failure and endeavor-- + + A faultless trinity + Of body, mind, and spirit, + And each with its own three + Strong angels to be near it; + + Strength to arise and go + Wherever dawn is breaking, + Poise like the tides that flow, + Instinct for beauty-making; + + Imagination bold + To cross the mystic border, + Reason to seek and hold, + Judgment for law and order; + + Joy that makes all things well, + Faith that is all-availing + Each terror to dispel, + And Love, ah, Love unfailing. + + These are the flaming Nine + Who walk the world unsleeping, + Sent forth by the Divine + With manhood in their keeping. + + These are the seraphs strong + His mighty soul had need of, + When He would right the wrong + And sorrow He took heed of. + + And that, I think, is why + The Wise Men knelt before Him, + And put their kingdoms by + To serve Him and adore Him; + + So that our Lord, unknown, + Should not be unattended, + When He was here alone + And poor and unbefriended; + + That still He might have three + (Rather than five or seven) + To stand in their degree, + Like archangels in Heaven. + + + + + The Sending of the Magi + + In a far Eastern country + It happened long of yore, + Where a lone and level sunrise + Flushes the desert floor, + That three kings sat together + And a spearman kept the door. + + Caspar, whose wealth was counted + By city and caravan; + With Melchior, the seer + Who read the starry plan; + And Balthasar, the blameless, + Who loved his fellow man. + + There while they talked, a sudden + Strange rushing sound arose, + And as with startled faces + They thought upon their foes, + Three figures stood before them + In imperial repose. + + One in flame-gold and one in blue + And one in scarlet clear, + With the almighty portent + Of sunrise they drew near! + And the kings made obeisance + With hand on breast, in fear. + + "Arise," said they, "we bring you + Good tidings of great peace! + To-day a power is wakened + Whose working must increase, + Till fear and greed and malice + And violence shall cease." + + The messengers were Michael, + By whom all things are wrought + To shape and hue; and Gabriel + Who is the lord of thought; + And Rafael without whose love + All toil must come to nought. + + Then Rafael said to Balthasar, + "In a country west from here + A lord is born in lowliness, + In love without a peer. + Take grievances and gifts to him + And prove his kingship clear! + + "By this sign ye shall know him; + Within his mother's arm + Among the sweet-breathed cattle + He slumbers without harm, + While wicked hearts are troubled + And tyrants take alarm." + + And Gabriel said to Melchior, + "My comrade, I will send + My star to go before you, + That ye may comprehend + Where leads your mystic learning + In a humaner trend." + + And Michael said to Gaspar, + "Thou royal builder, go + With tribute of thy riches! + Though time shall overthrow + Thy kingdom, no undoing + His gentle might shall know." + + Then while the kings' hearts greatened + And all the chamber shone, + As when the hills at sundown + Take a new glory on + And the air thrills with purple, + Their visitors were gone. + + Then straightway up rose Gaspar, + Melchior and Balthasar, + And passed out through the murmur + Of palace and bazar, + To make without misgiving + The journey of the Star. + + + + + The Angels of Man + + The word of the Lord of the outer worlds + Went forth on the deeps of space, + That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael, + Should stand before his face, + The seraphs of his threefold will, + Each in his ordered place. + + Brave Michael, the right hand of God, + Strong Gabriel, his voice, + Fair Rafael, his holy breath + That makes the world rejoice,-- + Archangels of omnipotence, + Of knowledge, and of choice; + + Michael, angel of loveliness + In all things that survive, + And Gabriel, whose part it is + To ponder and contrive, + And Rafael, who puts the heart + In every thing alive. + + Came Rafael, the enraptured soul, + Stainless as wind or fire, + The urge within the flux of things, + The life that must aspire, + With whom is the beginning, + The worth, and the desire; + + And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind, + Bringer of truth and light, + Who lays the courses of the stars + In their stupendous flight, + And calls the migrant flocks of spring + Across the purple night; + + And Michael, the artificer + Of beauty, shape, and hue, + Lord of the forges of the sun, + The crucible of the dew, + And driver of the plowing rain + When the flowers are born anew. + + Then said the Lord: "Ye shall account + For the ministry ye hold, + Since ye have been my sons to keep + My purpose from of old. + How fare the realms within your sway + To perfections still untold?" + + Answered each as he had the word. + And a great silence fell + On all the listening hosts of heaven + To hear their captains tell,-- + With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird. + And the cry of a mighty bell. + + Then the Lord said: "The time is ripe + For finishing my plan, + And the accomplishment of that + For which all time began. + Therefore on you is laid the task + Of the fashioning of man; + + "In your own likeness shall he be, + To