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diff --git a/78129-0.txt b/78129-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a4a85a --- /dev/null +++ b/78129-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10452 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78129 *** + + + + + THE + NATURE LOVER’S + KNAPSACK + + + + + POCKET SIZE BOOKS OF VALUE + + + EMERSON’S ESSAYS. + + _By_ RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + “First Series” and “Second Series” complete in one volume. + + + THE RING AND THE BOOK. + + _By_ ROBERT BROWNING. + + Walter Hampden Edition. With introduction by Montrose J. Moses, and + notes by Charlotte Porter and Helen A Clarke. + + + OPERA SYNOPSES. + + _By_ J. WALKER MCSPADDEN. + + Fourth Edition. Revised and enlarged. Over one hundred and fifty + operas. + + + NATURE LOVER’S KNAPSACK. + + _By_ EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. + + A delightful collection of out-door poems by over one hundred + different authors. + + + THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + THE + NATURE LOVER’S + KNAPSACK + + AN ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS FOR + LOVERS OF THE OPEN ROAD + + _Edited by_ + EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER + _Professor of Books, Rollins College_ + + NEW YORK + THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + + + + + Copyright, 1927 + BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY + + Third Printing + + MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y. + + + + +[Illustration] + + _To_ + + M. L. G. + + _Who has shared with me + the + Joys of “Knapsack Carrying” + along Life’s road_ + +[Illustration] + + + + +_On Knapsack Carrying_ + + +We are all knapsack carriers. And none of us travels far on the +road of Life without discovering certain things which we would not +be without,--things that seem indispensable to our happiness. These +indispensable things we put, often unconsciously, into our knapsack to +carry with us during the remainder of the journey. + +The kinds of things we “tote” in our knapsack vary with the different +stages of our journey. We begin by collecting pebbles for our sling +shot, and in lieu of a literal knapsack we hide them in our boy’s +pocket. A little farther along the journey we discover that marbles, +or stamps, or arrowheads are the things that are indispensable to our +happiness, and we gradually shift our knapsack load to meet the newer +need. + +Still later in life some of us accumulate coins and bank notes, stocks +and mortgages, and other passing trifles that for the moment seem the +only indispensable things to our happiness. We work ourselves sick, we +sacrifice our friends, we succeed so well that soon our knapsack is too +full for us to carry, and we go to some friendly banker and ask him to +put it in his safety deposit vault where we may worry about it to our +hearts’ content. And there it rests until we come to die, and the only +joy it has brought us is the cheap joy of accumulation. + +Some of us, however, by force of circumstance or by deliberate choice, +begin early in life to collect in our knapsacks beautiful memories of +sunsets, of cloud-capped hills and wind-swept plains, of deep-flowing +rivers and talking brooks, memories of the infinite sky and the eternal +sea, of bird songs and blossoms, of trembling trees and all the lovely +things of nature. And after the first ecstasy of discovery, these +things gradually become the indispensable things of our happiness and +of our lives. Every spring these joys are reborn in us, and every +autumn they flare up with the first reddening tree. Each month in +the cycle of the year holds its unforgettable thrill, its reminder of +ancient glories and happy memories. + +Next to the recollection of beauties we have seen with our own eyes +and carried long in the knapsack of our memory, there is no joy +greater than walking afield with the poets, and spending an afternoon +discovering new beauties and new meanings in Nature. + +Soon or late every nature lover makes a collection of those poems that +remind him of his own memories. These he treasures in his knapsack, and +as the seasons come and go he takes them out to feed his soul and to +refresh his spirit as he travels hopefully along the road of Life. + +I would not for the world deprive any one of this pleasure. I only hope +that this knapsack of nature poetry will be found a worthy travelling +companion for every nature lover. It cannot be exhaustive, and it +is in no sense a reference book. Its only purpose is to serve as a +friendly guide to many of the most beautiful nature poems by English +and American authors. They lead one over an unknown trail with here a +glimpse of sea, there a racing cloud, now the patter of April rain, and +the smell of apple blossoms. Open the book where you will, and it leads +you off through field or forest, by babbling brook or singing sea. + +An anthology necessarily implies an individual choice, and the +selections within have been chosen almost without exception for the +pleasure they have given me. Because I believe that Lyric poetry is the +highest form of poetic expression, I have given the preference to poems +that possess this singing quality. + +In spite of the fact that in much of the poetry of the last twenty-five +years the lyric note has been sadly absent, yet the book contains +many exquisite lyrics by the “younger generation” which shows the +persistence of this timeless quality of all great poetry. + +I wish to acknowledge frankly my indebtedness to many who have preceded +me in the making of anthologies; and to scores of authors and their +publishers who have so generously given permission for me to include +their poems. It is a goodly fellowship. If, after all, I have left out +your favorite nature poem, please tell me so. + + EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER + +[Illustration] + + + + +_What the Knapsack Holds_ + + + _The Lure of the Road_ + + A Wanderer’s Song _John Masefield_ 3 + The Singer’s Quest _Odell Shepherd_ 3 + The Toil of the Trail _Hamlin Garland_ 4 + Two Old Men _Louise Driscoll_ 5 + The Best Road of All _Charles Hanson Towne_ 6 + The Cry of the Dreamer _John Boyle O’Reilly_ 7 + Highways _Leslie Nelson Jennings_ 8 + Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_ 9 + The Path that Leads to + Nowhere _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 9 + City-Weary _Edgar A. Guest_ 10 + The Faun _Richard Hovey_ 12 + The Call of the Wild _Robert W. Service_ 13 + A City Voice _Theodosia Garrison_ 15 + Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 16 + Camping Song _Bliss Carman_ 17 + The Green Inn _Theodosia Garrison_ 18 + Wanderlust _Isabel Ecclestine Mackay_ 19 + Song _Georgiana Goddard King_ 19 + In City Streets _Ada Smith_ 20 + Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit + Your Books _William Wordsworth_ 21 + Road Song _James Stewart Montgomery_ 22 + Walking at Night _Amory Hare_ 23 + Road Song _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 24 + A Song of the Open Road _Louis J. McQuilland_ 25 + A Maine Trail _Gertrude H. McGiffert_ 27 + The Spell of the Pool _L. Burton Crane, Jr._ 28 + The Lake _Eleanour Norton_ 29 + The Great Outdoors _Maud Russell_ 29 + Come, Spur Away! _Thomas Randolph_ 30 + Hunting Song _Richard Hovey_ 31 + The Call _Cora D. Fenton_ 31 + The King’s Highway _John Steven McGroarty_ 32 + God Made This Day For Me _Edgar A. Guest_ 34 + The Country Faith _Norman Gale_ 35 + + + _Green Things Growing_ + + Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 39 + Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_ 40 + My Garden _Thomas E. Brown_ 41 + April _John Vance Cheney_ 41 + A Song the Grass Sings _Charles G. Blanden_ 42 + The Young Dandelion _Dinah Mulock Craik_ 42 + Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_ 43 + Wishing _William Allingham_ 44 + Rain _Lucy Larcom_ 44 + To the Dandelion _James Russell Lowell_ 45 + The Grass _Walt Whitman_ 47 + Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_ 47 + The Lilac _Humbert Wolfe_ 48 + The Hollyhocks _Ray Laurance_ 48 + The Ragged Regiment _Alice Williams Brotherton_ 49 + Marigolds _Bliss Carman_ 49 + In a Garden _Theda Kenyon_ 50 + The Dandelions _Helen Gray Cone_ 51 + Rhodora _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 52 + Daisies _Bliss Carman_ 53 + Out in the Fields with God _Elizabeth Browning_ 53 + The Blackbird _Humbert Wolfe_ 54 + The Robin _Emily Dickinson_ 54 + Clover _John B. Tabb_ 55 + A Conversation _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 55 + A Yellow Pansy _Helen Gray Cone_ 56 + The Answer _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 57 + A Prayer _Edwin Markham_ 57 + + + _The Kinship of the Trees_ + + Tree Feelings _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_ 61 + A B C’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_ 62 + O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly + Trees! _Herbert Trench_ 62 + God, When You Thought of a + Pine Tree _Unknown_ 63 + The House of the Trees _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ 64 + Trees _Bliss Carman_ 65 + The Trees and the Master _Sidney Lanier_ 66 + The Trees _Samuel Valentine Cole_ 67 + Three Trees _Christopher Morley_ 68 + What Do We Plant? _Henry Abbey_ 69 + Trees _Henry van Dyke_ 70 + The Trees _Lucy Larcom_ 71 + Good Company _Karl Wilson Baker_ 71 + The Green Tree in the Fall _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ 72 + + + _The Call of the Sea_ + + Sea-Fever _John Masefield_ 75 + A Son of the Sea _Bliss Carman_ 75 + Dreams of the Sea _William H. Davies_ 76 + Going Down in Ships _Harry Kemp_ 77 + The Waves of Breffny _Eva Gore-Booth_ 78 + Short Beach _Richard Hovey_ 79 + Sea Call _Margaret Widdemer_ 79 + Ship-Love _Ethel E. Mannin_ 80 + The Sea _Nora Hopper_ 81 + Coquette _Keith Stuart_ 82 + The Deep-Water Man _James Stuart Montgomery_ 82 + Sea Longing _Harold Vinal_ 84 + Had I the Choice _Walt Whitman_ 84 + Gray _Oscar Williams_ 85 + A Pagan Hymn _John Runcie_ 85 + As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_ 86 + A Wet Sheet and a + Flowing Sea _Allan Cunningham_ 87 + The Undersong _Fiona Macleod_ 88 + Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 89 + The Sea _Bryan Waller Procter_ 89 + The Sea Road _Martha Haskell Clark_ 91 + The Sea _Richard Hovey_ 92 + The World is Too Much + With Us _William Wordsworth_ 94 + Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 94 + Song of the Sea _Richard Burton_ 95 + Farewell _Katherine Tynan_ 96 + The Return _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 97 + The Port o’ Heart’s Desire _John Steven McGroarty_ 99 + Sea-Urge _Unknown_ 100 + The Ocean _Lord Byron_ 100 + A Song of Desire _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ 102 + A Sea Change _Dorothy Peace_ 103 + Twilight At Sea _Amelia C. Welby_ 103 + Sea-Song _Martha Haskell Clark_ 104 + Deep Down _James Stuart Montgomery_ 104 + + + _The Winds of Heaven_ + + Do You Fear the Wind? _Hamlin Garland_ 109 + Hark to the Shouting Wind _Henry Timod_ 109 + Who Has Seen the Wind? _Christina Rossetti_ 110 + Wind _John Galsworthy_ 110 + The Sea-Wind _Arthur Ketchum_ 111 + I Meant to Do My Work + Today _Richard Le Gallienne_ 111 + That Wind is Best _Caroline Atherton Mason_ 112 + Happy Wind _William H. Davies_ 112 + Wind-Litany _Margaret Widdemer_ 113 + A Morning _Theodosia Garrison_ 114 + The Wind’s Life _Harry Kemp_ 115 + The Mystic _Cale Young Rice_ 115 + + + _The Hill-born_ + + The Cry of the Hillborn _Bliss Carman_ 119 + Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 120 + Hills _Arthur Guiterman_ 121 + Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_ 122 + Hill Hunger _Joseph Auslander_ 124 + Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 125 + The Hills _Theodosia Garrison_ 125 + On a Hill _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ 126 + + + _Traveller’s Joy_ + + Traveller’s Joy _Arthur Ketchum_ 131 + Ellis Park _Helen Hoyt_ 132 + Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_ 133 + The Going of His Feet _Harry Kemp_ 134 + Down East and Up Along _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 135 + The Joys of the Road _Bliss Carman_ 136 + Song of the Open _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 139 + Rebellion _Stephen Chalmers_ 140 + The Tree-Top Road _May Riley Smith_ 142 + Early Morning at Bargis _Hermann Hagedorn_ 143 + Denial _Lancaster Pollard_ 144 + “A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 144 + Journey _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 145 + The Sojourner _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 146 + Traveller’s Rest _C. Fox-Smith_ 147 + Far From the Madding Crowd _Nixon Waterman_ 148 + Streams _Clinton Scollard_ 149 + The Call _Edgar A. Guest_ 150 + The Road that Leads to + Home _Ethel E. Mannin_ 150 + + + _Echoes from Vagabondia_ + + Wanderthirst _Gerald Gould_ 155 + The Vagabond _Edgar A. Guest_ 155 + Gipsy Song _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 156 + The Road to Vagabondia _Dana Burnet_ 157 + Gipsy Feet _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 158 + A Strip of Blue _Lucy Larcom_ 160 + Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_ 161 + The Wander Lure _Kendall Banning_ 162 + Comrades of the Trail _Mary Carolyn Davies_ 163 + The Vagrant _Pauline Slender_ 164 + The Gipsy Wedding _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 165 + The Vagabond at Home _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ 165 + The Gipsy Trail _Rudyard Kipling_ 166 + St. Bartholomew’s on + the Hill _Bliss Carman_ 168 + Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 169 + A Vagabond Song _Bliss Carman_ 171 + Have You? _Harry M. Dean_ 171 + Gypsy-Heart _Katherine Lee Bates_ 172 + A More Ancient Mariner _Bliss Carman_ 173 + Vagabonds _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 175 + The Gypsying _Theodosia Garrison_ 175 + The Mendicants _Bliss Carman_ 176 + The Beloved Vagabond _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 177 + The Secret Voices _Ethel E. Mannin_ 178 + + + _The Changing Year_ + + Turn O’ The Year _Katherine Tynan_ 183 + April Music _Clinton Scollard_ 183 + The Year’s Awakening _Thomas Hardy_ 184 + Spring’s Answer _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 185 + Morning Song _Lancaster Pollard_ 186 + April Weather _Bliss Carman_ 186 + The Runaway _Cale Young Rice_ 188 + Spring Market _Louise Driscoll_ 189 + Song in March _Clinton Scollard_ 190 + Flower Chorus _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 191 + April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_ 192 + The Secret _John Richard Moreland_ 193 + Spring _Norman Gale_ 193 + April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 194 + Renewal _Charles Hanson Towne_ 195 + April _Theodosia Garrison_ 195 + The Immortal _Cale Young Rice_ 196 + Spring _Richard Hovey_ 196 + Blind _Harry Kemp_ 199 + Spring Song _Bliss Carman_ 200 + The Sweet, Low Speech of + the Rain _Ella Higginson_ 203 + Early Spring _Alfred Tennyson_ 205 + Spring _Henry Timrod_ 206 + April, April _William Watson_ 208 + April Rain _Robert Loveman_ 209 + April _Emily Dickinson_ 210 + April Morning _George Elliston_ 210 + May-Lure _Richard Burton_ 211 + Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 212 + The Throstle _Alfred Tennyson_ 212 + Tell All the World _Harry Kemp_ 213 + Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_ 213 + The Naturalist on a + June Sunday _Leonora Speyer_ 215 + Summer _Richard Burton_ 216 + Autumn _Emily Dickinson_ 218 + Overtones _William Alexander Percy_ 218 + Carouse _Charles Hanson Towne_ 219 + A Song in Autumn _Theodosia Garrison_ 219 + An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_ 220 + September _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 223 + Days Like These _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_ 224 + Indian Summer _Emily Dickinson_ 225 + The Deserted Pasture _Bliss Carman_ 226 + The Coming of Dawn _Grace Atherton Dennen_ 227 + Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_ 228 + November in England _Thomas Hood_ 228 + The Hound _Babette Deutsch_ 229 + + + _Sky-Born Music_ + + Let Me Go Where’er I Will _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 233 + Pippa’s Song _Robert Browning_ 233 + The Whisper of Earth _Edward J. O’Brien_ 234 + Sunrise _Edgar A. Guest_ 234 + Prayer Before Poems _Ann Blackwell Payne_ 235 + How Miracles Abound _Clinton Scollard_ 236 + Little Things _Orrick Johns_ 236 + Clouds and Sky _Lancaster Pollard_ 237 + My Heart Leaps Up When + I Behold _William Wordsworth_ 238 + The Marshes _Sidney Lanier_ 238 + Song _John Vance Cheney_ 239 + Out-of-Doors _Ethel E. Mannin_ 239 + The Whole Duty of Berkshire + Brooks _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 240 + A Word with A Skylark _Sarah Piatt_ 241 + The Perilous Light _Eva Gore-Booth_ 241 + Folly _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_ 243 + One Blackbird _Harold Monro_ 243 + A Rune of Riches _Florence Converse_ 244 + The Picture _Frederick O. Sylvester_ 245 + “Sic Vita” _William Stanley Braithwaite_ 245 + A Blackbird Suddenly _Joseph Auslander_ 246 + Credo _Vera Wheatley_ 247 + Gospel of the Fields _Arthur Upson_ 247 + The Welcome _Arthur Powell_ 248 + Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_ 249 + God’s World _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 249 + Rain _Kenneth Slade Alling_ 250 + The Lark _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 250 + Farewell _Harry Kemp_ 251 + The Comfort of the Stars _Richard Burton_ 251 + The Last Hour _Ethel Clifford_ 252 + Wasted Hours _Medora Addison_ 253 + God is at the Anvil _Lew Sarett_ 253 + + + _The End of The Trail_ + + Hesperides _Harry Kemp_ 257 + Changeless _Martha Haskell Clark_ 257 + Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_ 258 + If All the Skies _Henry van Dyke_ 259 + “Gratias Ago” _Geoffrey Howard_ 260 + Song of Ballyshannon _Jeanne Robert Foster_ 261 + A Song of the Road _Fred G. Bowles_ 263 + After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 263 + The Wanderer _Zoe Akins_ 264 + The Trumpet of the Dawn _Clinton Scollard_ 265 + Shared _Lucy Larcom_ 265 + Up-Hill _Christina Rossetti_ 266 + The Epitaph _Katherine Tynan_ 267 + + + + +_Copyright Acknowledgments_ + + +The editor expresses his keen appreciation to the many poets and their +publishers, who have so generously coöperated in the preparation of +this volume by granting permission to include copyright material. + +All rights to the poems are reserved by the legal holders of the +copyrights. + +To D. Appleton & Company for “Spring on the Off-Trail,” from _Songs of +the Stalwart_, by Grantland Rice. + +To _The Atlantic Monthly_, for “Hill Hunger,” and “A Blackbird +Suddenly,” by Joseph Auslander. + +To Richard A. Badger for “Traveller’s Joy,” “The Sea Wind,” +“Countersign,” by Arthur Ketchum. + +To Barse & Hopkins for “The Call of the Wild,” by Robert Service. + +To Alfred Bartlett, for “September,” “The Gipsy Wedding,” “Gipsy Song,” +“Upon Us Vagabonds,” “Song of the Open,” “The Sojourner,” “A la Belle +Étoile,” “A Conversation,” “Lavender for Old Loves,” by Sara Hamilton +Birchall. + +To Ernest Benn, Limited, (London), for “The Blackbird,” “The Lilac,” by +Humbert Wolfe. + +To Brentano’s, Inc., for “Behind the Closed Eye,” “Farewell,” “The +Winds of Life,” “Blind,” “Tell All the World,” “The Going of His Feet,” +by Harry Kemp. + +To Jonathan Cape, Limited, (London) for “Happy Wind,” “Dreams of the +Sea,” by W. H. Davies. + +To The Century Company, for “The Immortal,” “As the Tide Comes in,” +“The Runaway,” by Cale Young Rice. + +To _Christian Endeavor World_ for “Changeless,” by Martha Haskell Clark. + +To _The Churchman_, for “Traveller’s Joy,” and “Sea Wind,” by Arthur +Ketchum. + +To _Cincinnati Times-Star_, for “April Morning,” by George Elliston. + +To _Contemporary Verse_, for “Wasted Hours,” by Medora Addison; +“Walking at Night,” by Amory Hare; “Rain,” by Kenneth Slade Alling; +“Sea Longing,” by Harold Vinal; “Two Old Men,” by Louise Driscoll. + +To the Cornhill Publishing Company, for “The House of the Trees,” by +Ethelwyn Wetherald. + +To _Country Life_ (London) for “Dawn,” by Isabel Butchart. + +To Dodd, Mead & Company, for “The Sea,” by Nora Hopper; “I Meant to Do +My Work Today,” by Richard Le Gallienne; “Walking at Night,” by Amory +Hare. + +To George H. Doran Company, for “Traveller’s Rest,” from _Sailor Town_ +by C. Fox-Smith, copyright 1919, by George Doran Company, publishers; +“Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” “Renewal,” from _World of Windows_ +by Charles Hanson Towne. + +To Dorrance & Company for “Deep-Water Men,” “Deep Down,” from _Songs of +Men_, by James Stuart Montgomery. + +To E. P. Dutton & Company for “The Dandelions,” by Helen Gray Cone; +“The Naturalist on a June Sunday,” “ABC’s in Green,” by Leonora Speyer. + +To Federal National Bank, Boston, for “The Cry of the Dreamer,” by John +Boyle O’Reilly. + +To Forbes & Company for “Far From the Madding Crowd,” by Nixon Waterman. + +To _Good Housekeeping_ for “The Sea Road,” and “Sea Song,” by Martha +Haskell Clark. + +To Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. for “Sea Call” from _Cross Currents_ +by Margaret Widdemer, copyright 1921, by Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + +To Harper Bros. for “Afternoon on a Hill,” “God’s World,” “Journey,” by +Edna St. Vincent Millay. + +To Hodder & Stoughton, Limited, (London), for “Credo,” by Vera Wheatley. + +To Henry Holt & Company for “Wind Litany,” by Margaret Widdemer; “God +Is At His Anvil,” by Lew Sarett; “The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks,” +“After Sunset,” by Grace Hazard Conkling. + +To Houghton Mifflin Company for “A Strip of Blue” and “Is It Raining, +Little Flower,” by Lucy Larcom; “The Singer’s Quest” by Odell Shepard; +“Rhodora,” “Flower Chairs,” “Let Me Go Where’er I Will,” by Ralph Waldo +Emerson. + +To B. W. Huebsch, Inc., for “On the Hill,” by Irene Rutherford McLeod. + +To Mitchell Kennerly for “The Wanderer,” by Zoe Atkins. + +To Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. for “Little Things,” by Orrick Johns; “The +Early Gods,” by Witter Bynner. + +To J. L. Lippincott