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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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