triumph in the end. + I only give him Michael's strength + To guard him and defend, + With Gabriel to be his guide, + And Rafael his friend. + + "Ye shall go forth upon the earth, + And make there Paradise, + And be the angels of that place + To make men glad and wise, + With loving-kindness in their hearts, + And knowledge in their eyes. + + "And ye shall be man's counsellors + That neither rest nor sleep, + To cheer the lonely, lift the frail, + And solace them that weep. + And ever on his wandering trail + Your watch-fires ye shall keep; + + "Till in the far years he shall find + The country of his quest, + The empire of the open truth, + The vision of the best, + Foreseen by every mother saint + With her new-born on her breast." + + + + + At the Making of Man + + _First all the host of Raphael + In liveries of gold, + Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm + The spinning spheres are rolled,-- + The Seraphs of the morning calm + Whose hearts are never cold._ + + He shall be born a spirit, + Part of the soul that yearns, + The core of vital gladness + That suffers and discerns, + The stir that breaks the budding sheath + When the green spring returns,-- + + The gist of power and patience + Hid in the plasmic clay, + The calm behind the senses, + The passionate essay + To make his wise and lovely dream + Immortal on a day. + + The soft, Aprilian ardors + That warm the waiting loam + Shall whisper in his pulses + To bid him overcome, + And he shall learn the wonder-cry + Beneath the azure dome. + + And though all-dying nature + Should teach him to deplore, + The ruddy fires of autumn + Shall lure him but the more + To pass from joy to stronger joy, + As through an open door. + + He shall have hope and honor, + Proud trust and courage stark, + To hold him to his purpose + Through the unlighted dark, + And love that sees the moon's full orb + In the first silver arc. + + And he shall live by kindness + And the heart's certitude, + Which moves without misgiving + In ways not understood, + Sure only of the vast event,-- + The large and simple good. + + _Then Gabriel's host in silver gear + And vesture twilight blue, + The spirits of immortal mind, + The warders of the true, + Took up the theme that gives the world + Significance anew._ + + He shall be born to reason, + And have the primal need + To understand and follow + Wherever truth may lead,-- + To grow in wisdom like a tree + Unfolding from a seed. + + A watcher by the sheepfolds, + With wonder in his eyes, + He shall behold the seasons, + And mark the planets rise, + Till all the marching firmament + Shall rouse his vast surmise. + + Beyond the sweep of vision, + Or utmost reach of sound, + This cunning fire-maker, + This tiller of the ground, + Shall learn the secrets of the suns + And fathom the profound. + + For he must prove all being + Sane, beauteous, benign, + And at the heart of nature + Discover the divine,-- + Himself the type and symbol + Of the eternal trine. + + He shall perceive the kindling + Of knowledge, far and dim, + As of the fire that brightens + Below the dark sea-rim, + When ray by ray the splendid sun + Floats to the world's wide brim. + + And out of primal instinct, + The lore of lair and den, + He shall emerge to question + How, wherefore, whence, and when, + Till the last frontier of the truth + Shall lie within his ken. + + _Then Michael's scarlet-suited host + Took up the word and sang; + As though a trumpet had been loosed + In heaven, the arches rang; + For these were they who feel the thrill + Of beauty like a pang._ + + He shall be framed and balanced + For loveliness and power, + Lithe as the supple creatures, + And colored as a flower, + Sustained by the all-feeding earth, + Nurtured by wind and shower, + + To stand within the vortex + Where surging forces play, + A poised and pliant figure + Immutable as they, + Till time and space and energy + Surrenders to his sway. + + He shall be free to journey + Over the teeming earth, + An insatiable seeker, + A wanderer from his birth, + Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, + With fortitude for girth. + + His hands shall have dominion + Of all created things, + To fashion in the likeness + Of his imaginings, + To make his will and thought survive + Unto a thousand springs. + + The world shall be his province, + The princedom of his skill; + The tides shall wear his harness, + The winds obey his will; + Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, + Shall work to do him ill. + + A creature fit to carry + The pure creative fire, + Whatever truth inform him, + Whatever good inspire, + He shall make lovely in all things + To the end of his desire. + + + + + St. Michael's Star + + In the pure solitude of dusk + One star is set to shine + Above the sundown's dying rose, + A lamp before a shrine. + It is the star of Michael lit + In the minster of the sun, + That every toiling hand may give + Thanks for the day's work done. + + For when the almighty word went forth + To bid creation be,-- + The glimmering star-tracks on the blue, + The tide-belts on the sea,-- + Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand + The lasting hills arose, + Their bases on the poppied plain, + Their peaks in