Company, for “April Rain,” by Robert Loveman. + +To Little, Brown & Company, for “Autumn,” “The Robin,” “April,” “Indian +Summer,” by Emily Dickinson. + +To Longmans, Green & Co. (London) for “A Word With a Skylark,” by Sarah +Piatt. + +To Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” “Comfort +of the Stars,” and “Song of the Sea,” by Richard Burton. + +To _The Lyric West_ for “The Coming of Dawn,” by Grace C. Dennen. + +To The Macmillan Company for “Grace for Gardens,” by Louise Driscoll; +“Sea-Fever,” “A Wanderer’s Song,” by John Masefield; “Up a Hill and a +Hill,” “Gipsy Feet,” by Fannie Stearns Davis; “The Sweet, Low Speech of +the Rain,” by Ella Higginson. + +To Macmillan & Co. Ltd. (London) for “My Garden,” by T. E. Brown. + +To McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, Limited, for “Wanderlust,” by Isabel +Mackay. + +To Thomas B. Mosher for “Birds of the Air They Sing it,” and “The +Charm is Working Now,” by John Vance Cheney, “The Undersong,” by Fiona +Macleod, “The Lark” and “April Weather,” by Lizette Woodworth Reese. + +To L. C. Page & Company for “Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea,” “Afoot,” by +Charles G. D. Roberts. + +To _Poetry_ for “Early Morn at Barges,” by Hermann Hagedorn; “Ellis +Park,” by Helen Hoyt. + +To G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for “The Country Faith,” “Spring,” “All the +Lanes are Lyric,” from _The Country Muse_ by Norman Gale; “April,” “The +Gipsying,” “The Green Inn,” “A Song of Autumn,” “A City Voice,” “The +Poplars,” “The Hills,” “A Morning,” by Theodosia Garrison. + +To Reilly & Lee Co., for “The Call,” “God Made This Day For Me,” +“Fishing,” “City Weary,” “The Vagabond,” by Edgar A. Guest. + +To _The Roycroft Magazine_ for “The Road that Leads to Home,” by Ethel +E. Mannin. + +To Charles Scribner’s Sons for “The Road That Leads to Nowhere,” by +Corrinne Roosevelt Robinson; “Homesick,” by Julia C. R. Dorr; “The +Wind,” by John Galsworthy; “The Trees and the Master” and “Marshes of +Glynn” (Extract), by Sidney Lanier; “Trees,” “Of All the Skies,” by +Henry van Dyke. + +To Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. (London), for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the +Year,” and “The Epitaph,” by Katherine Tynan; “Wanderthirst,” by Gerald +Gould. + +To Small, Maynard & Co., for “The Whisper of Earth,” by Edward +J. O’Brien; “Clover,” by John B. Tabb; “Camping Song,” “Trees,” +“April Weather,” “An Autumn Garden,” “The Cry of the Hillborn,” +“Daisies,” “The Joys of the Road,” “A Vagabond’s Song,” “Spring Song,” +“Marigolds,” “A More Ancient Mariner,” “The Mendicants,” “A Song of the +Sea,” “St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill,” “The Deserted Pasture,” by Bliss +Carman; “Comrades” (Extracts), “Spring” (Extracts), “The Faun,” “Short +Beach,” “Hunting Song,” “Seaward” (Extracts), by Richard Hovey. + +To the _Boston Evening Transcript_ for “Prayer Before Poems,” by Anne +Blackwell Payne. + +To _The Christian Century_ for “Spring’s Answer,” by Edwin Osgood +Grover. + +To _Country Life in America_ for “Down East and Up Along,” by Edwin +Osgood Grover. + +To _The Chicago Tribune_ for “Sea Magic.” + +To Yale University Press, for “Overtones,” from _In April Once_, by +William Alexander Percy; and “Good Company,” from _Blue Smoke_ by Karle +Wilson Baker. + +To Jonathan Cape, Ltd. for “Happy Wind” and “Dreams of the Sea,” by W. +H. Davies. + +The following individuals have also given their permission for the use +of copyright material, and the editor’s thanks are due them personally. + +To Joseph Auslander for “Hill-Hunger,” “A Blackbird Suddenly.” + +To Kendall Banning for “Wander-Lure.” + +To Katherine Lee Bates for “Gipsy-Heart.” + +To C. G. Blanden for “A Song the Grass Sings.” + +To William Stanley Braithwaite for “Sic Vita” from _The House Of +Falling Leaves_. + +To Dana Burnet for “The Road to Vagabondia.” + +To Richard Burton for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” (Extracts) “Comfort +of the Stars,” “Song of the Sea.” + +To Witter Bynner for “The Early Gods” and “A Phœbe Bird.” + +To Stephen Chalmers for “The Tree-Top Road.” + +To Eugene F. Clark for “The Sea Road,” “Changeless,” “Black Ashes,” +“Sea Song,” by Martha Haskell Clark. + +To Mary Carolyn Davies for “Comrades of the Trail.” + +To Babette Deutsch for “The Hound.” + +To Louise Driscoll, for “The Spring Market” and “Two Old Men.” + +To Ella Elizabeth Egbert for “Days Like These.” + +To George Elliston for “April Morning.” + +To Jeanne Robert Foster for “Song of Ballyshannon.” + +To Hamlin Garland for “The Toil of the Trail,” “Do You Fear the Wind?” + +To Charlotte Perkins Gilman for “Tree-Feelings.” + +To Eva Gore-Booth, “The Perilous Light,” from manuscript; “The Waves of +Breffny.” + +To Gerald Gould for “Wanderthirst.” + +To Arthur Guiterman for “The Hills” from _The Mirthful Lyre_. + +To Hermann Hagedorn, for “Early Morning at Bargis.” + +To Ella Higginson for “The Sweet Low Speech of the Rain.” + +To Julian Hovey for “Seaward,” (Extracts) by Richard Hovey. + +To Arthur Ketchum for “The Sea-Wind,” “Traveller’s Joy.” + +To Leslie Nelson Jennings for “Highways.” + +To Orrick Johns, for “Little Things.” + +To Ruth Kauffman for “Vagabond.” + +To Theda Kenyon for “In the Garden.” + +To Georgiana Goddard King for “Song.” + +To Louis Loveman for “April Rain” by Robert Loveman. + +To Ethel E. Mannin for “Ship-Love,” “The Road that Leads to Home,” “The +Secret Voices,” “Out-of-Doors.” + +To Edwin Markham for “A Prayer.” + +To John Steven McGroarty for “The Port o’ Heart’s Desire” and “The +King’s Highway.” + +To Edward J. O’Brien for “The Whisper of Earth.” + +To Lancaster Pollard for “Denial,” “Morning Song,” “April’s Coming,” +“Clouds and Sky.” + +To Lizette Woodworth Reese for “The Lark.” + +To Cole Young Rice for “As the Tide Comes In,” “The Mystic,” “The +Runaway,” “The Immortal.” + +To Jessie B. Rittenhouse for “The Green Tree in the Fall.” + +To Clinton Scollard for “Streams,” “Sunflowers,” “April Music,” “Song +in March,” “The Trumpet of the Dawn.” + +To May Riley Smith for “Sorrow in a Garden,” “The Tree-Top Road.” + +To Leonora Speyer for “A B C’s in Green,” and “The Naturalist on a June +Sunday.” + +To W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez for “Road Song,” “The Beloved Vagabond.” + +To Charles Hanson Towne for “Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” +“Renewal.” + +To Katherine Tynan for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the Year” and “The +Epitaph.” + +To Vera Wheatley for “Credo.” + +To Humbert Wolfe for “The Lilac,” “The Blackbird.” + +To William Watson for “April, April.” + + + + +_The Lure of the Road_ + + + + + _I, too, have heard the insistent call of bird and wind and sun; + I, too, have heard the little brooks low calling as they run; + I, too, have heard the summons far, of sea gulls in the rain-- + And lo, my heart is home once more, here on the coast of Maine._ + + E. O. G. + + + + +_A Wanderer’s Song_ + + + A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels, + I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; + I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land, + Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand. + + Oh, I’ll be going, leaving the noises of the street, + To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; + To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, + Oh, I’ll be going, going, until I meet the tide. + + And first I’ll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, + The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, + The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out, + And then the heart of me’ll know I’m there or thereabout. + + Oh, I’m tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, + For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; + And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, + For a wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels. + + _John Masefield_ + + + + +_The Singer’s Quest_ + + + I’ve been wandering, listening for a song, + Dreaming of a melody, all my life long.... + The lilting tune that God sang to rock the tides asleep, + And crooned above the cradled stars before they learned to creep. + + Oh, there was laughter in it and many a merry chime, + Before He had turned moralist, grown old before His time, + And He was happy, trolling out His great blithe-hearted tune, + Before He slung the little earth beneath the sun and moon. + + But I know that somewhere that song is rolling on, + Like flutes along the midnight, like trumpets in the dawn; + It throbs across the sunset and stirs the poplar tree + And rumbles in the long low thunder of the sea. + + * * * * * + + First-love sang me one note and heart-break taught me two, + A child has told me three notes, and soon I’ll know it through; + And when I stand before the Throne I’ll hum it low and sly, + Watching for a great light of welcome in His eye, ... + + “Put a white raiment on him and a harp into his hand, + And golden sandals on his feet and tell the saints to stand + A little farther off unless they wish to hear the truth, + For this blessed lucky sinner is going to sing about my youth!” + + _Odell Shepard_ + + + + +_The Toil of the Trail_ + + + What have I gained by the toil of the trail? + I know and know well. + I have found once again the lore I had lost + In the loud city’s hell. + + I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe, + I have laid my flesh to the rain; + I was hunter and trailer and guide; + I have touched the most primitive wildness again. + + I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, + No eagle is freer than I; + No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall, + I defy the stern sky. + So long as I live these joys will remain, + I have touched the most primitive wildness again. + + _Hamlin Garland_ + + + + +_Two Old Men_ + + + _Sit-by-the-Fire_: + + Men travel far and far away + To come home on a happy day; + And even they whom the roads call + Who never know a home at all, + They dream, I think, of roads that end + At four walls with a fire and friend! + + _Foot-loose_: + + I’ve never seen a hill but I + Have dreamed a hill behind it, + Nor ever watched a falling star + Without the hope I’d find it, + And all the islands of the sea + Have known my name and called to me! + + _Sit-by-the-Fire_: + + I have planted apple trees + And eaten at my pleasure, + My house is full of memories + For an old man to treasure. + This I have and that I have, + And you may see them standing, + Silver in the dining room, + An old clock on the landing! + + _Foot-loose_: + + I have neither house nor tree, + Nor heirs alert and knowing, + The four roads of eternity + Are ways I would be going. + Vagabonding in the skies + I will not ask for Paradise! + + _Louise Driscoll_ + + + + +_The Best Road of All_ + + + I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair, + A road that is an ordered road, like a nun’s evening prayer; + But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where. + + You come upon it suddenly--you cannot seek it out; + It’s like a secret still unheard and never noised about; + But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt. + + It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver; + It follows many a broken field by many a shining river; + It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever! + + You tramp along its dusty way beneath the shadowy trees, + And hear beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees, + And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves’ litanies. + + And here’s a hedge and there’s a cot; and then, strange, sudden turns-- + A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns; + A bit of sky at evening time, the scent of hidden ferns. + + A winding road, a loitering road, the finger mark of God, + Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod. + See! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the goldenrod! + + I like a road that wanders straight; the King’s highway is fair, + And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there; + But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where. + + _Charles Hanson Towne_ + + + + +_The Cry of the Dreamer_ + + + I am tired of planning and toiling + In the crowded hives of men, + Heart-weary of building and spoiling, + And spoiling and building again, + And I long for the dear old river, + Where I dreamed my youth away; + For a dreamer lives forever, + And a toiler dies in a day. + + I am sick of the showy seeming, + Of life that is half a lie; + Of the faces lined with scheming + In the throng that hurries by; + From the sleepless thought’s endeavor + I would go where the children play; + For a dreamer lives forever, + And a thinker dies in a day. + + I can feel no pride, but pity, + For the burdens the rich endure; + There is nothing sweet in the city + But the patient lives of the poor. + Oh, the little hands too skillful, + And the child-mind choked with weeds! + The daughter’s heart grown willful + And the father’s heart that bleeds! + + No! No! from the streets’ rude bustle, + From trophies of mart and stage, + I would fly to the wood’s low rustle + And the meadows’ kindly page. + Let me dream as of old by the river, + And be loved for my dreams alway; + For a dreamer lives forever, + And a toiler dies in a day. + + _John Boyle O’Reilly_ + + + + +_Highways_ + + + Who’s learned the lure of trodden ways, + And walked them up and down, + May love a steeple in a mist, + But cannot love a town. + + Who’s worn a bit of purple once + Can never, never lie + All smothered in a little box + When stars are in the sky. + + Who’s sipped old port in Venice glass + May thirst for better brew--He’s + drunk an amber wine of sun + And wet his mouth with dew! + + Who’s ground the grist of trodden ways-- + The gray dust and the brown-- + May love red tiling two miles off-- + But cannot love a town. + + _Leslie Nelson Jennings_ + + + + +_Afoot and Light-Hearted_ + + + Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, + Healthy, free, the world before me, + The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. + + Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I myself am good-fortune; + Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, + Strong and content I travel the open road. + + _Walt Whitman_ + + + + +_The Path that Leads to Nowhere_ + + + There’s a path that leads to Nowhere + In a meadow that I know, + Where an inland island rises + And the stream is still and slow; + There it wanders under willows + And beneath the silver green + Of the birches’ silent shadows + Where the early violets lean. + + Other pathways lead to Somewhere, + But the one I love so well + Had no end and no beginning-- + Just the beauty of the dell, + Just the windflowers and the lilies + Yellow striped as adder’s tongue, + Seem to satisfy my pathway + As it winds their sweets among. + + There I go to meet the Springtime, + When the meadow is aglow, + Marigolds amid the marshes,-- + And the stream is still and slow.-- + There I find my fair oasis, + And with care-free feet I tread + For the pathway leads to Nowhere, + And the blue is overhead! + + All the ways that lead to Somewhere + Echo with the hurrying feet + Of the Struggling and the Striving, + But the way I find so sweet + Bids me dream and bids me linger, + Joy and Beauty are its goal,-- + On the path that leads to Nowhere + I have sometimes found my soul! + + _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ + + + + +_City-Weary_ + + + Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the din of it, + Out of the bickering, out of the sin of it, + Out of the smoke of it, out of the noise of it, + Out of the pitiful, lean, leering joys of it. + Come on, let’s go + To a hilltop I know, + Where the air is washed clean, + And the trees are a-gleam + With the gold of the sun, + And there’s naught to be done + Save to lie there and look + At life’s beauties and dream. + + Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the stress of it, + Out of the paint and the powder and dress of it, + Out of the cry at the loss or the gain of it, + Out of the hurt and the grief and the pain of it. + Let’s slip away + To the fields for a day, + Where there is nothing + On counters and shelves, + Nothing to strive for, + To work or contrive for, + Let’s leave the city + And just be ourselves. + + Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the crush of it, + Out of the bedlam and out of the rush of it, + Out of the sham of it, out of the heat of it, + Out of the withering, scornful conceit of it. + Come on! Let’s go + Where the clean breezes blow, + Out where the splendors + Are all that they seem; + Let’s merely walk awhile, + Ponder and talk awhile, + Giving our souls + The full sweep of a dream. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_The Faun_ + + + I will go out to grass with that old King, + For I am weary of clothes and cooks. + I long to paddle with the throats of brooks, + To lie down with the clover + Tickling me all over, + And watch the boughs above me sway and swing. + Come, I will pluck off custom’s livery, + Nor longer be a lackey to old Time. + Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling + The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb + The wild trees for my food, and run + Through dale and upland as a fox runs free, + Laugh for cool joy and sleep i’ the warm sun,-- + And men will call me mad, like that old King. + + For I am woodland-nurtur’d, and have made + Dryads my bedfellows, + And I have played + With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools + And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools. + And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes + Out to the forest and the crack of twigs, + The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter + Of brooks that chuckle o’er old mossy jests + And say them over to themselves, the nests + Of squirrels, and the holes the chipmunk digs, + Where through the branches the slant rays + Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground, + And th’ wind comes with blown vesture rustling after, + And through the woven lattice of crisp sound + A bird’s song lightens like a maiden’s face. + + Oh, goodly damp smell of the ground! + Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees! + Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound! + Oh, life that’s a-thrill and a-bound + With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide’s rapture of ease! + Was there ever a weary heart in the world? + A lag in the body’s urge, or a flag of the spirit’s wing? + Did a man’s heart ever break + For a lost hope’s sake? + For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things. + Ay, this old oak, gray-grown and knurled, + Solemn and sturdy and big, + Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest, + As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig + And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest. + + _Richard Hovey_ + + + + +_The Call of the Wild_[1] + + + Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, + Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, + Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, + Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? + Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream + streaking through it, + Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? + Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it; + Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. + + Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation, + The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? + Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, + And learned to know the desert’s little ways? + Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges, + Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? + Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? + Then listen to the wild--it’s calling you. + + Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? + (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) + Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, + Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? + Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, + Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? + And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? + Then hearken to the Wild--it’s wanting you. + + Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, grovelled down, + yet grasped at glory, + Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? + “Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, + Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? + Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders? + (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.) + The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things-- + Then listen to the Wild,--it’s calling you. + + They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, + They have soaked you in convention through and through; + They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching-- + But can’t you hear the Wild?--it’s calling you. + Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; + Let us journey to a lonely land I know. + There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us, + And the Wild is calling, calling ... let us go. + + _Robert W. Service_ + +[1] From “The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses” by Robert W. +Service. Copyright by Barse & Hopkins, Newark, N. J. + + + + +_A City Voice_ + + + Outside here in the city the burning pavements lie, + There’s heat and grime and blown black dust to help the day go by, + There’s the groaning of the city like a goaded, beaten beast;-- + I know a place where God’s great trees go up to meet His sky-- + Like an army green with banners, and a happy wind released, + Goes swinging like a merry child among the branches high. + + Outside here in the city there’s a poison in the air--The + fevered, heavy hand o’ heat that smites and may not spare; + There’s little comfort in the night--there’s torment in the day;-- + I know a place where cool and deep the quiet lake lies bare, + All day about its shaded brink the wild birds dart and play, + And willows dip their finger-tips like dainty ladies there. + + Oh, the heart of me is hungering for my own, own place! + I’m tortured with the slaying heat, the dizzy headrace. + Oh, for the soft, cold touch of grass about my tired feet, + The breath of pine and cedar blown against my weary face, + The lip-lap of the water like a little song and sweet, + And God’s green trees and God’s blue skies above me for a space. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_Fishing_ + + + A day to dream + Along a stream, + The song of birds + Instead of words, + And pictures rare + Flung everywhere. + + Instead of smoke + To blind and choke, + An atmosphere + That’s sweet and clear, + The trees instead + Of chimneys red. + + A patch of sky + To rest the eye; + Instead of noise, + A thousand joys; + Instead of greed, + A kindlier creed. + + A day to dream + Along the stream, + To think and plan, + Restores a man, + And this he knows + Who fishing goes. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_Camping Song_ + + + Has your dinner lost its savor? + Has your greeting lost its cheer? + Is your daily stunt a burden? + Is your laughter half a sneer? + There’s a medicine to cure you, + There’s a way to lift your load, + With a horse and a saddle and a mile of open road. + + Is your eyeball growing bilious? + Is your temper getting short? + Is this life a blind delusion, + Or a grim, unlovely sport? + There’s a world of health and beauty, + There’s a help that cannot fail, + In a day behind the burros + On a dusty mountain trail. + + Come out, old man, we’re going + To a land that’s free and large, + Where the rainless skies are resting + On a snowy mountain marge. + When we camp in God’s own country, + You will find yourself again, + With a fire and a blanket and the stars upon the plain! + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Green Inn_ + + + The roof is high and arched and blue, + The floor is spread with pine; + On my four walls the sunlight falls + In golden flecks and fine; + And swift and fleet on noiseless feet + The Four Winds bring me wine. + + Here none may mock an empty purse + Or ragged coat and poor, + But Silence waits within the gates, + And Peace beside the door; + The weary guest is welcomest, + The richest pays no score. + + * * * * * + + Oh, you who in the House of Strife + Quarrel and game and sin, + Come out and see what cheer may be + For starveling souls and thin + Who come at last from drought and fast + To sit in God’s Green Inn. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_Wanderlust_ + + + The highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all, + And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call; + Only the call of the long white road to the far horizon’s wall. + + The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night of June, + And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon; + Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon! + + The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze fierce and bold, + And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told; + Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old. + + _Isabel Ecclestone Mackay_ + + + + +_Song_[2] + + + Something calls and whispers, along the city street, + Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, + And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine. + The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine. + + Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near + The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. + Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, + The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea. + + Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, + On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, + But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, + The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled. + + _Georgiana Goddard King_ + +[2] From “The Way of Perfect Love.” + + + + +_In City Streets_ + + + Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for sleeping, + Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; + Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, + And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. + Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, + (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) + Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, + Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! + + London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting + ’Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! + London water’s wine, poured out for all unstinting-- + God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! + + Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, + Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! + Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown burns flowing + Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells. + + _Ada Smith_ + + + + +“_Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books_” + + + Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; + Or surely you’ll grow double: + Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; + Why all this toil and trouble? + + The sun, above the mountain’s head, + A freshening lustre mellow + Through all the long green fields has spread, + His first sweet evening yellow. + + Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife: + Come, hear the woodland linnet, + How sweet his music! on my life, + There’s more of wisdom in it. + + And hark! how blithe the throstle sings, + He, too, is no mean preacher: + Come forth into the light of things, + Let Nature be your Teacher. + + She has a world of ready wealth, + Our minds and hearts to bless-- + Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, + Truth breathed by cheerfulness. + + One impulse from a vernal wood + May teach you more of man, + Of moral evil and of good, + Than all the sages can. + + Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; + Our meddling intellect + Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- + We murder to dissect. + + Enough of Science and of Art; + Close up these barren leaves; + Come forth, and bring with you a heart + That watches and receives. + + _William Wordsworth_ + + + + +_Road Song_ + + + It’s home for me and a snug roof-tree + When frosts hold the earth in thrall, + But it’s hey, I say, for the broad highway, + When the young year’s voices call. + ’Tis then I would be rolling off, + A-bowling off, a-strolling off-- + An errant leaf bound whitherward + The wind of fancy wills; + ’Tis then I would be going off, + A-whirling off, a-blowing off + Along the road that leads away + Beyond the purple hills. + + ’Twas hearth and home when the sky’s gray dome + Hung low and the north wind skirled; + Now it’s hey for the reel of the out-bound keel, + And it’s ho for the great round world. + ’Tis now I would be roving off + A-shoving off, a-moving off + To where the far horizon shows + Mysterious and dim; + It’s time that I was shipping off + A-rising and a-dipping off + To strange and unknown ports that lie + Below the round world’s rim. + + Oh, some were made for peaceful shade + Of their vine and their own fig tree, + But marked of fate with the gipsy trait, + It’s the open road for me. + And so I would be pushing on, + A-trekking on, a-mushing on, + And leave the old well-trodden trails + Long merry miles behind. + ’Tis joyful I’d go swinging off, + A-whooping and a-singing off, + As goal-less as a vagrant crow + A-winging down the wind. + + _James Stuart Montgomery_ + + + + +_Walking at Night_ + + + My face is wet with the rain + But my heart is warm to the core, + For I follow at will again + The road that I loved of yore; + And the dim trees beat the dark, + And the swelling ditches moan, + But my heart is a singing, soaring lark + For I travel the road alone. + Alone in the living night + Away from the babble of tongues; + Alone with the old delight + Of the night wind in my lungs; + And the wet air on my cheeks + And the warm blood in my veins, + Alone with the joy he knows who seeks + The thresh of the young spring rains, + With the smell of the pelted earth, + The tearful drip of the trees, + Making him dream of the sound of mirth + That comes with the clearing breeze. + ’Tis a rare and wondrous sight + To tramp the wet awhile + And watch the slow delight + Of the sun’s first pallid smile, + And hear the meadows breathe again + And see the far woods turn green, + Drunk with the glory of wind and rain + And the sun’s warm smile between! + I have made me a vagrant song, + For my heart is warm to the core, + And I’m glad, oh, glad that the night is long + For I travel the road once more. + And the dim trees beat the dark + And the swelling ditches moan, + With the joy of the singing, soaring lark + I travel the road, alone! + + _Amory Hare_ + + + + +_Road Song_ + + + Give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, + And the winds of heaven to winnow me through, and a + brother tramp to greet, + With an Inn at the end of day for rest, and the world may + keep its bays-- + For these are the gifts of the wayside gods, and the gifts + that I would praise. + + Come from the murk of your city streets to the tent of all the world, + When your final word on Art is said, and your flag of Faith is furled, + When your heart no longer gives a throb at the first faint + breath of Spring-- + Ah, turn your feet to the ribbon-road with a chorus all may sing! + + * * * * * + + Then give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, + And a dog to tell my secrets to, and a brother tramp to meet-- + And the years may take their toll of me till I come to the weary West, + And I lodge for good in the world’s own Inn, a wayworn, waiting guest! + + _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ + + + + +_A Song of the Open Road_ + + + The old Earth-Mother calls us, + And we hearken unto her cry, + For we dare not question her bidding + Lest we sicken and droop and die. + The spirit of change is burning + As a fever in heart and brain. + In the ranks of the Free Companions + We must take to the road again. + + We have lain in the tents of the dwellers; + We have ta’en of their drink and food; + We, that were weary, have slumbered, + Have slumbered and found rest good. + We have kissed the lips of their maidens, + From their kin we have chosen our brides; + But the summons has come from the Mother, + And no one who hears it abides. + + We do the will of the Mother, + We bow to the Word she sends, + Though we know not whither we journey, + Nor the goal where the journey ends. + On the quest of the Strange Adventure + We sally, hand-in-hand, + As the men of the days nomadic + When the hunter was lord in the land. + + The winds a-sweep through the forests + Shall brace our souls for the march, + The balm of the dews descending + Shall chasten the heats that parch. + Through vista of brakes entangled + The stars shall guide, in the night, + By day the sun shall quicken + The pulse of our life’s delight. + + Ho! for the zest of travel, + The wayfarer’s romance, + The joy of the unexpected, + The hope of the noble chance. + We have girded our feet with sandals, + We carry the pilgrim’s load. + In the ranks of the Free Companions + We take to the open road. + + _Louis J. McQuilland_ + + + + +_A Maine Trail_ + + + Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, + The trail, a-teasing by, + Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, + Trim barns and farm-house shy, + Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, + Through pastures bare and wild, + Oh come, let’s fare to the heart-o’-the-wood + With the faith of a little child. + + Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp + Where late the laurel shone, + An intimate close where you meet yourself + And come unto your own, + By bouldered brook to the hidden spring + Where breath of ferns blows sweet + And swift birds break the silence as + Their shadows cross your feet. + + Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse + To garner the woodland glee, + To weave a garment of warm delight, + Of sun-spun ecstasy; + ’Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, + ’Twill shield your heart from cold; + Such greens!--how the Lord Himself loves green! + Such sun!--how He loves the gold! + + Then on till flaming fireweed + Is quenched in forest deep; + Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss + Is spread for Dryads’ sleep; + And list ten thousand thousand spruce + Lift up their voice to God--We + can a little understand, + Born of the self-same sod. + + Oh, come, the welcoming trees lead on, + Their guests are we to-day; + Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, + Gay mushrooms mark the way; + The silence is a courtesy, + The well-bred calm of kings; + Come haste! the hour sets its face + Unto great Happenings. + + _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_ + + + + +_The Spell of the Pool_ + + + There’s a crystal-arrowed riffle at the turning of the river, + There’s a waterfall where nature teaches school, + There’s a bank of swaying alder with each budding twig aquiver-- + And there’s magic in the murmur of the pool! + + Can’t you see the cold, blue water as it eddies, sparkles, flashes + In the willow-shadowed reaches of the stream, + And the ever-widening ripples where the trout, in falling, splashes + As the osprey drops his quarry with a scream? + + _L. Burton Crane, Jr._ + + + + +_The Lake_ + + + There is a lake--but I forget its name, + That flickers in my memory like flame! + + Guarded by Dolomites whose magic glow + Of red primeval merges into snow. + + A lake so beautiful, God gave it birth + By melting one vast emerald on earth! + + A lake so strange, that, did its waters part, + Undine would be enshrined within its heart. + + And as with lovely sound the air may fill, + Though chords are hushed and all the strings be still, + + So will this lake--but I forget its name-- + Flicker within my memory like flame! + + _Eleanour Norton_ + + + + +_The Great Outdoors_ + + + O great outdoors, without floors, + Or walls, or roofs, or bounds, + Grant this day that I may stray + Amidst thy plains and mounds, + Let me be among the free + That climb thy purple hills; + Let me breathe the scents that wreathe + Thy violet bordered rills: + Let thy sun, till day be done, + Shine from out thy great blue sky; + Let thy starlight and the still night + Soothe my rest when down I lie; + Let the shadows cool the meadows, + And the night sounds whisper low, + In the stillness of thy valleys + Where the waters lap and flow. + + _Maud Russell_ + + + + +_Come, Spur Away!_ + + + Come, spur away, + I have no patience for a longer stay, + But must go down + And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: + I will the country see, + Where old simplicity, + Though hid in gray, + Doth look more gay + Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. + Farewell, you city wits, that are + Almost at civil war-- + ’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. + + * * * * * + + Ours is the sky, + Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: + Nor will we spare + To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; + But let our hounds run loose + In any ground they’ll choose; + The buck shall fall, + The stag, and all. + Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, + For to my Muse, if not to me, + I’m sure all game is free: + Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. + + _Thomas Randolph_ + + + + +_Hunting Song_ + + + Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, + When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) + With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, + And a ten-tined buck to kill! + + Before the sun goes down, goes down, + We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) + And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison, + When we come home again. + + Let him that loves his ease, his ease, + Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) + We’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger + And the joy of the open air. + + But he that loves the hills, the hills, + Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) + For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, + And the hunt’s up, and away! + + _Richard Hovey_ + + + + +_The Call_ + + + Have you heard the calling, calling, of the Distance, + Through the purple reaches where the mountains wait; + With Dreamland round their shoulders, where the sunset fire smoulders-- + Oh, the guarding Distance calls us from their gate. + + In the morning it entices with the sunrise, + In the evening it is urging through the gold; + We must heed the sweet insistence, for this mystic blue-veiled Distance + Hides our wished-for land of Dreams within its hold. + + We will cinch the saddle tighter, tie the strings of wide sombrero, + While the mists about the top are gray and dim; + With the eager trail uptrending, and the morning sky low bending-- + Oh, the evening star will we see o’er the rim. + + When the wind blows thin and keen about the summit, + And the camp-fire sparkles warm upon the brim, + On a couch of pine boughs fragrant, who would scorn to be a vagrant, + And follow when the Distance calls to him? + + _Cora D. Fenton_ + + + + +_The King’s Highway_ + +“El Camino Real” + + + All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, + You and I together, on the King’s Highway, + The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; + There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me. + + It’s a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world-- + There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled, + And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, + Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. + + It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old, + And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; + They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold that trod + From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. + + They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold of old; + Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; + But you and I together we will take the road to-day, + With the breath in our nostrils, on the King’s Highway. + + We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow, + And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; + We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay, + And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray. + + We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree, + Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, + And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, + Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. + + Old Conquistadores, oh, brown priests and all, + Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; + There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day, + With the breath of God about us on the King’s Highway. + + _John Steven McGroarty_ + + + + +_God Made This Day For Me_ + + + Jes’ the sort o’ weather and jes’ the sort o’ sky + Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin’ by + On a sea o’ smooth blue water. Oh, I ain’t an egotist, + With an “I” in all my thinkin’, but I’m willin’ to insist + That the Lord that made us humans and the birds in every tree + Knows my special sort o’ weather an’ He made this day fer me. + + This is jes’ my style o’ weather--sunshine floodin’ all the place, + An’ the breezes from the eastward blowin’ gently on my face. + An’ the woods chock-full o’ singin’ till you’d think birds never had + A single care to fret ’em or a grief to make ’em sad. + Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, + An’ tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me. + + It’s my day, sky an’ sunshine, an’ the temper o’ the breeze, + Here’s the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please-- + Beauty dancin’ all around me, music ringin’ everywhere, + Like a weddin’ celebration. Why I’ve plumb fergot my care + An’ the tasks I should be doin’ fer the rainy days to be + While I’m huggin’ the delusion that God made this day fer me. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_The Country Faith_ + + + Here in the country’s heart + Where the grass is green + Life is the same sweet life + As it e’er hath been. + + Trust in a God still lives, + And the bell at morn + Floats with a thought of God + O’er the rising corn. + + God comes down in the rain, + And the crop grows tall-- + This is the country faith, + And the best of all! + + _Norman Gale_ + + + + +_Green Things Growing_ + + + + + _Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? + Nay, but I have a sign; + ’Tis very sure God walks in mine._ + + THOMAS E. BROWN + + + + +_Afoot_ + + + Comes the lure of green things growing, + Comes the call of waters flowing-- + And the wayfarer desire + Moves and wakes and would be going. + + Hark the migrant hosts of June + Marching nearer noon by noon! + Hark the gossip of the grasses + Bivouacked beneath the moon! + + Long the quest and far the ending + When my wayfarer is wending-- + When desire is once afoot, + Doom behind and dream attending! + + In his ears the phantom chime + Of incommunicable rhyme, + He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires + Of the Bedouins of Time. + + Farer by uncharted ways, + Dumb as death to plaint or praise, + Unreturning he shall journey, + Fellow to the nights and days; + + Till upon the outer bar + Stilled the moaning currents are, + Till the flame achieves the zenith, + Till the moth attains the star, + + Till through laughter and through tears + Fair the final peace appears, + And about the watered pastures + Sink to sleep the nomad years! + + _Charles G. D. Roberts_ + + + + +_Grace for Gardens_ + + + Lord God in Paradise, + Look upon our sowing, + Bless the little gardens + And the good green growing! + Give us sun, + Give us rain, + Bless the orchards + And the grain! + + Lord God in Paradise, + Please bless the beans and peas, + Give us corn full on the ear-- + We will praise Thee, Lord, for these! + Bless the blossom + And the root, + Bless the seed + And the fruit! + + Lord God in Paradise, + Over my brown field is seen, + Trembling and adventuring, + A miracle of green. + Send such grace + As you know, + To keep it safe + And make it grow! + + Lord God in Paradise, + For the wonder of the seed, + Wondering, we praise you, while + We tell you of our need. + Look down from Paradise, + Look upon our sowing, + Bless the little gardens + And the good green growing! + Give us sun, + Give us rain, + Bless the orchards + And the grain! + + _Louise Driscoll_ + + + + +_My Garden_ + + + A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot! + Rose plot, + Fringed pool, + Ferned grot-- + The veriest school + Of peace; and yet the fool + Contends that God is not-- + Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool! + Nay, but I have a sign; + ’Tis very sure God walks in mine. + + _Thomas E. Brown_ + + + + +_April_ + + + The charm is working, now, + On the alder bough; + Odors are afloat; + The brook has a new note; + Nightly in the silence grow + Murmurs only lovers know,-- + Love’s own minstrelsy + Beginning in the tree; + The airy hammers of the rain + Tap--are still again. + + _John Vance Cheney_ + + + + +_A Song the Grass Sings_ + + + The violet is much too shy, + The rose too little so; + I think I’ll ask the buttercup + If I may be her beau. + + When winds go by, I’ll nod to her + And she will nod to me, + And I will kiss her on the cheek + As gently as may be. + + And when the mower cuts us down, + Together we will pass, + I smiling at the buttercup, + She smiling at the grass. + + _Charles G. Blanden_ + + + + +_The Young Dandelion_ + + + I am a bold fellow + As ever was seen, + With my shield of yellow, + In the grass green. + + You may uproot me + From field and from lane, + Trample me, cull me-- + I spring up again. + + I never flinch, sir, + Wherever I dwell, + Give me an inch, sir, + I’ll soon take an ell. + + Drive me from garden, + In anger and pride, + I’ll thrive and harden + By the roadside. + + _Dinah Mulock Craik_ + + + + +_Sunflowers_ + + + My tall sunflowers love the sun, + Love the burning August noons + When the locust tunes its viol, + And the cricket croons. + + When the purple night draws on, + With its planets hung on high, + And the attared winds of slumber + Wander down the sky. + + Still my sunflowers love the sun, + Keep their ward and watch and wait + Till the rosy key of morning + Opes the eastern gate. + + Then, when they have deeply quaffed + From the brimming cups of dew, + You can hear their golden laughter + All the garden through! + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_Wishing_ + + + Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, + A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring! + The stooping boughs above me, + The wandering bee to love me, + The ferns and moss to creep across, + And the elm-tree for our king! + + Nay--stay! I wish I were an elm-tree, + A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay! + The winds would set them dancing, + The sun and moonshine glance in, + The birds would house among the boughs, + And ever sweetly sing! + + Oh--no! I wish I were a robin, + A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go; + Through forest, field, or garden, + And ask no leave or pardon, + Till winter comes with icy thumbs + To ruffle up our wings! + + _William Allingham_ + + + + +_Rain_ + + + Is it raining, little flower?-- + Be glad of rain! + Too much sun would wither thee; + ’Twill shine again. + + The sky is very black, ’tis true; + But just behind it shines the blue. + + God watches; and thou wilt have sun, + When clouds their perfect work have done. + + _Lucy Larcom_ + + + + +_To the Dandelion_ + + + Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, + Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, + First pledge of blithesome May, + Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, + High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they + An Eldorado in the grass have found, + Which not the rich earth’s ample round + May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me + Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. + + Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow + Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, + Nor wrinkled the lean brow + Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; + ’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now + To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, + Though most hearts never understand + To take it at God’s value, but pass by + The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. + + Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; + To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; + The eyes thou givest me + Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: + Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee + Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment + In the white lily’s breezy tent, + His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first + From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. + + Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, + Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, + Where, as the breezes pass, + The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, + Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, + Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue + That from the distance sparkle through + Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, + Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. + + My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; + The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, + Who, from the dark old tree + Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, + And I, secure in childish piety, + Listened as if I heard an angel sing + With news from heaven, which he could bring + Fresh every day to my untainted ears + When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. + + How like a prodigal doth nature seem, + When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! + Thou teachest me to deem + More sacredly of every human heart, + Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam + Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, + Did we but pay the love we owe, + And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look + On all these living pages of God’s book. + + _James Russell Lowell_ + + + + +_The Grass_ + + + A child said _What is the grass?_ fetching it to me with full hands; + How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. + + I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful + green stuff woven. + + Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, + A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, + Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that + we may see and remark, and say _Whose?_ + + _Walt Whitman_ + + + + +_Buttercups_ + + + There must be fairy miners + Just underneath the mould, + Such wondrous quaint designers + Who live in caves of gold. + + They take the shining metals, + And beat them into shreds; + And mould them into petals, + To make the flowers’ heads. + + Sometimes they melt the flowers + To tiny seeds like pearls, + And store them up in bowers + For little boys and girls. + + And still a tiny fan turns + Above a forge of gold, + To keep, with fairy lanterns, + The world from growing old. + + _Wilfrid C. Thorley_ + + + + +_The Lilac_ + + + Who thought of the lilac? + “I,” dew said, + “I made up the lilac + out of my head.” + + “She made up the lilac! + Pooh!” thrilled a linnet, + and each dew-note had a + lilac in it. + + _Humbert Wolfe_ + + + + +_The Hollyhocks_ + + + The hollyhocks are standing + In groups against the wall, + Engaged in conversation + With the lowly flowers small, + That gaze with admiration + On floral dames so gay, + Who wear such ruffled bonnets + Of crimson deep to-day. + + * * * * * + + The wind has paused to listen + To the dames of high degree, + And the mignonette and pansies + Are laughing with such glee! + The mullein pinks are blushing, + And the poppies say, “Oh, see, + In the dame’s gay frilled red bonnet + She has a bumblebee!” + + _Ray Laurance_ + + + + +_The Ragged Regiment_ + + + I love the ragged veterans of June, + Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display + In gardens fine,--but such as dare the noon + With saucy faces by the public way. + + Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white, + Round Dandelion, and flouncing Bouncing-Bet, + The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright, + Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset. + + Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out + From garden service, scorned and set apart,-- + There’s not one member of your ragged rout + But makes a warmth of welcome in my heart. + + _Alice Williams Brotherton_ + + + + +_Marigolds_ + + + The marigolds are nodding: + I wonder what they know. + Go, listen very gently; + You may persuade them so. + + Go, be their little brother, + As humble as the grass, + And lean upon the hill-wind, + And watch the shadows pass. + + Put off the pride of knowledge, + Put by the fear of pain; + You may be counted worthy + To live with them again. + + Be Darwin in your patience, + Be Chaucer in your love; + They may relent and tell you + What they are thinking of. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_In a Garden_ + + + Sky! + Why are you so very gay + To-day? + Dimpled with the clouds at play, + Blithe with the sun’s vivacious ray.... + Why? + + Moon! + Why do you pursue me so? + Are you whispering + That youth passes over-soon? + Don’t you know + I’ve buried you a dozen times + Behind tall buildings?--Pagan thing! + The very Churches clutch at you + With grasping spires + To tear you from the sky! + Veil with clouds your glittering + Unholy gaze!... + Virgin?... You are an aged courtesan + Leering at lovers!... leave me, leave me, then! + If you were not half-blind, you’d see + _I am alone_!... Oh, moon ... stop mocking me! + + Trees! + Murmuring to each passing breeze + Ancient mysteries-- + Flowers, + Gossiping with drowsy bees + In social, chaste amenities-- + Don’t you know my heart is breaking? + Can’t you sympathize with aching + Human misery? + Are all your little hours + Golden as these? + Or ... do you hide + Your searching, poignant tragedies, + Under the hard, bright smile of pride? + I think that I shall also go + Laughing, ... not too loudly ... + Moving with gracious step and slow, + Quietly ... proudly ... + And then, perhaps, no one will know + My heart has died! + + _Theda Kenyon_ + + + + +_The Dandelions_ + + + Upon a showery night and still, + Without a sound of warning, + A trooper band surprised the hill, + And held it in the morning. + + We were not waked by bugle-notes, + No cheer our dreams invaded, + And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats + On the green slopes paraded. + + We careless folk the deed forgot; + Till one day, idly walking, + We marked upon the self-same spot + A crowd of veterans talking. + + They shook their trembling heads and gray + With pride and noiseless laughter; + When, well-a-day! they blew away, + And ne’er were heard of after! + + _Helen Gray Cone_ + + + + +_Rhodora_ + + + Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why + This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, + Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing + Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: + Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! + I never thought to ask, I never knew: + But, in my simple ignorance, suppose + The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ + + + + +_Daisies_ + + + Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune + I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, + A host in the sunshine, an army in June, + The people God sends us to set our hearts free. + + The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, + The orioles whistled them out of the wood; + And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!” + And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.” + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Out in the Fields with God_ + + + The little cares that fretted me + I lost them yesterday + Among the fields, above the sea, + Among the winds at play, + Among the lowing of the herds, + The rustling of the trees, + Among the singing of the birds, + The humming of the bees. + + The foolish fears of what might happen, + I cast them all away, + Among the clover-scented grass, + Among the new mown hay, + Among the husking of the corn, + Where drowsy poppies nod, + Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- + Out in the fields with God. + + _Elizabeth Browning_ + + + + +_The Blackbird_ + + + In the far corner, + close by the swings, + every morning + a blackbird sings. + + His bill’s so yellow, + his coat’s so black, + that he makes a fellow + whistle back. + + Ann, my daughter, + thinks that he + sings for us two + especially. + + _Humbert Wolfe_ + + + + +_The Robin_ + + + The robin is the one + That interrupts the morn + With hurried, few, express reports + When March is scarcely on. + + The robin is the one + That overflows the noon + With her cherubic quantity, + And April but begun. + + The robin is the one + That speechless from her nest + Submits that home and certainty + And sanctity are best. + + _Emily Dickinson._ + + + + +_Clover_ + + + Little masters, hat in hand, + Let me in your presence stand, + Till your silence solve for me + This your threefold mystery. + + Tell me--for I long to know-- + How, in darkness there below, + Was your fairy fabric spun, + Spread and fashioned, three in one. + + Did your gossips gold and blue, + Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, + Ere your triple forms were seen, + Suited liveries of green? + + Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed + Captives of a prison seed-- + Like the Genie, once again + Get you back into the grain? + + Little masters, may I stand + In your presence, hat in hand, + Waiting till you solve for me + This your threefold mystery? + + _John B. Tabb_ + + + + +_A Conversation_ + + + A little road goes up the hill, + And Thistle-down says she, + “I’m off a-gipsying today, + Drift up the road with me.” + + “And sure ’tis nice to go,” says I, + “But ’tis not I will come, + For who would feed my cow and cat, + And make my wheel to hum? + + ’Tis here at home that I will bide, + And thanks to you,” says I, + So off went gipsy Thistle-down + A-drifting in the sky. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_A Yellow Pansy_ + + + To the wall of the old green garden + A butterfly quivering came; + His wings on the sombre lichens + Played like a yellow flame. + + He looked at the gay geraniums, + And the sleepy four-o’-clocks; + He looked at the low lanes bordered + With the glossy-growing box. + + He longed for the peace and the silence, + And the shadows that lengthened there, + And his wee wild heart was weary + Of skimming the endless air. + + And now in the old green garden,-- + I know not how it came,-- + A single pansy is blooming, + Bright as a yellow flame. + + And whenever a gay gust passes, + It quivers as if with pain, + For the butterfly-soul that is in it + Longs for the winds again! + + _Helen Gray Cone_ + + + + +_The Answer_ + + + Lavender for old loves, + Roses for the new, + Heliotrope for pleasure, lass, + And for sorrow, rue. + + Rosemary lest you forget.-- + Take, or let it be. + I will have the wholesome pine + And the open sea. + + Rosemary lest you forget.-- + When I come again + Up the old familiar path + In the autumn rain, + + What if you’ve forgotten, lass? + Say, what shall I do?-- + Here is heartsease by the gate + With the bitter rue. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_A Prayer_ + + + Teach me, Father, how to go + Softly as the grasses grow; + Hush my soul to meet the shock + Of the wild world as a rock; + But my spirit, propt with power, + Make as simple as a flower. + Let the dry heart fill its cup, + Like a poppy looking up; + Let life lightly wear her crown, + Like a poppy looking down. + + Teach me, Father, how to be + Kind and patient as a tree. + Joyfully the crickets croon + Under shady oak at noon; + Beetle, on his mission bent, + Tarries in that cooling tent. + Let me, also, cheer a spot, + Hidden field or garden grot-- + Place where passing souls can rest + On the way and be their best. + + _Edwin Markham_ + + + + +_The Kinship of the Trees_ + + + + + _I think I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.... + Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree._ + + JOYCE KILMER + + + + +_Tree Feelings_ + + + I wonder if they like it--being trees? + I suppose they do.... + It must feel good to have the ground so flat, + And feel yourself stand right straight up like that-- + So stiff in the middle--and then branch at ease, + Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow, + And all those fringy leaves that flutter so. + You’d think they’d break off at the lower end + When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend. + But then you think of all the roots they drop, + As much at bottom as there is on top,-- + A double tree, widespread in earth and air + Like a reflection in the water there. + + I guess they like to stand still in the sun + And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run; + And like to feel the rain run through their hair + And slide down to the roots and settle there. + But I think they like the wind best. From the light touch + That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much, + To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide, + And all the time so stiff and strong inside! + And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel + How long their roots are, and the earth how leal! + + And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost! + And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost! + And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem, + But to be apples--and bow down with them! + + _Charlotte Perkins Stetson_ + + + + +_ABC’S in Green_ + + + The trees are God’s great alphabet: + With them He writes in shining green + Across the world His thoughts serene. + + He scribbles poems against the sky + With a gay, leafy lettering, + For us and for our bettering. + + The wind pulls softly at His page, + And every star and bird + Repeats in dutiful delight His word, + And every blade of grass + Flutters to class. + + Like a slow child that does not heed, + I stand at summer’s knees, + And from the primer of the wood + I spell that life and love are good, + I learn to read. + + _Leonora Speyer_ + + + + +_O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees!_ + + + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees, + I came along your narrow track + To bring my gifts unto your knees + And gifts did you give back; + For when I brought this heart that burns-- + These thoughts that bitterly repine-- + And laid them here among the ferns + And the hum of boughs divine, + Ye, vastest breathers of the air, + Shook down with slow and mighty poise + Your coolness on the human care, + Your wonder on its toys, + Your greenness on the heart’s despair, + Your darkness on its noise. + + _Herbert Trench_ + + + + +_God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree_ + + + God, when you thought of a pine tree, + How did you think of a star? + How did you dream of a damson west, + Crossed by an inky bar? + How did you think of a dear brown pool + Where flocks of shadows are? + + God, when you thought of a cobweb, + How did you think of dew? + How did you know a spider’s house + Had spangles bright and new? + How did you know we human folk + Would love them as we do? + + God, when you patterned a bird’s song, + Flung on a silver string, + How did you know the ecstasy + That crystal call would bring? + How did you think of a bubbling throat + And a darling speckled wing? + + God, when you chiseled a raindrop, + How did you think of a stem, + Bearing a lovely satin leaf + To hold the tiny gem? + How did you know a million drops + Would deck the morning’s hem? + + Why did you mate the moonlit night + With honeysuckle vines? + How did you know madeira bloom + Distilled ecstatic wines? + How did you weave the velvet dusk + Where tangled perfumes are? + God, when you thought of a pine tree, + How did you think of a star? + + _Unknown_ + + + + +_The House of the Trees_ + + + Ope your doors and take me in, + Spirit of the wood, + Wash me clean of dust and din, + Clothe me in your mood. + + Take me from the noisy light + To the sunless peace, + Where at mid-day standeth Night + Signing Toil’s release. + + All your dusky twilight stores + To my senses give; + Take me in and lock the doors, + Show me how to live. + + Lift your leafy roof for me, + Part your yielding walls: + Let me wander lingeringly + Through your scented halls. + + Ope your doors and take me in, + Spirit of the wood; + Take me--make me next of kin + To your leafy brood. + + _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ + + + + +_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. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Trees and the Master_ + + + Into the woods my Master went, + Clean forspent, forspent. + Into the woods my Master came, + Forspent with love and shame. + But the olives, they were not blind to Him, + The little gray leaves were kind to Him, + The thorn tree had a mind to Him + When into the woods He came. + + Out of the woods my Master went, + And He was well content. + Out of the woods my Master came, + Content with death and shame. + When death and shame would woo Him last, + From under the trees they drew Him last, + ’Twas on a tree they slew Him--last + When out of the woods He came. + + _Sidney Lanier_ + + + + +_The Trees_ + + + There’s something in a noble tree-- + What shall I say? a soul? + For ’tis not form, or aught we see + In leaf or branch or bole. + Some presence, though not understood, + Dwells there alway, and seems + To be acquainted with our mood, + And mingles in our dreams. + + I would not say that trees at all + Were of our blood and race, + Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, + I sometimes think I trace + A kinship, whose far-reaching root + Grew when the world began, + And made them best of all things mute + To be the friends of man. + + Held down by whatsoever might + Unto an earthly sod, + They stretch forth arms for air and light, + As we do after God; + And when in all their boughs the breeze + Moans loud, or softly sings, + As our own hearts in us, the trees + Are almost human things. + + What wonder in the days that burned + With old poetic dream, + Dead Phaëthon’s fair sisters turned + To poplars by the stream! + In many a light cotillion stept + The trees when fluters blew; + And many a tear, ’tis said, they wept + For human sorrow too. + + Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; + They whisper each to each, + And each and all of them to us, + In varied forms of speech. + “Be serious,” the solemn pine + Is saying overhead; + “Be beautiful,” the elm-tree fine + Has always finely said; + + “Be quick to feel,” the aspen still + Repeats the whole day long; + While, from the green slope of the hill, + The oak-tree adds, “Be strong.” + When with my burden, as I hear + Their distant voices call, + I rise, and listen, and draw near, + “Be patient,” say they all. + + _Samuel Valentine Cole_ + + + + +_Three Trees_ + + + The poplar is a French tree, + A tall and laughing wench tree, + A slender tree, a tender tree, + That whispers to the rain-- + An easy, breezy flapper tree, + A lithe and blithe and dapper tree, + A girl of trees, a pearl of trees, + Beside the shallow Aisne. + + The oak is a British tree, + And not at all a skittish tree; + A rough tree, a tough tree, + A knotty tree to bruise; + A drives-his-roots-in-deep tree, + A mighty tree, a blighty tree, + A tree of stubborn thews. + + The pine tree is our own tree, + A grown tree, a cone tree, + The tree to face a bitter wind, + The tree for mast and spar-- + A mounting tree, a fine tree, + A fragrant turpentine tree, + A limber tree, a timber tree, + And resinous with tar! + + _Christopher Morley_ + + + + +_What Do We Plant?_ + + + What do we plant when we plant the tree? + We plant the ship which will cross the sea. + We plant the mast to carry the sails; + We plant the planks to withstand the gales-- + The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; + We plant the ship when we plant the tree. + + What do we plant when we plant the tree? + We plant the houses for you and me. + We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, + We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, + The beams and siding, all parts that be; + We plant the house when we plant the tree. + + What do we plant when we plant the tree? + A thousand things that we daily see; + We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, + We plant the staff for our country’s flag, + We plant the shade, from the hot sun free; + We plant all these when we plant the tree! + + _Henry Abbey_ + + + + +_Trees_ + + + Many a tree is found in the wood, + And every tree for its use is good. + Some for the strength of the gnarled root, + Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit, + Some for shelter against the storm, + And some to keep the hearthstone warm, + Some for the roof and some for the beam, + And some for a boat to breast the storm. + In the wealth of the wood since the world began, + The trees have offered their gifts to man. + + But the glory of trees is more than their gifts: + ’Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts + From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod + A column, an arch in the temple of God, + A pillar of power, a dome of delight, + A shrine of song and a joy of sight! + Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth, + Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth; + They shelter the dwellings of man, and they bend + O’er his grave with the look of a loving friend. + + I have camped in the whispering forest of pines + I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines; + In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palm, + I have found good rest and slumber’s balm. + And now, when the morning gilds the boughs + Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house, + I open the window and make a salute: + “God bless thy branches and feed thy root! + Thou hast lived before, live after me, + Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree!” + + _Henry van Dyke_ + + + + +_The Trees_ + + + Time is never wasted listening to the trees; + If to heaven so grandly we arose as these, + Holding toward each other half their kindly grace, + Haply we were worthier of our human place. + + Bending down to meet you on the hillside path, + Birch and oak and maple each his welcome hath; + Each his own fine cadence, his familiar word, + By the ear accustomed, always plainly heard. + + Every tree gives answer to some different mood, + This one helps you climbing; that for rest is good; + Beckoning friends, companions, sentinels they are; + Good to live and die with, good to greet afar. + + _Lucy Larcom_ + + + + +_Good Company_ + + + To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, + The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; + And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star + That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. + + The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk + Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; + And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke-- + _Lord, who am I that they should stoop--these holy folk of thine?_ + + _Karle Wilson Baker_ + + + + +_The Green Tree In The Fall_ + + + Did you forget to bud in Spring, + O Green Tree in the Fall, + That now you wear these fresh young leaves + As for a coronal? + + All of your mates within the wood + Are in the crimson leaf, + They had their swift, enamored spring, + Their summertime too brief. + + But you--what chance befell that you + Were cheated of the Spring, + That now you cling so fast to leaves + Wherein no bird will sing? + + My heart is with you, little tree, + For I was cheated too, + And now I grasp at what I missed + And cling as fast as you. + + _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ + + + + +_The Call of the Sea_ + + + + + _There’s the bird’s song and the wind’s song, and the song of + the leafless tree, + But, oh, the call of the sea’s song, the imperious song of the sea._ + + _There’s the song of running water, and the song of singing rain; + But, oh, the song of the masterful sea, that calls down the + coast of Maine._ + + E. O. G. + + + + +_Sea-Fever_ + + + I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, + And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, + And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, + And a gray mist on the sea’s face and a gray dawn breaking. + + I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide + Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; + And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, + And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. + + I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life, + To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s + like a whetted knife; + And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, + And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. + + _John Masefield_ + + + + +_A Son of the Sea_ + + + I was born for deep-sea faring; + I was bred to put to sea; + Stories of my father’s daring + Filled me at my mother’s knee. + + I was sired among the surges; + I was cubbed beside the foam; + All my heart is in its verges, + And the sea wind is my home. + + All my boyhood, from far vernal + Bournes of being, came to me + Dream-like, plangent, and eternal + Memories of the plunging sea. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Dreams of the Sea_ + + + I know not why I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood; + I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. + + Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel’s sides + In fury, with thy many tailèd whip; + And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee, + When Jesus walked in peace to Simon’s ship. + + And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft + As summer’s, when it makes the cornfields run; + And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale + Make ships show half their bellies to the sun. + + Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life, + Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud: + I think of that Armada whose puffed sails, + Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud. + + But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned + Lying on shore and, by thy cruel hand, + A seaweed beard was on his tender chin, + His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand. + + And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood: + I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. + + _William H. Davies_ + + + + +_Going Down in Ships_ + + + Going down to sea in ships + Is a glorious thing, + Where up and over the rolling waves + The sea-birds wing; + + Oh, there’s nothing more to my heart’s desire + Than a ship that plows + Head-on down through marching seas, + With streaming bows: + + Would you hear the song of the viewless winds + As they walk the sky? + Come down to sea when the storm is on + And the men stand by. + + Would you see the sun as it walked abroad + On God’s First Day? + Then come where dawn makes sea and sky + A gold causeway. + + Oh, it’s bend the sails on the criss-cross yards, + For the day dies far, + And up a windless space of dusk + Climbs the evening star.... + + Now there’s gulf on foaming gulf of stars + That lean so clear + That it seems the bastions of heaven + Are bright and near, + + And that, any moment, the topmost sky + May froth and swim + With an incredible bivouac + Of seraphim.... + + O wide-flung dawn, O mighty day + And set of sun! + O all you climbing stars of God, + Oh, lead me on!... + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_The Waves of Breffny_ + + + The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, + And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart, + But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, + And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. + + A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill, + And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind: + But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, + And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. + + The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, + Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; + But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, + And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. + + _Eva Gore-Booth_ + + + + +_Short Beach_ + + + Oh, the salt wind in my nostrils! + And the white sail in the creek! + And the blue beyond the marshes! + And the flag at the peak! + + My soul lifts to the bugles + Of a far cry on the breeze-- + The cry of my storm-kin calling + Overseas, overseas! + + Blow, horns of the old sea-rapture! + When your call comes from afar, + I would rise from the grave to reach you + Where the sea-dooms are. + + _Richard Hovey_ + + + + +_Sea Call_ + + + My old love for the water has come back again-- + I had forgotten its surging, so long, so long away; + Sapphire-blue in the sunlight and green-gray in the rain, + And the same waves cresting, and the same sharp spray, + There was left a wave in my heart when I went to the inland towns, + Something that moved and murmured in the days when I forgot; + Vivid flowers of the gardens or thick long grass of the downs-- + What were the sweets of the summer days, where the + calling waves were not? + + My old love for the water has come back once more; + The wave of the deep draws full, and the wave in my heart lifts high; + This is my own old country and my own old shore ... + And I cannot leave the water till the day I die. + + _Margaret Widdemer_ + + + + +_Ship-Love_ + + + When God gave to all men + All the earth to love + He gave them the waters under the sea, + He gave them the sky above; + And some love the waters, + And some love the sky; + But I love the tall ships + That go sailing by. + + For when God gave to my heart + The warm living blood + He gave me, too, the passion + For ebb-tide and flood; + And my love is ship-love, + For tall ships and strange, + For steam-ships and sailing ships + The whole wide range. + + And when God calls my spirit + And claims the soul of me + He’ll find it a-wandering + With ships on the sea; + He’ll find it on a warm deck + Dreaming in the sun, + Long after I am perished + And my earth-life done. + + _Ethel E. Mannin_ + + + + +_The Sea_ + + + I call thee from the changing land + To the unchanging sea; + I bring a bride-gift in my hand + Of immortality. + The land is fair, but fairer far + The pastures of the sea. + Canst thou reach down the lowest star? + My sea-fires gleam for thee. + All rivers run unto one end + And perish in the sea; + Turn thou from lover and from friend, + And give thy heart to me. + Thy love shall suffer change and dearth, + Thy friend the years estrange; + There is no faithfulness on earth-- + The sea will never change. + + _Nora Hopper_ + + + + +_Coquette_ + + + I am wearied with insatiable longing + For that laughing, blue-eyed wanton called the sea. + Though she’s but a faithless rover + And the wide world’s willing lover + I’d be content if she would share an hour with me. + + If she would toss me on her restless, throbbing bosom, + Caress a moment--and then flout me in my pain, + I would barter all the treasures + Of the rich man’s million pleasures + To be rocked within her siren arms again. + + Her honey voice is luring, mocking, calling! + Her sapphire scalloped skirts are piped with foam: + And her light feet shoreward dancing, + Pearly-sandalled and entrancing, + Entice the steps of men from love and home. + + False and cruel is her glittering lure; + Her gifts are death and woe’s delirium-- + Yet heaven holds no blisses + Like the sharp tang of her kisses-- + Ah! Coquette! if you should slay me, I must come! + + _Keith Stuart_ + + + + +_The Deep-Water Man_ + + + O give me the Pole Star overhead, + A slithering deck to my feet, + A forward bunk for my downy bed, + And the sea for my village street, + The galley’s glow for my warm hearthstone, + And my mates for my kin and friends-- + Then earth’s long leagues are my very own + To the place where the round world ends. + + There’s never a richer man than I, + Nor a poorer under the sun; + For all of my boundless riches lie + In the things I have seen and done-- + The songs I’ve sung and the laughs I’ve laughed-- + Oh, that’s wealth as it ought to be, + For when the Skipper shall call me aft + I can take it along with me. + + A-roaring down the Atlantic lanes, + Or cruising a tropical sea, + The balmy Trades, or the wind-whipped rains, + Are a bit of the same to me. + I’m home wherever the anchors fall + And take my idolatrous ease-- + I’ve got a girl in each port of call + To be found on the seven seas. + + Oh, loves I’ve known that were deep and strong, + Of some ports I am more than fond, + But woman nor town can hold me long + From the call of the ones beyond. + So, ever and always outward bound + (Well, I guess it’s the fate of some) + Till the day their keels go hard aground + In the Port of the Kingdom Come. + + _James Stuart Montgomery_ + + + + +_Sea Longing_ + + + You who are inland born know not the pain + Of one who longs for gray dunes and the seas + And sound of ebbing tide and windy rain + And sea-mews crying down immensities. + You who are inland born, know not the urge + Of rapt tides beating passionate and wild; + Nor have you thrilled with wonder at the surge + Of drifting water, wayward as a child. + Impetuous I seek the eager sea, + Imperious for joy and wind-blown spray; + You, who are city-beaten every day, + What do you know of mirth and ecstasy? + No thirsty wind has journeyed from the South-- + And laid a cool, wet finger on your mouth! + + _Harold Vinal_ + + + + +_Had I the Choice_ + + + Had I the choice to tally greatest bards, + To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will, + Homer with all his wars and warriors--Hector, Achilles, Ajax, + Or Shakspere’s woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, + Othello--Tennyson’s fair ladies, + Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect + rhyme, delight of singers; + These, these, O sea, all these I’d gladly barter, + Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer, + Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse, + And leave its odor there. + + _Walt Whitman_ + + + + +_Gray_ + + + A bleak wind is riding on the waves, + And the shadowy foam is hurled; + And the gray rains are on the hills + And a gray dusk is over the world. + + And bleak moods and shadowy moods + Move like the moods of the sea, + And mist, like a gray unspoken thought, + Is looking strangely at me. + + And I am lost in grayness, + My dreams are still and furled, + For the gray rains are on the hills + And a gray dusk is over the world. + + _Oscar Williams_ + + + + +_A Pagan Hymn_ + + + I have drunk the Sea’s good wine, + And to-day + Care has bowed his head and gone away. + I have drunk the Sea’s good wine, + Was ever step so light as mine, + Was ever heart so gay? + Old voices intermingle in my brain, + Voices that a little boy might hear, + And dreams like fiery sunsets come again, + Informulate and vain, + But great with glories of the buccaneer. + Oh, thanks to thee, great Mother, thanks to thee, + For this old joy renewed, + For tightened sinew and clear blood imbued + With sunlight and with sea. + Behold, I sing a pagan song of old, + And out of my full heart, + Hold forth my hands that so I would enfold + The Infinite thou art. + What matter all the creeds that come and go, + The many gods of men? + My blood outcasts them from its joyous flow, + And it is now as then-- + The Pearl of Morning, and the Sapphire Sea, + The Diamond of Noon, + The Ruby of the Sunset--these shall be + My creed, my Deity; + And I will take some old forgotten tune, + And rhythm frolic-free, + And sing in little words thy wondrous boon, + O Sunlight and O Sea! + + _John Runcie_ + + + + +_As the Tide Comes In_ + + + The long-winged terns dart wild and dire, + As the tide comes tumbling in. + The calm rock-pools grow all alive, + With the tide tumbling in, + The crab that under the brown weed creeps, + And the snail who lies in his house and sleeps, + Awake and stir, as the plunging sweep + Of the tide comes tumbling in. + + The driftwood swishes along the sand, + As the tide comes tumbling in. + With wreck and wrack from many a land, + On the tide, tumbling in. + About my feet are a broken spar, + A pale anemone’s torn sea-star + And scattered scum of the waves’ old war, + As the tide comes tumbling in. + + And, oh, there is a stir at the heart of me, + As the tide comes tumbling in. + All life once more is a part of me, + As the tide tumbles in. + New hopes awaken beneath despair + And thoughts slip free of the sloth of care, + While beauty and love are everywhere-- + As the tide comes tumbling in. + + _Cale Young Rice_ + + + + +_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_ + + + A wet sheet and a flowing sea,-- + A wind that follows fast, + That fills the white and rustling sail, + And bends the gallant mast,-- + And bends the gallant mast, my boys, + While, like the eagle free, + Away the good ship flies, and leaves + Old England on the lee. + + Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! + I heard a fair one cry; + But give to me the snoring breeze, + And white waves heaving high,--And + white waves heaving high, my boys, + The good ship tight and free; + The world of waters is our home, + And merry men are we. + + There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon, + And lightning in yon cloud; + And hark the music, mariners! + The wind is piping loud,-- + The wind is piping loud, my boys, + The lightning flashing free; + While the hollow oak our palace is, + Our heritage the sea. + + _Allan Cunningham_ + + + + +_The Undersong_ + + + I hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart, + I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears: + And I am far apart, + And lost in the years. + + But when I lie and dream of that which was + Before the first man’s shadow flitted on the grass, + I am stricken dumb + With sense of that to come. + + Is then this wildering sea-song but a part + Of the old song of the mystery of the years-- + Or only the echo of the tired heart + And of tears? + + _Fiona Macleod_ + + + + +_Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea_ + + + Gray rocks, and grayer sea, + And surf along the shore-- + And in my heart a name + My lips shall speak no more. + + The high and lonely hills + Endure the darkening year-- + And in my heart endure + A memory and a tear. + + Across the tide a sail + That tosses, and is gone-- + And in my heart the kiss + That longing dreams upon. + + Gray rocks, and grayer sea, + And surf along the shore-- + And in my heart the face + That I shall see no more. + + _Charles G. D. Roberts_ + + + + +_The Sea_ + + + The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! + The blue, the fresh, the ever free! + Without a mark, without a bound, + It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; + It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; + Or like a cradled creature lies. + + I’m on the Sea! I’m on the Sea! + I am where I would ever be; + With the blue above, and the blue below, + And silence wheresoe’er I go; + If a storm should come and awake the deep, + What matter? I shall ride and sleep. + + I love (oh! how I love) to ride + On the fierce foaming bursting tide, + When every mad wave drowns the moon, + Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, + And tells how goeth the world below, + And why the south-west blasts do blow. + + I never was