bannered snows. + + Cedar and thorn and oak were born; + Green fiddleheads uncurled + In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues + Came forth to glad the world;-- + The magic of the punctual seeds, + Each with its pregnant powers, + As the lord Michael fashioned them + To keep their days and hours. + + Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide, + Soft wings to poise and gleam, + He formed the pageant tribe by tribe + As vivid as a dream. + And still must his beneficence + Renew, create, sustain, + Sorcery of the wind and sun, + Alchemy of the rain. + + Teeming with God, the kindly sod + Yearns through the summer days + With the mute eloquence of flowers, + Its only means of praise. + At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills + Throb to the song of birds, + And all the dim blue silence thrills + To transport not of words. + + For earth must breed to spirit's need, + Clay to the finer clay, + That soul through sense find recompense + And rapture on her way. + And man, from dust and dreaming wrought, + To all things must impart + The trend and likeness of his thought, + The passion of his heart. + + The love and lore he shall acquire + To word and deed must dare; + Resemblances of God his sire + His voice and mien must bear. + His children's children shall portray + The skill which he bestows + On living; and what life must mean + His craftsman's instinct knows. + + Line upon line and tone by tone, + The visioned form he gives + To sound and color, wood and stone, + Takes loveliness and lives. + He sees his project's soaring hope + Grow substance, and expand + To measure a diviner scope + Beneath his patient hand. + + To pencil, brush, and burnisher + His wizardry he lends, + And to the care of lathe and loom + His secret he commends. + In hues and forms and cadences + New beauty he instills, + A brother by the right of craft + To Michael of the hills. + + + + + The Dreamers + + Charlemagne with knight and lord, + In the hill at Ingelheim, + Slumbers at the council board, + Seated waiting for the time. + + With their swords across their knees + In that chamber dimly lit, + Chin on breast life effigies + Of the dreaming gods, they sit. + + Long ago they went to sleep, + While great wars above them hurled. + Taking counsel how to keep + Giant evil from the world. + + Golden-armored, iron-crowned, + There in silence they await + The last war,--in war renowned, + Done with doubting and debate. + + What is all our clamor for? + Petty virtue, puny crime, + Beat in vain against the door + Of the hill at Ingelheim. + + When at last shall dawn the day + For the saving of the world, + They will forth in war array, + Iron-armored, golden-curled. + + In the hill at Ingelheim, + Still, they say, the Emperor, + Like a warrior in his prime, + Waits the message at the door. + + Shall the long enduring fight + Break above our heads in vain, + Plunged in lethargy and night, + Like the men of Charlemagne? + + Comrades, through the Council Hall + Of the heart, inert and dumb, + Hear ye not the summoning call, + "Up, my lords, the hour is come!" + + + + + El Dorado + + This is the story + Of Santo Domingo, + The first established + Permanent city + Built in the New World. + + Miguel Dias, + A Spanish sailor + In the fleet of Columbus, + Fought with a captain, + Wounded him, then in fear + Fled from his punishment. + + Ranging the wilds, he came + On a secluded + Indian village + Of the peace-loving + Comely Caguisas. + There he found shelter, + Food, fire, and hiding,-- + Welcome unstinted. + + Over this tribe ruled-- + No cunning chieftain + Grown gray in world-craft, + But a young soft-eyed + Girl, tender-hearted, + Loving, and regal + Only in beauty, + With no suspicion + Of the perfidious + Merciless gold-lust + Of the white sea-wolves,-- + Roving, rapacious, + Conquerors, destroyers. + Strongly the stranger + Wooed with his foreign + Manners, his Latin + Fervor and graces; + Beat down her gentle, + Unreserved strangeness; + + Made himself consort + Of a young queen, all + Loveliness, ardor, + And generous devotion. + Her world she gave him, + Nothing denied him, + All, all for love's sake + Poured out before him,-- + Lived but to pleasure + And worship her lover. + + Such is the way + Of free-hearted women, + Radiant beings + Who carry God's secret; + All their seraphic + Unworldly wisdom + Spent without fearing + Or calculation + For the enrichment + Of--whom, what, and wherefore? + + Ask why the sun shines + And is not measured, + Ask why the rain falls + Aeon by aeon, + Ask why the wind comes + Making the strong trees + Blossom in springtime, + Forever unwearied! + Whoever earned these gifts, + Air, sun, and water? + Whoever earned his share + In that unfathomed + Full benediction, + + Passing the old earth's + Cunningest knowledge, + Greater than all + The ambition of ages, + Light as a thistle-seed, + Strong as a tide-run, + Vast and mysterious + As the night sky,-- + The love of woman? + Not long did Miguel + Dias abide content + With his good fortune. + Back to his voyaging + Turned his desire, + Restless once more to rove + With boon companions, + Filled with the covetous + Thirst for adventure,-- + The white man's folly. + + Then poor Zamcaca, + In consternation + Lest she lack merit + Worthy to tether + His wayward fancy, + Knowing no way but love, + Guileless, and sedulous + Only to gladden, + Quick and sweet-souled + As another madonna, + Gave him the secret + Of her realm's treasure,-- + Raw gold unweighed, + Stored wealth unimagined; + Decked him with trappings + Of that yellow peril; + And bade him go + Bring his comrades to settle + In her dominion. + + Not long the Spaniards + Stood on that bidding. + Gold was their madness, + Their Siren and Pandar. + Trooping they followed + Their friend the explorer, + Greed-fevered ravagers + Of all things goodly, + Hot-foot to plunder + The land of his love-dream. + They swooped on that country, + Founded their city, + Made Miguel Dias + Its first Alcalde,-- + Flattered and fooled him, + Loud in false praises + For the great wealth he had + By his love's bounty. + + Then the old story, + Older than Adam,-- + Treachery, rapine, + Ingratitude, bloodshed, + Wrought by the strong man + On unsuspecting + And gentler brothers. + The rabid Spaniard, + Christian and ruthless + (Like any modern + Magnate of Mammon), + Harried that fearless, + Light-hearted, trustful folk + Under his booted heel. + Tears (ah, a woman's tears,-- + The grief of angels,--) + Fell from Zamcaca, + Sorrowing, hopeless, + Alone, for her people. + + Sick from injustice, + Distraught, and disheartened, + Tortured by sight and sound + Of wrong and ruin, + When the kind, silent, + Tropical moonlight, + Lay on the city, + In the dead hour + When the soul trembles + Within the portals + Of its own province, + While far away seem + + All deeds of daytime, + She rose and wondered; + Gazed on the sleeping + Face of her loved one, + Alien and cruel; + Kissed her strange children, + Longingly laying a hand + In farewell on each, + Crept to the door, and fled + Back to the forest. + + Only the deep heart + Of the World-mother, + Brooding below the storms + Of human madness, + Can know what desolate + Anguish possessed her. + + Only the far mind + Of the World-father, + Seeing the mystic + End and beginning, + Knows why the pageant + Is so betattered + With mortal sorrow. + + + + + On the Plaza + + One August day I sat beside + A cafe window open wide + To let the shower-freshened air + Blow in across the Plaza, where + In golden pomp against the dark + Green leafy background of the Park, + St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, + Rides on with Victory leading him. + + The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold + In every hollow pools of gold, + And clouds of gold and pink and gray + Were piled up at the end of day, + Far down the cross street, where one tower + Still glistened from the drenching shower. + + A weary, white-haired man went by, + Cooling his forehead gratefully + After the day's great heat. A girl, + Her thin white garments in a swirl + Blown back against her breasts and knees, + Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, + Alive and modern and superb, + Crossed from the circle of the curb. + + We sat there watching people pass, + Clinking the ice against the glass + And talking idly--books or art, + Or something equally apart + From the essential stress and strife + That rudely form and further life, + Glad of a respite from the heat, + When down the middle of the street, + Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay + In spite of the dull-stifling day, + Three street-musicians came. The man, + With hair and beard as black as Pan, + Strolled on one side with lordly grace, + While a young girl tugged at a trace + Upon the other. And between + The shafts there walked a laughing queen, + Bright as a poppy, strong and free. + What likelier land than Italy + Breeds such abandon? Confident + And rapturous in mere living spent + Each moment to the utmost, there + With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, + With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist + Supple, heroic and free-laced, + Between her two companions walked + This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, + Did half the work, made all the cheer + Of that small company. + + No fear + Of failure in a soul like hers + That every moment throbs and stirs + With merry ardor, virile hope, + Brave effort, nor in all its scope + Has room for thought or discontent, + Each day its own sufficient vent + And source of happiness. + + Without + A trace of bitterness or doubt + Of life's true worth, she strode at ease + Before those empty palaces, + A simple heiress of the earth + And all its joys by happy birth, + Beneficent as breeze or dew, + And fresh as though the world were new + And toil and grief were not. How rare + A personality was there! + + + + + A Painter's Holiday + + We painters sometimes strangely keep + These holidays. When life runs deep + And broad and strong, it comes to make + Its own bright-colored almanack. + Impulse and incident divine + Must find their way through tone and line; + The throb of color and the dream + Of beauty, giving art its theme + From dear life's daily miracle, + Illume the artist's life as well. + A bird-note, or a turning leaf, + The first white fall of snow, a brief + Wild