on the dull tame shore, + But I lov’d the great Sea more and more, + And backward flew to her billowy breast, + Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest; + And a mother she was, and is to me; + For I was born on the open Sea. + + The waves were white, and red the morn, + In the noisy hour when I was born; + And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, + And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; + And never was heard such an outcry wild + As welcomed to life the Ocean-child! + + I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife, + Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, + With wealth to spend and a power to range, + But never have sought, nor sighed for change; + And Death, whenever he come to me, + Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea! + + _Bryan Waller Procter_ + + + + +_The Sea Road_ + + + Oh, green curved the hill road and beckoned to my feet, + Where the breath of the uplands came drifting fitful-sweet. + Moon mist, and cloud mist, and meadows drenched with dew, + Fir breath, and fern breath, and hill-winds stealing through + To stir the vagrant poppy-blooms that gipsy through the wheat. + + But nearer and clearer than these there called to me + A little, waiting, dune-set road that comrades with the sea. + + Oh, bright shone the plains’ road in ribbonings of gold, + Past lowly cottage casements tucked beneath a green hill’s fold. + Peat smoke, and hearth smoke, and toiler’s wayside fire, + Wife love, and child’s love, and humble hearts’ desire, + Peace and fireside plenty was the tale its windings told. + + Yet nearer and clearer than these there called to me + A small road, dark with juniper, and open to the sea. + + A little, watchful, sea-wife road unmindful of the gales, + All kirtled blue with sunlit waves, and coiffed with speeding sails. + Far sail, and near sail, the beating sea-gulls’ wings, + Far lands, the near lands, the lullaby she sings, + All the ports of all the world are in her whispered tales. + + Ah, nearer and dearer than all there cries to me, + One little, crooning, sunset road set shoulder to the sea. + + _Martha Haskell Clarke_ + + + + +_The Sea_[3] + + +I + + Interminable, not to be divined, + The ocean’s solemn distances recede; + A gospel of glad color to the mind, + But for the soul a voice of sterner creed. + The sadness of unfathomable things + Calls from the waste and makes the heart give heed + With answering dirges, as a seashell sings. + + +II + + Mother of infinite loss! Mother bereft! + Thou of the shaken hair! Far-questing Sea! + Sea of the lapsing wail of waves! O left + Of many lovers! Lone, lamenting Sea! + Desolate, prone, disheveled, lost, sublime! + Unquelled and reckless! Mad, despairing Sea! + Wail, for I wait--wail, ancient dirge of Time! + + +III + + Stretch wide, O marshes, in your golden joy! + Stretch ample, marshes, in serene delight! + Proclaiming faith past tempest to destroy, + With silent confidence of conscious might! + Glad of the blue sky, knowing nor wind nor rain + Can do your large indifference despite, + Nor lightning mar your tolerant disdain! + + +IV + + The fanfare of the trumpets of the sea + Assaults the air with jubilant foray; + The intolerable exigence of glee + Shouts to the sun and leaps in radiant spray; + The laughter of the breakers on the shore + Shakes like the mirth of Titans heard at play, + With thunders of tumultuous uproar. + + +V + + Playmate of terrors! Intimate of Doom! + Fellow of Fate and Death! Exultant Sea! + Thou strong companion of the Sun, make room! + Let me make one with you, rough comrade Sea! + Sea of the boisterous sport of wind and spray! + Sea of the lion mirth! Sonorous Sea! + I hear thy shout, I know what thou wouldst say. + + +VI + + Dauntless, triumphant, reckless of alarms, + O Queen that laughest Time and Fear to scorn, + Death, like a bridegroom, tosses in thine arms. + The rapture of your fellowship is borne + Like music on the wind. I hear the blare, + The calling of the undesisting horn, + And tremors as of trumpets on the air. + + _Richard Hovey_ + +[3] Extracts from “Seaward,” an Elegy. + + + + +_The World is Too Much With Us_ + + + The World is too much with us; late and soon, + Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; + Little we see in Nature that is ours; + We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! + + This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, + The winds that will be howling at all hours + And are up-gather’d now like sleeping flowers, + For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; + + It moves us not.--Great God! I’d rather be + A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-- + So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, + Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; + Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; + Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. + + _William Wordsworth_ + + + + +_Sunrise_ + + + Day! + Faster and more fast, + O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: + Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim + Where spurting and suppressed it lay, + For not a froth-flake touched the rim + Of yonder gap in the solid gray + Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; + But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, + Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, + Rose, reddened, and its seething breast + Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. + + _Robert Browning_ + + + + +_Song of the Sea_ + + + The song of the sea was an ancient song + In the days when the earth was young; + The waves were gossiping loud and long + Ere mortals had found a tongue; + The heart of the waves with wrath was wrung + Or soothed to a siren strain, + As they tossed the primitive isles among + Or slept in the open main. + Such was the song and its changes free, + Such was the song of the sea. + + The song of the sea took a human tone + In the days of the coming of man; + A mournfuller meaning swelled her moan, + And fiercer her riots ran; + Because that her stately voice began + To speak of our human woes; + With music mighty to grasp and span + Life’s tale and its passion-throes. + Such was the song as it grew to be, + Such was the song of the sea. + + The song of the sea was a hungry sound + As the human years unrolled; + For the notes were hoarse with the doomed and drowned, + Or choked with a shipwreck’s gold; + Till it seemed no dirge above the mould + So sorry a story said + As the midnight cry of the waters old + Calling above their dead. + Such is the song and its threnody, + Such is the song of the sea. + + The song of the sea is a wondrous lay, + For it mirrors human life; + It is grave and great as the judgment day, + It is torn with the thought of strife; + Yet under the stars it is smooth and rife + With love-lights everywhere, + When the sky has taken the deep to wife + And their wedding-day is fair-- + Such is the ocean’s mystery, + Such is the song of the sea. + + _Richard Burton_ + + + + +_Farewell_ + + + Not soon shall I forget--a sheet + Of golden water, cold and sweet, + The young moon with her head in veils + Of silver, and the nightingales. + + A wain of hay came up the lane-- + O fields I shall not walk again, + And trees I shall not see, so still + Against a sky of daffodil! + + Fields where my happy heart had rest, + And where my heart was heaviest, + I shall remember them at peace + Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece. + + The golden water sweet and cold, + The moon of silver and of gold, + The dew upon the gray grass-spears, + I shall remember them with tears. + + _Katherine Tynan_ + + + + +_The Return_ + + + I will go back to the great sweet mother, + Mother and lover of men, the sea. + I will go down to her, I and none other, + Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; + Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast; + O fair white mother, in days long past + Born without sister, born without brother, + Set free my soul as thy soul is free. + + O fair green-girdled mother of mine, + Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, + Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, + Thy large embraces are keen like pain. + Save me and hide me with all thy waves, + Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, + Those pure cold populous graves of thine, + Wrought without hand in a world without stain. + + I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, + Change as the winds change, veer in the tide; + My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, + I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; + Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, + Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, + As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips + With splendid summer and perfume and pride. + + This woven raiment of nights and days, + Were it once cast off and unwound from me, + Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, + Alive and aware of thy ways and thee; + Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, + Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam, + A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, + A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. + + Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, + Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say + Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; + Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. + But death is the worst that comes of thee; + Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea, + But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when, + Having given us love, hast thou taken away? + + O tender-hearted, O perfect lover, + Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. + Thy hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, + Shall they not vanish away and apart? + But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth; + Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; + Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; + From the first thou wert, from the end thou art. + + _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ + + + + +_The Port o’ Heart’s Desire_ + + + Down around the quay they lie, the ships that sail to sea, + On shore the brown-cheeked sailormen they pass the jest with me, + But soon their ships will sail away with winds that never tire, + And there’s one that will be sailing to the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. + + The Port o’ Heart’s Desire, and it’s, oh, that port for me, + And that’s the ship that I love best of all that sail the sea; + Its hold is filled with memories, its prow it points away + To the Port o’ Heart’s Desire, where I roamed a boy at play. + + Ships that sail for gold there be, and ships that sail for fame, + And some were filled with jewels bright when from Cathay they came, + But give me still yon white sail in the sunset’s mystic fire, + That the running tides will carry to the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. + + It’s you may have the gold and fame, and all the jewels, too, + And all the ships, if they were mine, I’d gladly give to you, + I’d give them all right gladly, with their gold and fame entire, + If you would set me down within the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. + + Oh, speed you, white-winged ship of mine, oh, speed you to the sea, + Some other day, some other tide, come back again for me; + Come back with all the memories, the joys and e’en the pain, + And take me to the golden hills of boyhood once again. + + _John S. McGroarty_ + + + + +_Sea-Urge_ + + + Oh, to feel the tremble of a ship beneath my feet again, + Now that April’s urge is running riot in the tide, + Where gray gull dips to white gull and the salt spray leaps to meet them + Out across blue water where the tall ships ride. + + Freshets in the mountain streams and floods along the river + Go rushing down to join the tossing tumult of the sea. + And the April urge that drives them sets the sailor’s heart aquiver + With the joy of ocean madness when the sails flap free. + + _Unknown_ + + + + +_The Ocean_ + + + There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, + There is a rapture on the lonely shore, + There is society, where none intrudes, + By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: + I love not man the less, but Nature more, + From these our interviews, in which I steal + From all I may be, or have been before, + To mingle with the Universe, and feel + What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. + + Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll! + Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; + Man marks the earth with ruin--his control + Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain + The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain + A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, + When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, + He sinks into thy depth with bubbling groan, + Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. + + His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields + Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise + And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields + For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, + Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, + And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray, + And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies + His petty hope in some near port or bay, + And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay. + + * * * * * + + Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form + Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, + Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, + Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime + Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- + The image of Eternity--the throne + Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime + The monsters of the deep are made; each zone + Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. + + And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy + Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be + Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy + I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me + Were a delight; and if the freshening sea + Made them a terror--’twas a pleasing fear, + For I was, as it were, a child of thee, + And trusted to thy billows far and near, + And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here. + + _Lord Byron_ + + + + +_A Song of Desire_ + + + Thou dreamer with the million moods, + Of restless heart like me, + Lay thy white hands against my breast + And cool its pain, O Sea! + + O wanderer of the unseen paths, + Restless of heart as I, + Blow hither, from thy caves of blue, + Wind of the healing sky! + + O treader of the fiery way, + With passionate heart like mine, + Hold to my lips thy healthful cup + Brimmed with its blood-red wine! + + O countless watchers of the night, + Of sleepless heart like me, + Pour your white beauty in my soul, + Till I grow calm as ye! + + O Sea, O Sun, O Wind and Stars, + (O hungry heart that longs!) + Feed my starved lips with life, with love, + And touch my tongue with songs! + + _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ + + + + +_A Sea Change_ + + + Heavy with unshed tears--weary with pain, + At last life brought me to the sea again, + Where beauty spoke above my grief’s demands. + I heard the singing surf--watched sea-birds fly; + I saw a pine-tree etched against the sky, + And crushed the bay-leaves in my tired hands. + + Loveliness filled my spirit like a cup: + A sense of healing and of peace welled up + Which but the sea to the sea-lover brings. + I did not hope; I did not even pray; + But as upon that sun-warmed rock I lay + Joy stirred within me with a lift of wings. + + _Dorothy Peace_ + + + + +_Twilight At Sea_ + + + The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, + As lightly and as free, + Ten thousand stars were in the sky, + Ten thousand on the sea; + For every wave, with dimpled face, + That leaped upon the air, + Had caught a star in its embrace, + And held it trembling there. + + _Amelia C. Welby_ + + + + +_Sea-Song_ + + + To-day was a sea-gull day, dear heart, to-day was a sea-gull day, + With a touch of wind, and the beat of surf, and the breath + of the driven spray + Blue of the sky, and blue of the sea, and the white clouds + scudding far, + And my longings swept to the sky-line dim like moths to a candle star. + + To-day was a sea-gull day, dear heart, that sparkled with + sun-flecked blue, + But it bound my heart with a wave-linked chain and bore + it away from you. + It stole it far from my hearth and you, though we two sat + side by side, + For my heart it tugged like an anchored ship that strains + with the seaward tide. + + And when we wandered back home, dear heart, so soberly + wandered home, + My eyes were blind with the sun-washed gold, and dim + with the lunging foam, + And my heart came swaggering on beside, from the wake of + the distant ships, + With the lilt of a deep sea chanty-strain like wine on its + reckless lips! + + _Martha Haskell Clark_ + + + + +_Deep Down_ + + + The lights are on the harbor, + And the ships at anchor ride-- + Blow she high, blow she low, let’er blow! + We’re outward bound at dawning + With the turning of the tide, + And Davy Jones is waiting down below, + Old Davy Jones is watching down below, below, below, + Down deep, deep down, down below. + + Now, here’s to hearty weather, + And here’s to starry skies-- + Up she goes, down she goes, bullies, Oh! + And here’s to all the ladies, + And damn old Davy’s eyes, + Long may we keep him waiting down below! + Old thieving, crimping Davy, down below, below, below, + Down deep, deep down, down below. + + At Rio, Hull or Sidney, + I’ll meet you all again, + So here’s good luck, my bullies, ere we go, + Or I’ll find a berth ’longside you + In the port o’ missing men, + Where Davy Jones is waiting down below, + Where Davy Jones is watching down below, below, below, + Down deep, deep down, down below. + + _James Stuart Montgomery_ + + + + +_The Winds of Heaven_ + + + + + “_Life is sweet, brother._” + + “_Do you think so?_” + + “_Think so? There’s Night and Day, brother, both sweet things; sun, + moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; There’s likewise a wind on + the heath._ + + _Life is very sweet brother._” + + GEORGE BORROW + + + + +_Do You Fear the Wind?_ + + + Do you fear the force of the wind, + The slash of the rain? + Go face them and fight them, + Be savage again. + Go hungry and cold like the wolf, + Go wade like the crane: + The palms of your hands will thicken, + The skin of your cheeks will tan, + You’ll grow ragged and weary and swarthy, + But you’ll walk like a man! + + _Hamlin Garland_ + + + + +_Hark to the Shouting Wind_ + + + Hark to the shouting Wind! + Hark to the flying Rain! + And I care not though I never see + A bright blue sky again. + + There are thoughts in my breast to-day + That are not for human speech; + But I hear them in the driving storm, + And the roar upon the beach. + + And oh, to be with that ship + That I watched through the blinding brine! + O Wind! for thy sweepy land and sea! + O Sea! for a voice like thine! + + Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, + To the frightened and flying Rain! + I care not though I never see + A calm blue sky again. + + _Henry Timrod_ + + + + +_Who Has Seen the Wind?_ + + + Who has seen the wind? + Neither I nor you: + But when the leaves hang trembling, + The wind is passing thro’. + + Who has seen the wind? + Neither you nor I: + But when the trees bow down their heads, + The wind is passing by. + + _Christina Rossetti_ + + + + +_Wind_ + + + Wind, wind--heather gipsy + Whistling in my tree! + All the heart of me is tipsy + On the sound of thee. + Sweet with scent of clover, + Salt with breath of sea, + Wind, wind--wayman lover, + Whistling in my tree! + + _John Galsworthy_ + + + + +_The Sea-Wind_ + + + Winnow me through with thy keen clear breath, + Wind with the tang of the sea! + Speed through the closing gates of day, + Find me, and fold me, and have thy way, + And take thy will of me! + + Use my soul as you use the sky,-- + Gray sky of this sullen day! + Clear its doubt as you speed its wrack + Of storm-clouds burning its splendor back, + Giving it gold for gray! + + Bring me word of the moving ships, + Halyards and straining spars; + Come to me clear from the sea’s wide breast + While the last lights die in the yellow west + Under the first white stars! + + Batter the closed doors of my heart + And set my spirit free! + For I stifle here in this crowded place + Sick for the tenantless fields of space, + Wind with the tang of the sea! + + _Arthur Ketchum_ + + + + +_I Meant to Do My Work Today_ + + + I meant to do my work to-day-- + But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree + And a butterfly flitted across the field, + And all the leaves were calling me. + + And the wind went sighing over the land, + Tossing the grasses to and fro, + And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- + So what could I do but laugh and go? + + _Richard Le Gallienne_ + + + + +_That Wind Is Best_ + + + Whichever way the wind doth blow + Some heart is glad to have it so; + Then blow it east or blow it west, + The wind that blows, that wind is best. + + Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, + My heart is glad to have it so; + And blow it east or blow it west, + The wind that blows, that wind is best. + + _Caroline Atherton Mason_ + + + + +_Happy Wind_ + + + Oh, happy wind, how sweet + Thy life must be! + The great, proud fields of gold + Run after thee: + And here are flowers, with heads + To nod and shake; + And dreaming butterflies + To tease and wake. + Oh, happy wind, I say, + To be alive this day. + + _William H. Davies_ + + + + +_Wind-Litany_ + + + In this world I shall not find + Any Comforter like Wind, + Any friend to so endure, + Any love so strong, so sure. + I was born when Wind with Star + Linked its magic, and from far + Whispered out my destiny-- + And the Winds have brothered me. + + Strong young hill-winds roistering + Up the steep with me and Spring, + Wild wet thrilling ocean-gales + Flinging out my swelling sails, + Or the little dawning-airs + Rising pure as baby-prayers-- + These have loved me since my birth + On the wind-swept swinging earth. + + Rose-perfumed night-air that slips + Like a kiss across my lips, + Smoke-tanged wood-breath--they can sweep + All old childhood from its sleep + Underneath thick-fallen days + Heaped and dun across my ways; + For until the end shall be, + Scent o’ wind is Memory. + + I remember when befell + Heartbreak fierce, intolerable, + And no voice or touch but bound + Deeper torment on the wound: + Yet a little wind could rise + Stroking cheek and tear-wet eyes, + Breathing, “Hush! All pain shall pass! + Still are winds, and skies, and grass!” + + God, when all of earth shall lie + Stripped and new beneath Thine eye, + And Thy gold stars fall unstrung, + And Thy curtain-sky down-flung, + And Thy seas are lifted up + Whole from out their empty cup, + Grant me still, in Heaven’s place + Sweet swift winds across my face! + + _Margaret Widdemer_ + + + + +_A Morning_ + + + The glad, mad wind went singing by, + The white clouds drove athwart the blue, + Bold beauty of the morning sky + And all the world was sun and dew, + And sweet cold air with sudden glints of gold + Like spilled stars glowing in the cedars’ hold. + + I laughed for very joy of life, + Oh, thrilling veins, oh, happy heart, + Of this glad world with beauty rife, + Exult that we too are a part; + Rejoice! Rejoice! that miracle of birth + Gave us this golden heritage of earth. + + Oh, bold, blue sky, oh, keen, glad wind, + I wonder me if this may be, + That some day, leaving life behind, + Our eyes shall view new land, new sea + So exquisite that, lo! with thrilling breath, + We shall laugh loud for very joy of death. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_The Wind’s Life_ + + + I love the silver-shaken, + The windy tops of trees + That heave and lift in sequence, + Like running surf of seas, + + With swathes of changing purples + And vistas golden-deep + Where, for an unstirred moment, + The sunlight lies asleep. + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_The Mystic_ + + I have ridden the wind, + I have ridden the sea, + I have ridden the moon and stars. + I have set my feet in the stirrup seat + Of a comet coursing Mars. + And everywhere + Thro’ the earth and air + My thought speeds, lightning-shod, + It comes to a place where checking pace + It cries, “Beyond lies God!” + + * * * * * + + I have ridden the wind, + I have ridden the night, + I have ridden the ghosts that flee + From the vaults of death like a chilling breath + Over eternity. + And everywhere + Is the world laid bare-- + Ether and star and clod-- + Until I wind to its brink and find + But the cry, “Beyond lies God!” + + * * * * * + + I have ridden the wind, + I have ridden the stars, + I have ridden the force that flies + With far intent thro’ the firmament + And each to each allies. + And everywhere + That a thought may dare + To gallop, mine has trod-- + Only to stand at last on the strand + Where just beyond lies God. + + _Cale Young Rice_ + + + + +_The Hill-Born_ + + + + + _Again among the hills! + The shaggy hills! + The clear arousing air comes like a call + Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills + My heart as if a hero had just spoken._ + + RICHARD HOVEY + + + + +_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. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Up a Hill and a Hill_ + + + Up a hill and a hill there’s a sudden orchard-slope, + And a little tawny field in the sun; + There’s a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, + And grasses nodding news one to one. + + Up a hill and a hill there’s a windy place to stand, + And between the apple-boughs to find the blue + Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, + With the white charmed ships sliding through. + + Up a hill and a hill there’s a little house as gray + As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; + With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, + And a face at the window, checker-paned. + + I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, + Just to find that tawny field above the sea! + Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle’s sweet! + And the eyes at the window watch for me! + + _Fannie Stearns Davis_ + + + + +_Hills_ + + + I never loved your plains!-- + Your gentle valleys, + Your drowsy country lanes + And pleachèd alleys. + + I want my hills!--the trail + That scorns the hollow.-- + Up, up the ragged shale + Where few will follow, + + Up, over wooded crest + And mossy boulder + With strong thigh, heaving chest, + And swinging shoulder, + + So let me hold my way, + By nothing halted, + Until, at close of day, + I stand, exalted, + + High on my hills of dream-- + Dear hills that know me! + And then, how fair will seem + The lands below me, + + How pure, at vesper-time, + The far bells chiming! + God, give me hills to climb, + And strength for climbing! + + _Arthur Guiterman_ + + + + +_Again Among the Hills_ + + + Again among the hills! + The shaggy hills! + The clear arousing air comes like a call + Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills + My heart as if a hero had just spoken. + Again among the hills! + The jubilant, unbroken, + Long dreaming of the hills! + Far off, Ascutney smiles as one at peace; + And over all + The golden sunlight pours, and fills + The hollow of the earth, like a god’s joy. + Again among the hills! + The tranquil hills + That took me as a boy + And filled my spirit with the silences! + + O indolent, far-reaching hills that lie + Secure in your own strength, and take your ease + Like careless giants ’neath the summer sky-- + What is it to you, O hills, + That anxious men should take thought for the morrow? + What has your might to do with thought or sorrow, + Or cark and cumber of conflicting wills? + Lone Pine, that thron’st thyself upon the height, + Aloof and kingly, overlooking all, + Yet uncompanioned, with the Day and Night + For pageant and the winds for festival! + I was thy minion once, and now renew + Mine ancient fealty-- + To that which shaped me still remaining true, + And through allegiance only growing free. + + * * * * * + + The rising of the wind among the pines, + The runic wind, full of old legendries! + It talks to the ancient trees + Of sights and signs + And strange earth-creatures strong to make or mar-- + Such tales as when the firelight flickered out + In the old days men heard and had no doubt. + O wind, what is your spell? + Borne on your cry, the ages slip away, + And lo, I too am of that elder day; + I crouch by the logs and hear + With credent ear + And simple marvel the far tales men tell. + + * * * * * + + ... Night on the hills! + And the ancient stars emerge. + The silence of their mighty distances + Compels the world to peace. Now sinks the surge + Of life to a soft stir of mountain rills, + And over the swarm and urge + Of eager men sleep falls and darkling ease. + + Night on the hills! + Dark mother-Night, draw near; + Lay hands on us and whisper words of cheer + So softly, oh, so softly! Now may we + Be each as one that leaves his midnight task + And throws his casement open; and the air + Comes up across the lowlands from the sea + And cools his temples, as a maid might ask + With shy caress what speech would never dare; + And he leans back to her demure desires, + And as a dream sees far below + The city with its lights aglow + And blesses in his heart his brothers there; + Then toward the eternal stars again aspires. + + _Richard Hovey_ + + + + +_Hill Hunger_ + + + I want to stride the hills! My feet cry out + For hills! Oh, I am sick to death of streets: + The nausea of pavements and people always about; + The savagery of mortar and steel that beats + Me under, hedges me in; the iron shiver + Of traffic!--I want to stride the hills, I want + Hills toned frantic silver or a quiver + Of scarlet; hills that hunger and grow gaunt! + I am tired of steps and steps, and a thousand flights + Of stairs resounding, shuffling, quarreling + With shoes. I want a hill on windy nights, + When April pauses with me, clambering + Over the purple side to the top, until + We pull ourselves up by a star--the hill! the hill! + + _Joseph Auslander_ + + + + +_Afternoon on a Hill_ + + + I will be the gladdest thing + Under the sun! + I will touch a hundred flowers + And not pick one. + + I will look at cliffs and clouds + With quiet eyes, + Watch the wind bow down the grass, + And the grass rise. + + And when lights begin to show + Up from the town, + I will mark which must be mine, + And then start down! + + _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ + + + + +_The Hills_ + + + O my Soul, let us go unto our hills, + We were native to them one day, you and I-- + Less dwellers of the earth than of the sky + Where the holy sense of silence stays and stills, + Like a hand of benediction lifted high. + + We have stayed in this market-place too long; + We have bartered with the birth-right in our breast; + We have shamed us with buffoonery and jest, + Nor raised our eyes to where our hills were strong, + Above this petty region of unrest. + + O, my Soul, let us go unto our hills, + To their wonderful, high silence and their might, + Where the old dreams shall whisper us by night + Till the sullen heart within us stirs and thrills, + And wakes to weep and wonder and delight. + O my soul, let us go unto our hills. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_On a Hill_ + + + Spring on a wind-swept hill! + The grass at our feet + Sheered into waves of light! + Spring, and the woodbird’s trill! + Spring, and the stars of night + Turned dewdrops glist’ning sweet. + Earth-chained we stand, + Thinking unearthly things, + Looking across the land, + Over the hills, beyond the sea, + Our souls on tireless wings + Soaring Eternity. + + Spring! oh, the wind’s rush + In the joyous trees! + Oh, wide, free sky, and white + Laughing clouds! And the hush + When, as a musician’s might, + God’s Hand rests on His keys. + + _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ + + + + +_Traveller’s Joy_ + + + + + _Whose farthest footstep never strayed beyond the village of his birth + Is but a lodger for the night in this old wayside inn of earth. + Tomorrow he shall take his pack and set out for the ways beyond + On the old trail from star to star, an alien and a vagabond._ + + RICHARD HOVEY + + + + +_Traveller’s Joy_ + + + What went you, Pilgrim, for to see? + A sign or wonder-thing maybe? + Some marvel or a holy sight + As clerks in chronicles do write? + For you have gone and come again, + Now tell us plain? + + I saw the sky from rim to rim + Full-filled with light up to the brim, + As though it were a mighty cup + To God’s lip holden up. + I saw a river and a down, + A harbor and a little town, + A marshland blue with irises-- + I saw all these. + + Saw, too, a sedgy pond where lay + Lilies like anchored stars that Day + Had ravished from the summer night + And kept them there alight. + I saw a hill-side gold with furze, + And wildrose banks and junipers + Distilling fragrance pungent-sweet; + I saw a path that called my feet + To go with it as any friend, + To heart’s desire at the end. + + Sooth, all of these! but ’mid them all + Did nothing wonderful befall? + No miracle? + Yea, but I have no word to tell + Of that great thing that happened me-- + I saw the sea! + + O wide, and blue and infinite! + League upon league of space and light! + I think that down this sapphire floor + One might walk straight to heaven’s door + And lift its golden latchet-bar, + Nor find it far + Or very strange, as one would guess, + After such earthly loveliness. + + Poor pilgrim, is this all your store + Of tales to tell? Is there no more + Than this that any man might show? + Yea, all is told. How should you know + That I have looked on Beauty’s face, + And being far from men a space + Have found at springs of Quietness + The hands that heal, the hands that bless-- + Have known the sun and wind and trod + The holy earth and talked with God! + + _Arthur Ketchum_ + + + + +_Ellis Park_ + + + Little park that I pass through, + I carry off a piece of you + Every morning hurrying down + To my work-day in the town; + Carry you for country there + To make the city ways more fair. + + I take your trees + And your breeze, + Your greenness, + Your cleanness, + Some of your shade, some of your sky, + Some of your calm as I go by; + Your flowers to trim + The pavements grim; + Your space for room in the jostled street, + And grass for carpet to my feet. + Your fountains take and sweet bird calls + To sing me from my office walls. + All that I can see + I carry off with me. + + But you never miss my theft, + So much treasures you have left. + As I find you, fresh at morning, + So I find you, home returning, + Nothing lacking from your grace. + All your riches wait in place + For me to borrow + On the morrow. + + Do you hear this praise of you, + Little park that I pass through? + + _Helen Hoyt_ + + + + +_Afoot_ + + + Long is the road ’twixt town and town that runs, + Travelled by many a lordly cavalcade, + With trappings gay, and rich caparisons, + Jester and squire, and laughing knight and maid: + With gallant clash and stir they go their way: + I trudge afoot thro’ all the drouth of day. + + For me, the misty meadows fresh with morn, + The tramp thro’ noontide heat to evening gray, + The far-seen smoke from the day’s goal upborne, + The halt, the friendly greeting by the way, + The distant hill beyond far hill descried, + The road by day, the rest at eventide. + + I know each wayside wood, each moorland brown, + Each hidden by-way and reposeful nook, + Where I may linger when the sun goes down, + Dipping tired feet in some cool flowing brook; + I know the free hill and the glooming glen, + And kindly fires, and humble homes of men. + + _C. Fox-Smith_ + + + + +_The Going of His Feet_ + + + His feet went here and there + About the common earth. + He touched to grandeur all + Men held of little worth. + + He loved the growing flowers, + The small bright singing birds, + The patient flocks of sheep, + The many-pastured herds. + + The field of rippling corn + That shimmered in the sun, + The soft blue smoke of eve + That curled when day was done.... + + He did not search afar + For what He had to say: + His mind reached forth and drew + Its strength from every day:} + + The struggling nets, alive + With fish drawn from the sea + Supplied Him with the apt + And chosen simile.... + + He saw a neighbor build + A house that did not stand-- + And men may not forget + The House Upon The Sand; + + He saw a widow drop + Her mite into the hoard-- + And to eternity + That treasure is up-stored; + + He heard a publican + Who thought none others there-- + The souls of all mankind + Are richer for that prayer.... + + O, Poet of the World, + I pray Thee, come to me, + That my lame heart might walk, + That my dark soul may see; + + And teach me, too, to go + About the ways of earth + And find the Wealth of God + In things of little worth! + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_Down East and Up Along_ + + + Down east and up along the fringy coast of Maine + There’s rumor of the summer and the warm soft rain. + There’s lisp of little leaves astir in the heart of every tree, + There’s gossip in the grasses that run down to meet the sea. + In my heart I hear them calling like a siren’s song, + “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!” + + Down east and up along the brooks are flowing full, + The gray sea is blue again, the spring tides pull, + The keening of the winter wind no longer haunts the seas, + There’s the velvet touch of raindrops upon the southern breeze. + The throb of life resurgent is calling loud and long, + “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!” + + Down east and up along the sun is warm again, + Calling to the hungry hearts of city-weary men. + Telling of the golden days in a land of woods and sea, + A land of summer glory and of autumn ecstasy. + You can almost hear the music of the hovering angel throng, + For the very edge of Heaven lies down east and up along! + + _Edwin Osgood Grover_ + + + + +_The Joys of the Road_ + + + Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: + A crimson touch on the hard-wood 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 water to dappled swamp, + From purple glory to scarlet pomp; + + The outward eye, the quiet will, + And the striding hart from hill to hill; + + The tempter apple over the fence; + The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince; + + The palish asters along the wood, + A lyric touch of the solitude; + + An open hand, an easy shoe, + And a hope to make the day go through,-- + + Another to sleep with, and a third + To wake me up at the voice of a bird; + + The resonant, far-listening morn, + And the hoarse whisper of the corn; + + The crickets mourning their comrades lost, + In the night’s retreat from the gathering frost + + (Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, + As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?) + + A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, + And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me; + + A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, + And a jug of cider on the board; + + An idle noon, a bubbling spring, + The sea in the pine-tops murmuring; + + A scrap of gossip at the ferry; + A comrade neither glum nor merry, + + Asking nothing, revealing naught, + But minting his words from a fund of thought, + + A keeper of silence eloquent, + Needy, yet royally well content, + + Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife, + And full of the mellow juice of life, + + No fidget and no reformer, just + A calm observer of ought and must, + + A lover of books, but a reader of man, + No cynic and no charlatan, + + Who never defers and never demands, + But smiling, takes the world in his hands,-- + + Seeing it good as when God first saw + And gave it the weight of His will for law. + + And Oh, the joy that is never won, + But follows and follows the journeying sun, + + By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, + A will-o’-the-wisp, a light-o’-dream, + + Delusion afar, delight anear, + From morrow to morrow, from year to year, + + A jack-o’-lantern, a fairy fire, + A dare, a bliss, and a desire! + + The racy smell of the forest loam, + When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home; + + (O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, + Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) + + The broad gold wake of the afternoon; + The silent fleck of the cold new moon; + + The sound of the hollow sea’s release + From stormy tumult to starry peace; + + With only another league to wend; + And two brown arms at the journey’s end! + + These are the joys of the open road-- + For him who travels without a load. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Song of the Open_ + + + There’s a whisper in the orchard, there’s a laughter in the breeze, + There’s a catbird’s chuckle in the maple tree; + And the wind has come from westward, scattering the maple-keys. + Oh, it’s time to break your fetters and be free! + + All the rain’s astir and calling, all the grass is wet and brown, + All the world waits just beyond the window-pane; + And the day is dull and dripping in the gray, gas-lighted town, + But the country’s fresh and clean with fall again. + + Oh, it’s out along the prairie with the cool rain in your face, + And it’s out along the river flowing free, + And it’s out across the hill-tops in a flying-footed race + With just your heart to bear you company. + + There’s the prairie curving softly with its golden blooms aglow, + And the purple splashes on its ripened flanks; + And the idle grassy hollows where the brilliant salvias grow, + And the sturdy cat-tails marshal out their ranks. + + Ah, the scarlet of the orchards and the saffron of the fields! + Ah, the purple of the vineyards in the sun! + Ah, the river in the sunlight, flashing silver as a shield + For a moment--and your Indian summer’s done. + + So it’s home along the prairie with the north wind blowing chill, + And it’s home across the meadow’s heaving sea, + And it’s home with winter shouting just beyond the farthest hill, + But yet the road is open and is free. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_Rebellion_ + + + To wake at morn, + And hear the little laugh + Of the lake-wind in the trees; + To watch at dawn + The earliest sunbeam kiss + The mist-crowned, towering peaks + And glide down to the plains. + + Ah, that is Life! + Not this-- + To wake at morn, + And hear the swelling roar + Of Man, Beast and Machine, + Toiling in murky air + And a city’s sweat! + + At noon to dream + Where Nature’s bowers are hid + Beneath an arch + Of twined and intersticing vines, + While on the air + Quivers the chanting of the sighing woods, + And the songs of mating birds. + + Ah, that is Life! + Not this-- + At noon to pause, + And lay aside the pen for one brief hour: + Then to return, as I did yesterday, + Will do to-morrow and on all to-morrows-- + Oh, Fool, Machine, and Slave! + + Again at dusk, + To watch the sun’s last ray + Fade in the west; + To feel Earth’s grand transition + From day to night-- + That moment when the world + Pauses and knows itself! + The Angelus chimes + And echoes round the Earth; + + Here the Muezzin’s call, + There a child’s lullaby, + And now a poor serf’s prayer.... + Earth’s evensong! + + To hear that is to live! + Not this-- + To breast the roaring surge + Of thousands, pale and tired, dead in soul, + Crowding with merciless haste toward home. + Home?... + Past ere the sweet of home has touched the sense! + To toil that we may sleep + That better we may toil; + To toil that we may eat, + That better we may toil. + Ay, that is Life; but still-- + But still we dream! + + _Stephen Chalmers_ + + + + +_The Tree-Top Road_ + + + Life’s sweetest joys are hidden + In unsubstantial things; + An April rain, a fragrance, + A vision of blue wings: + And what are memory and hope + But dreams? And yet the bread + On which these little lives of ours + Are fed and comforted! + + Without imagination + The soul becomes a clod, + Missing the trail of beauty, + Losing the way to God. + And I have built a templed-stair + Out of a lilac bloom + And climbed to heaven with purple pomp + And censers of perfume! + + * * * * * + + I have no feud with Labor, + But at the Gates of June + I fling away my dusty pack + And join in Youth’s glad tune. + And just forgetting for a while + That I am worn and gray, + Go sailing off with Peter Pan + Along the Tree-top Way! + + _May Riley Smith_ + + + + +_Early Morning at Bargis_ + + + Clear air and grassy lea, + Stream-song and cattle-bell-- + Dear man, what fools are we + In prison-walls to dwell! + + To live our days apart + From green things and wide skies, + And let the wistful heart + Be cut and crushed with lies! + + Bright peaks!