song from the Anthology, + A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,-- + And there is worth enough for him + To make the page of history dim. + Who knows upon what day may come + The touch of that delirium + Which lifts plain life to the divine, + And teaches hand the magic line + No cunning rule could ever reach, + Where Soul's necessities find speech? + None knows how rapture may arrive + To be our helper, and survive + Through our essay to help in turn + All starving eager souls who yearn + Lightward discouraged and distraught. + Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught + And treasured in the heart, how then + We walk enchanted among men, + And with the elder gods confer! + So art is hope's interpreter, + And with devotion must conspire + To fan the eternal altar fire. + Wherefore you find me here to-day, + Not idling the good hours away, + But picturing a magic hour + With its replenishment of power. + + Conceive a bleak December day, + The streets all mire, the sky all gray, + And a poor painter trudging home + Disconsolate, when what should come + Across his vision, but a line + On a bold-lettered play-house sign, + _A Persian Sun Dance_. + + In he turns. + A step, and there the desert burns + Purple and splendid; molten gold + The streamers of the dawn unfold, + Amber and amethyst uphurled + Above the far rim of the world; + The long-held sound of temple bells + Over the hot sand steals and swells; + A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones + In barbarous maddening monotones; + While sandal incense blue and keen + Hangs in the air. And then the scene + Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released, + The sorcery of all the East, + In rose and saffron gossamer,-- + A young light-hearted worshipper + Who dances up the sun. She moves + Like waking woodland flower that loves + To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve + Is like a sapling's sway and swerve + Before the spring wind. Her dark hair + Framing a face vivid and rare, + Curled to her throat and then flew wild, + Like shadows round a radiant child. + The sunlight from her cymbals played + About her dancing knees, and made + A world of rose-lit ecstasy, + Prophetic of the day to be. + + Such mystic beauty might have shone + In Sardis or in Babylon, + To bring a Satrap to his doom + Or touch some lad with glory's bloom. + And now it wrought for me, with sheer + Enchantment of the dying year, + Its irresistible reprieve + From joylessness on New Year's Eve. + + + + + Mirage + + Here hangs at last, you see, my row + Of sketches,--all I have to show + Of one enchanted summer spent + In sweet laborious content, + At little 'Sconset by the moors, + With the sea thundering by its doors, + Its grassy streets, and gardens gay + With hollyhocks and salvia. + + And here upon the easel yet, + With the last brush of paint still wet, + (Showing how inspiration toils), + Is one where the white surf-line boils + Along the sand, and the whole sea + Lifts to the skyline, just to be + The wondrous background from whose verge + Of blue on blue there should emerge + This miracle. + + One day of days + I strolled the silent path that strays + Between the moorlands and the beach + From Siasconset, till you reach + Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land + That fronts the ocean, lone and grand + As when the Lord first bade it be + For a surprise and mystery. + A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, + The level lonely moors, and I + The only soul in all that vast + Of color made intense to last! + The small white sea-birds piping near; + The great soft moor-winds; and the dear + Bright sun that pales each crest to jade, + Where gulls glint fishing unafraid. + + Here man, the godlike, might have gone + With his deep thought, on that wild dawn + When the first sun came from the sea, + Glowing and kindling the world to be, + While time began and joy had birth,-- + No wilder sweeter spot on earth! + + As I sat there and mused (the way + We painters waste our time, you say!) + On the sheer loneliness and strength + Whence life must spring, there came at length + Conviction of the helplessness + Of earth alone to ban or bless. + I saw the huge unhuman sea; + I heard the drear monotony + Of the waves beating on the shore + With heedless, futile strife and roar, + Without a meaning or an aim. + + And then a revelation came, + In subtle, sudden, lovely guise, + Like one of those soft mysteries + Of Indian jugglers, who evoke + A flower for you out of smoke. + I knew sheer beauty without soul + Could never be perfection's goal, + Nor satisfy the seeking mind + With all it longs for and must find + One day. The lovely things that haunt + Our senses with an aching want, + And move our souls, are like the fair + Lost garments of a soul somewhere. + Nature is naught, if not the veil + Of some great good that must prevail + And break in joy, as woods of spring + Break into song and blossoming. + + But what makes that great goodness start + Within ourselves? When leaps the heart + With gladness, only then we know + Why lovely Nature travails so,-- + Why art must persevere and pray + In her incomparable way. + In all the world the only worth + Is human happiness; its dearth + The darkest ill. Let joyance be, + And there is God's sufficiency,-- + Such joy as only can abound + Where the heart's comrade has been found. + + That was my thought. And then the sea + Broke in upon my revery + With clamorous beauty,--the superb + Eternal noun that takes no verb + But love. The heaven of dove-like blue + Bent o'er the azure, round and true + As magic sphere of crystal glass, + Where faith sees plain the pageant pass + Of things unseen. So I beheld + The sheer sky-arches domed and belled, + As if the sea were the very floor + Of heaven where walked the gods of yore + In Plato's imagery, and I + Uplifted saw their pomps go by. + + The House of space and time grew tense + As if with rapture's imminence, + When truth should be at last made clear, + And the great worth of life appear; + While I, a worshipper at the shrine, + For very longing grew divine, + Borne upward on earth's ecstasy, + And welcomed by the boundless sky. + + A mighty prescience seemed to brood + Over that tenuous solitude + Yearning for form, till it became + Vivid as dream and live as flame, + Through magic art could never match, + The vision I have tried to catch,-- + All earth's delight and meaning grown + A lyric presence loved and known. + + How otherwise could time evolve + Young courage, or the high resolve, + Or gladness to assuage and bless + The soul's austere great loneliness, + Than by providing her somehow + With sympathy of hand and brow, + And bidding her at last go free, + Companioned through eternity? + + So there appeared before my eyes, + In a beloved, familiar guise, + A vivid, questing human face + In profile, scanning heaven for grace, + Up-gazing there against the blue + With eyes that heaven itself shone through; + The lips soft-parted, half in prayer, + Half confident of kindness there; + A brow like Plato's made for dream + In some immortal Academe, + And tender as a happy girl's; + A full dark head of clustered curls + Round as an emperor's, where meet + Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, + Distilling from a mind unmarred + The glory of her rapt regard. + + So eager Mary might have stood, + In love's adoring attitude, + And looked into the angel's eyes + With faith and fearlessness, all wise + In soul's unfaltering innocence, + Sure in her woman's supersense + Of things only the humble know. + My vision looks forever so. + + In other years when men shall say, + "What was the painter's meaning, pray? + Why all this vast of sea and space, + Just to enframe a woman's face?" + Here is the pertinent reply, + "What better use for earth and sky?" + + The great archangel passed that way + Illuming life with mystic ray. + Not Lippo's self nor Raphael + Had lovelier, realer things to tell + Than I, beholding far away + How all the melting rose and gray + Upon the purple sea-line leaned + About that head that intervened. + + How real was she? Ah, my friend, + In art the fact and fancy blend + Past telling. All the painter's task + Is with the glory. Need we ask + The tulips breaking through the mould + To their untarnished age of gold, + Whence their ideals were derived + That have so gloriously survived? + Flowers and painters both must give + The hint they have received, to live,-- + Spend without stint the joy and power + That lurk in each propitious hour,-- + Yet leave the why untold--God's way. + + My sketch is all I have to say. + + + + + The Winged Victory + + Thou dear and most high Victory, + Whose home is the unvanquished sea, + Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keep + The very freshness, fold, and sweep + They wore upon the galley's prow, + By what unwonted favor now + Hast thou alighted in this place, + Thou Victory of Samothrace? + + O thou to whom in countless lands + With eager hearts and striving hands + Strong men in their last need have prayed, + Greatly desiring, undismayed, + And thou hast been across the fight + Their consolation and their might, + Withhold not now one dearer grace, + Thou Victory of Samothrace! + + Behold, we, too, must cry to thee, + Who wage our strife with Destiny, + And give for Beauty and for Truth + Our love, our valor and our youth. + Are there no honors for these things + To match the pageantries of kings? + Are we more laggard in the race + Than those who fell at Samothrace? + + Not only for the bow and sword, + O Victory, be thy reward! + The hands that work with paint and clay + In Beauty's service, shall not they + Also with mighty faith prevail? + Let hope not die, nor courage fail, + But joy come with thee pace for pace, + As once long since in Samothrace. + + Grant us the skill to shape the form + And spread the color living-warm, + (As they who wrought aforetime did), + Where love and wisdom shall lie hid, + In fair impassioned types, to sway + The cohorts of the world to-day, + In Truth's eternal cause, and trace + Thy glory down from Samothrace. + + With all the ease and splendid poise + Of one who triumphs without noise, + Wilt thou not teach us to attain + Thy sense of power without strain, + That we a little may possess + Our souls with thy sure loveliness,-- + That calm the years cannot deface, + Thou Victory of Samothrace? + + Then in the ancient, ceaseless war + With infamy, go thou before! + Amid the shoutings and the drums + Let it be learned that Beauty comes, + Man's matchless Paladin to be, + Whose rule shall make his spirit free + As thine from all things mean or base, + Thou Victory of Samothrace. + + + + + The Gate of Peace + + Ah, who will build the city of our dream, + Where beauty shall abound and truth avail, + With patient love that is too wise for strife, + Blending in power as gentle as the rain + With the reviving earth on full spring days? + Who now will speed us to its gate of peace, + And reassure us on our doubtful road? + + Three centuries ago a fearless man, + Yearning to set his people in the way, + Threw all his royal might into a plan + To found an ideal city that should give + Freedom to every instinct for the best, + From humblest impulse in his own domain + To rumored wisdom from the world's far ends. + Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve, + Beneath the patient smile of Indian skies + This fair dream flourished for a score of years, + Until the blight of evil touched its bloom + With fading, and transformed its vivid life + Into a ghost-flower of its fair design. + + Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir, + A sad custodian of sacred tombs, + And scattered feathers from the purple wings + Of doves who reign in undisputed calm + Over this Eden of hope and fair essay, + Recall the valor of this ancient quest. + + Great Akbar,--grandfather of Shah Jehan, + The artist Emperor of India + Who built the Taj for love of one held dear + Beyond all other women in the world, + And left that loveliest memorial, + The most supreme of wonders wrought by man, + To move for very joy all hearts to tears + Beholding how great beauty springs from love,-- + Akbar the wisest ruler over Ind, + Grandson of Babar in whose veins were mixed + The blood of Tamerlane and Chinghiz Khan, + Who beat the Afghans and the Rajputs down + At Paniput and Buxar in Bengal, + Making himself the lord of Hindustan, + And with his restless Tartars founded there + The Mogul empire with its Moslem faith, + Its joyousness, enlightenment, and art,-- + Akbar of all the sovereigns of the East + Is still most deeply loved and gladly praised. + + For he who conquered with so strong a hand + Cabul, Kashmir, and Kandahar, and Sind, + Oudh and Orissa, Chitor and Ajmir, + With all their wealth to weld them into one, + Upholding justice with his sovereignty + Throughout his borders and imposing peace, + Was first and last a seeker after truth. + + No craven unlaborious truce he sought, + But that great peace which only comes with light, + Emerging after chaos has been quelled + In some long struggle of enduring will, + To be a proof of order and of law, + Which cannot rest on falsehood nor on wrong, + But spreads like generous sunshine on the earth + When goodness has been gained and truth made clear, + At whatsoe'er incalculable cost. + Returning once with his victorious arms + And war-worn companies on the homeward march + To Agra and his court's magnificence, + From a campaign against some turbulent folk, + He came at evening to a quiet place + Near Sikri by the roadside through the woods, + Where there were many doves among the trees. + + There Salim Chisti a holy man had made + His lonely dwelling in the wilderness, + Seeking perfection. And the solitude + Was sweet to Akbar, and he halted there + And went to Salim in his lodge and said, + "O man and brother, thy long days are spent + In meditation, seeking for the path + Through this great world's impediments to peace, + Here in the twilight with the holy stars + Or when the rose of morning breaks in gold; + Tell me, I pray, whence comes the gift of peace + With all its blessings for a people's need, + And how may true tranquillity be found + On which man's restless spirit longs to rest?" + + And Salim answered, "Lord, most readily + In Allah's out-of-doors, for there men live + More truly, being free from false constraint, + For learning wisdom with a calmer mind. + For they who would find peace must conquer fear + And ignorance and greed,--the ravagers + Of spirit, mind, and sense,--and learn to live + Content beneath the shade of Allah's hand. + Who worships not his own will shall find peace." + + Then Akbar answered, "I have set my heart + On making beauty, truth, and justice shine + As the ordered stars above the darkened earth. + Are not these also things to be desired, + And striven for with no uncertain toil? + And save through them whence comes the gift of peace?" + + Then Salim smiled, and with his finger drew + In the soft dust before his door, and said, + "O king, thy words are true, thy heart most wise. + Thou also shalt find peace, as Allah wills, + Through following bravely what to thee seems best. + When any question, 'What is peace?' reply, + 'The shelter of the Gate of Paradise, + The shadow of the archway, not the arch, + Within whose shade at need the poor may rest, + The weary be refreshed, the weak secure, + And all men pause to gladden as they go.'" + + And Akbar pondered Salim Chisti's words. + Then turning to his ministers, he said, + "Here will I build my capital, and here + The world shall come unto a council hall, + And in a place of peace pursue the quest + Of wisdom and the finding out of truth, + That there be no more discord upon earth, + But only knowledge, beauty, and good will." + + And it was done according to Akbar's word. + There in the wilderness as by magic rose + Futtehpur Sikri, the victorious city, + Of marble and red sandstone among the trees, + A rose unfolding in the kindling dawn. + Palace and mosque and garden and serai, + Bazaars and baths and spacious pleasure grounds, + By favor of Allah to perfection sprang. + + Thus Akbar wrought to make his dream come true. + From the four corners of the world he brought + His master workmen, from Iran and Ind, + From wild Mongolia and the Arabian wastes; + Masons from Bagdad, Delhi, and Multan; + Dome builders from the North, from Samarkand; + Cunning mosaic workers from Kanauj; + And carvers of inscriptions from Shiraz; + And they all labored with endearing skill, + Each at his handicraft, to make beauty be. + + When the first ax-blade on the timber rang, + The timid doves, as if foreboding ill, + Had fled from Sikri and its quiet groves. + + But as he promised, Akbar sent and bade + The wise men of all nations to his court, + Brahman and Christian, Buddhist and Parsee, + Jain and stiff Mohammedan and Jew, + All followers of the One with many names, + Bringing the ghostly wisdom of the earth. + + And so they came of every hue and creed. + From the twelve winds of heaven their caravans + Drew into Sikri as Akbar summoned them, + To spend long afternoons in council grave, + Sifting tradition for the seed of truth, + In the great mosque in Futtehpur at peace. + And Salim Chisti lived his holy life, + Beloved and honored there as Akbar's friend. + + But light and changeable are the hearts of men. + Soon in that city dedicate to peace + Dissensions spread and rivalries grew rife, + Envy and bitterness and strife returned + Once more, and truth before them fled away. + Then Salim Chisti, coming to Akbar spoke, + "Lord, give thy servant leave now to depart + And follow where the fluttered wings have gone, + For here there is no longer any peace, + And truth cannot prevail where discord dwells." + + "Nay then," said Akbar, "'tis not thou but I + Who am the servant here and must go hence. + I found thee master of this solitude, + Lord of the princedom of a quiet mind, + A sovereign vested in tranquillity, + And I have done thee wrong and stayed thy feet + From following perfection, with my horde + Of turbulent malcontents; and my loved dream + To build a city of abiding peace + Was but a vain illusion. Therefore now + This foolish people shall be driven forth + From this fair place, to live as they may choose + In disputance and wrangling longer still, + Until they learn, if Allah wills it so, + To lay aside their folly for the truth." + + And as the king commanded, so it was. + More quickly than he came, with all his court + And hosts of followers he went away, + Leaving the place to solitude once more,-- + A rose to wither where it once had blown. + + To-day the all-kind unpolluted sun + Shines through the marble fret-work with no sound; + The winds play hide and seek through corridors + Where stately women with dark glowing eyes + Have laughed and frolicked in their fluttering robes; + The rose leaves drop with none to gather them, + In gardens where no footfall comes with eve, + Nor any lovers watch the rising moon; + And ancient silence, truer than all speech, + Still holds the secrets of the Council Hall, + Upon whose walls frescoes of many faiths + Attest the courtesy of open minds. + + Before the last camp-follower was gone, + The doves returned and took up their abode + In the main gate of those deserted walls. + And in their custody this "Gate of Peace" + Bears still the grandeur of its origin, + Firing anew the wistful hearts of men + To brave endeavor with replenished hope, + Though since that time three hundred years ago, + The magic hush of those forsaken streets + And empty courtyards has been undisturbed + Save by the gentle whirring of grey wings, + With cooing murmurs uttered all day long, + And reverent tread of those from near and far, + Who still pursue the immemorial quest. + + + + +_Warwick Bros. & Rutter, Limited_ + +_Printers and Bookbinders_ + +_Toronto_ + + + + + When all my writing has been done + Except the final colophon, + + And I must bid beloved verse + Farewell for better or for worse, + + Let me not linger o'er the page + In doubting and regretful age; + + But as an unknown scribe in some + Monastic dim scriptorium, + + When twilight on his labour fell + At the glad-heard refection bell, + + Might add poor Body's thanks to be + From spiritual toils set free, + + Let me conclude with hearty zest + _Laus Deo! Nunc bibendum est!_ + + + +[Illustration: back end papers] + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Later Poems, by Bliss Carman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LATER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33417.txt or 33417.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/4/1/33417/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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