--And suddenly + Light floods the placid dell, + The grass-tops brush my knee: + A good crop it will be, + So all is well! + O man, what fools are we + In prison-walls to dwell! + + _Hermann Hagedorn_ + + + + +_Denial_ + + + It is not down this road I walk, + Or through these brown-leaved trees; + For in my heart I loiter where + The clover calls the bees; + + Where trees are green and streams are warm, + And drowsy life is sweet-- + It is not down this lane I go + With tired, reluctant feet. + + _Lancaster Pollard_ + + + + +_“A la Belle Étoile”_ + + Oh, who will lodge at my Inn tonight, + And live both fair and fine, + With a blossoming blackberry vine for a gate, + And a friendly star for a sign? + + Good sir, my Inn is a gentle Inn, + The wine is sweet and old; + ’Tis Adam’s, sir, with a fine bouquet, + And the color of liquid gold. + + The carriages roll on the rocky road + To a musty house afar; + But the gentlefolk stop by the blackberry gate + At the Inn of the Beautiful Star. + + Sweet fern, sweet fern for your pillow, sir, + And a quick-eared faun for your mate, + And a firefly’s light for your candle bright-- + Good sooth, we sleep in state. + + The winds go murmuring by at dusk + And call you up at dawn, + To walk through the fairies’ handkerchiefs + And startle a sleeping fawn. + + When day is red on the river’s bed, + And bright on quartz and spar, + We’ll say our short St. Martin’s grace + At the Inn of the Beautiful Star. + + The blackberry vine is a maiden now, + With her pale stars in the dew; + Come back next month, good sir, there’ll be + Sweet blackberries for you. + + We’ll wish you luck from the blackberry gate. + Although you wander far, + ’Tis here that you’ll come home at last-- + To our Inn of the Beautiful Star. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_Journey_ + + + Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass + And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind + Blow over me,--I am so tired, so tired + Of passing pleasant places! All my life, + Following Care along the dusty road, + Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; + Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand + Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long + Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; + And now I fain would lie in this long grass + And close my eyes, + Yet onward! + + Cat-birds call + Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk + Are guttural. Whippoorwills wake and cry, + Drawing the twilight close about their throats. + Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines + Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees + Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; + Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern + And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread + Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, + Look back and beckon ere they disappear. + Only my heart, only my heart responds, + Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side + All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot, + And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- + But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, + And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, + The world is mine; blue hill, still silver lake, + Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road. + A gateless garden, and an open path; + My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. + + _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ + + + + +_The Sojourner_ + + + I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, + The laughing wind that stirs my climbing rose; + The tiny clusters nod and talk together, + But what their secret may be, no one knows. + + I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, + The rose is heavy in the southern town, + The wild geese travel northward in the mornings, + The bold-eyed southern spring tears wide her gown. + + I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, + The last snow melts beneath the gray stone walls, + The green young sedges fringe the river-margin, + And in my heart the Northland calls and calls. + + I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me. + Too long I wait in summer’s tasselled hall, + Too long I dream amid the tulip blossoms, + Too long I linger when I hear the call. + + I will arise and go to seek the mountains, + I will return my playfellows to greet; + Once more the open hills and the sweet meadow, + Once more the virgin Northland’s lips to meet. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_Traveller’s Rest_ + + + When you are tired of the long road and the open sky, + I wish it may be my door that you’re passing by: + I wish it may be my hearth where you will sit down + And tell your tales of the land and sea and the strange far town. + + Oh, come you in from eastward or come you in from the west, + Here’s good cheer to greet you and welcome of the best: + Oh, come you with your pockets full or come you home poor, + Here’s a place by the fireside and an open door. + + You’ll tell me where you were since, and the things you’ve seen + Up and down the wide world where so long you’ve been,-- + All the time that I’ve been here and you far away,-- + And then awhile be silent, as good friends may. + + And then awhile listen to the wind and rain, + Moaning in the chimney-breast, beating at the pane,-- + Dark and cold outside there, and the stormy skies, + And you sitting down here with the firelight in your eyes. + + _C. Fox-Smith_ + + + + +_Far From the Madding Crowd_ + + + It seems to me I’d like to go + Where bells don’t ring nor whistles blow, + Nor clocks don’t strike nor gongs don’t sound, + But where there’s stillness all around. + + Not real still stillness; just the trees’ + Low whisperings or the croon of bees; + The drowsy tinklings of the rill, + Or twilight song of whippoorwill. + + ’Twould be a joy could I behold + The dappled fields of green and gold, + Or in the cool, sweet clover lie + And watch the cloud-ships drifting by. + + I’d like to find some quaint old boat, + And fold its oars, and with it float + Along the lazy, limpid stream + Where water-lilies drowse and dream. + + Sometimes it seems to me I must + Just quit the city’s din and dust, + For fields of green and skies of blue; + And, say! How does it seem to you? + + _Nixon Waterman_ + + + + +_Streams_ + + + I so love water-laughter, + Its bubbling flecks and gleams, + I pray in the hereafter + There somewhere may be streams. + + I’d have for my companion + In some celestial nook, + Beneath a spreading banyan, + The music of a brook. + + Its measures would entice me, + Uncumbered by the clay, + Its melody suffice me + Till drooped the heavenly day. + + Then its all-liquid laughter + Would murmur through my dreams; + I pray in the hereafter + There somewhere may be streams. + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_The Call_ + + + I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering + tree and the birds awing, + Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide + where strength is king; + I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean + and the rest is sweet, + Out where there’s never a task to do or a goal to reach or + a foe to meet. + + I must get out on the trails once more that wind through + shadowy haunts and cool, + Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself + in a crystal pool; + I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter + nor hate is heard, + Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt + by a spoken word. + + Oh, I’ve heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard + the call of the running brook, + I’m tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I’m weary + of reading a printed book, + I want to get out of the din and strife, the clank and + clamor of turning wheel, + And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are + true and the pictures real. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_The Road that Leads to Home_ + + My road is a by-road, with big trees reaching high, + A tapestry of living green against a sapphire sky; + An olden road, a golden road, is the road I love to roam + A gleaming road, a dreaming road, the road that leads to home. + + My road is a shy road, where whispering lovers stray + And breathe the scent of the bramble-rose and fields of new-mown hay; + A road to woo with a song or two, ere the day has yet begun, + A smiling road, a beguiling road, that dips into the sun. + + My road is a by-road, where townfolk never tread, + With wild wind flowers in the grass, and green leaves overhead; + Oh, dawn-mist road, oh, star-kissed road, across the white sea foam + I hear you crying, hear you sighing, calling the wand’rer home. + + _Ethel E. Mannin_ + + + + +_Echoes from Vagabondia_ + + + + + _The bed was made, the room was fit, by punctual eve the stars were lit. + The air was still, the water ran, no need was there for maid or man, + When we put up, my ass and I, at God’s green caravanserai._ + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + + +_Wanderthirst_ + + + Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, + And East and West the wanderthirst that will not let me be; + It works in me like madness, to bid me say good-bye; + For the seas call and the stars call, and oh! the call of the sky. + + I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, + But a man can have the Sun for friend, and for his guide a star; + And there’s no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, + For the river calls and the road calls, and oh! the call of a bird! + + Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day + The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; + And come I may, but go I must, and, if men ask you why, + You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the + white road and the sky. + + _Gerald Gould_ + + + + +_The Vagabond_ + + + To tread the path of glory needs a braver soul than I, + A man who will not stop to watch the white clouds drifting by, + A man who will not pause to throw a pebble in a stream + Or stretch full length upon its bank, the captive of a dream. + + A braver soul than I must tread the rugged way and long, + A man who will not stop to catch the wild canary’s song, + A man who’ll pass a thousand charms and never turn to see + The beauty of the petaled dress upon an apple tree. + + To tread the path of glory needs a stronger soul than mine, + A man that isn’t tempted when the air is sharp as wine, + A man that has no vision save the golden goal he seeks, + And doesn’t hear the language which the voice of nature speaks. + + But I am prey to woods and fields, to sunny hills and streams, + And I’ve a soul which likes to drift and tease itself with dreams, + And weak am I that should be strong--a sunbeam on a pond + Has but to wink an eye at me, and I’m a vagabond. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_Gipsy Song_ + + + Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! + April’s at the door, + April’s whistling through the wood-- + Must I call once more? + + Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! + Keen across the night + Hylas flutes among the pools + And the road’s moon-white. + + Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! + Must I whistle still, + Waiting at your silent door + On the ferny hill? + + Moonlit road and breaking sea, + Wet wind from the south! + Gipsy, all your lover lacks + Is your scarlet mouth! + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_The Road To Vagabondia_ + + + He was sitting on a doorstep as I went strolling by; + A lonely little beggar with a wistful, homesick eye-- + And he wasn’t what you’d borrow + And he wasn’t what you’d steal-- + But I guessed his heart was breaking, + So I whistled him to heel. + + They had stoned him through the city streets and naught the city cared, + But I was heading outward and the roads are sweeter shared, + So I took him for a comrade and I whistled him away-- + On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the day. + + Yellow dog he was; but bless you--he was just the chap for me! + For I’d rather have an inch of dog than miles of pedigree. + So we stole away together on the road that has no end + With a new-coined day to fling away and all the stars to spend! + + Oh, to walk the road at morning, when the wind is blowing clean, + And the yellow daisies fling their gold across a world of green-- + For the wind it heals the heart-aches and the sun it dries the scars, + On the road to Vagabondia that lies beneath the stars. + + ’Twas the wonder of the going cast a spell about our feet-- + We walked because the world was young, because the way was sweet; + And we slept in wild-rose meadows by the little wayside farms, + ’Til the Dawn came up the highroad with the dead moon in her arms. + + Oh, the Dawn it went before us through a shining lane of skies, + And the Dream was at our heartstrings and the light was in our eyes, + And we made no boast of glory and we made no boast of birth, + On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the earth. + + _Dana Burnet_ + + + + +_Gipsy Feet_ + + + Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few! + Many’s the one that loves to dream night-long of stars and dew: + Many’s the one that loves the scent of wood-smoke by the way, + And turns a leaping longing heart to every dawn of day. + + Gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few.-- + Ah, how ill it is to bide unloosed the long year through! + Up and down the loud gray streets, stared at, staring back, + Through tarnished trails of the staggering sun and soot-fog ochre-black;-- + + Dressed in heavy and sober togs, eating of heavy fare, + Hailed by only the screaming street, “Mind! step lively there!” + Crook-backed over a dusty desk,--bothering to and fro + There in the dull and airless house,--ah, to cut and go!-- + + Up the hill-roads into the day! Over the sea-ward fells, + Watch the thistle-down dip, and hear the thin sheep’s huddling bells; + Run like fire along the field, worship the heart of the wood, + Kneel by the spring that splits the rock, and find the white rain good. + + --Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few; + And secret gods must we worship still, if we worship fire and dew. + For we must bend at the dusty desk, and over the counter lean,-- + Toil and moil in the sun-starved house, though leaves blow red or green. + + God, great God of the wind’s caress, God of the sea’s salute, + Why are we chained and muzzled and meshed more than our brother the brute? + Shall there be never a day that all of the gipsy hearts may greet, + Laughing out at the lure of the sun for the lift of the gipsy feet? + + But oh, though that day is far to come, and the feet forget to go free, + Pray God that the hearts may not forget the hurt and the ecstasy! + Pray God that never the fret may fail when the Spring comes over the year, + That never the thin gay autumn dawns may seem less wild and dear. + + For shall it not be the height of Heaven, wonderful, swift, and sweet, + If into the paths of perilous death may wander the gipsy feet? + May wander free, with the risk of the road, the road that + the glad Dead know, + Out where the fires of God flame high, and the winds of God lean low! + + _Fannie Stearns Davis_ + + + + +_A Strip of Blue_ + + + I do not own an inch of land, + But all I see is mine,-- + The orchard and the mowing-fields, + The lawns and gardens fine. + The winds my tax-collectors are, + They bring me tithes divine,-- + Wild scents and subtle essences, + A tribute rare and free; + And, more magnificent than all, + My window keeps for me + A glimpse of blue immensity,-- + A little strip of sea. + + Richer am I than he who owns + Great fleets and argosies; + I have a share in every ship + Won by the inland breeze + To loiter on yon airy road, + Above the apple-trees. + I freight them with my untold dreams; + Each bears my own picked crew; + And nobler cargoes wait for them + Than ever India knew,-- + My ships that sail into the East + Across that outlet blue. + + _Lucy Larcom_ + + + + +_Black Ashes_ + + + Sometime we shall remember them, the little camping places, + A day long, an hour long, a halt beside the way, + Shall see again before us the mountains’ kindly faces + With the white roads pleading, leading through the + hill-mists wreathing gray. + + Lichened spur and creeping trail, sun-gold in the west, + Purple moorland, misty lure-land spreading far beneath; + Red-gold flamelight lifting, drifting, round the pine-dark crest + To dim the little village lights asleep upon the heath. + + Sometime we shall remember them, from out the days that bind us, + A year long, a life long, that link and hold us fast, + Will come a breath of twilight blent with woodsmoke to remind us + Of the little camping places in the springtimes that are past. + + White-spread dunes and opal sea, gray gulls slant the spray, + Spiced sweetfern by sandy turn where the sun strikes gold, + Scent of woodsmoke, vagrant, fragrant, ah, it haunts the air today + From the little camping places in the Story That Is Told. + + _Martha Haskell Clark_ + + + + +_The Wander Lure_ + + + The robin’s on the wing again; I hear the call o’ spring again, + And fain am I to follow, lass; it calls me not in vain! + Yea, I would join the chorus. Lo! the highway is before us,-- + _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me again?_ + + The wander lure is part o’ me, and love is in the heart o’ me, + And I would tread the road with you that leads beyond the door. + I hear the cry o’ laughter, and my feet would follow after,-- + _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me once more?_ + + Yea, I will follow you, my lass, around the world and through, my lass, + To seek the peace o’ summer moons that waits beside the sea. + We’ll leave the past behind us; come, the joy o’ life will find us,-- + _But what if she, my first beloved, should call again to me?_ + + _Kendall Banning_ + + + + +_Comrades of the Trail_ + + + Until the day the world shall die + We shall be comrades, you and I. + + For we have seen the morning break + In golden beauty on that lake + That rests in intimate grace before + Our cedar cabin’s unlatched door; + And we have heard the rain at night + And blessed our driftwood hearthfire light; + Wakened by thunder, we have crept + Closer and turned again and slept + While the trees crashed, weakening, + And blocked our trail up to the spring. + + Dangers of cities never draw + Two close as does the forest’s awe; + Beauties of cities never bind + Memory and heart and soul and mind + As does the dawn in forest places, + Or tree-rent moonlight on our faces. + + Husband and wife! If that were all! + Not vows alone have made us thrall, + But none can evermore walk free + Bound to each other as are we, + By sky and water, fern and tree. + + _Mary Carolyn Davies_ + + + + +_The Vagrant_ + + + I will leave the dust of the city street and the noise of the busy town + For the windy moor and the high hill and the peat-stream flowing brown; + I will keep my watch by the camp-fires where the white + cliffs lean to the sea, + And dawn shall wake me with golden hands and the rain shall walk with me. + + I will seek the place where gypsies roam and strange, wild + songs are sung; + I will find once more the magic paths I knew when earth was young, + And the stars will give me comradeship and the wind will be my friend, + And I will send you the fairy gold that lies at the rainbow’s end. + + Stretch not your hands nor bid me stay, I hear the white road’s call, + The sun hath kissed the buds from sleep, and I am one with them all; + But I will send you a golden cloak and a pair of silver shoon, + And a dream that the fairies spin from stars on the other + side of the moon. + + _Pauline Slender_ + + + + +_The Gipsy Wedding_ + + + Once more the gipsy aster + Her flaunting kerchief waves, + Once more along the wood-ways + His nuts the squirrel saves; + Once more the vagrant passion + Stirs heart of man and maid, + Once more it is October, + Once more the spell is laid. + + And to Saint Bartel’s altar + Two come where was but one, + With goldenrod and beechleaf + Beneath the amber sun; + Two come, Saint Bartelmeo, + With sunbrowned hand in hand, + To pray your blessing, Father, + Upon the golden band. + + There in the tall cathedral + Of tamarack and pine, + The old saint gives the blessing, + The sunbrowned fingers twine. + And down the dusky wood-ways + The gipsy lad and maid + Go hand in hand together + Forever unafraid. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_The Vagabond At Home_ + + + Oh, it’s spring once more in France, and it’s spring in gay Algiers, + And it’s spring along the happy Appian Way; + There are cherries in Japan, and the thrushes’ joy and tears + Pipe for England, “There is nowhere such a day!” + + How the call rings clear, commanding: “Hurry over, sail afar + To the date-tree and the banyan’s dim domain; + To the Yangtze and the Yalu, where the bell-topped temples are; + And remember there are castles left in Spain!” + + But I hear a whisper steady, blowing down my own home-stream + Full of all the glad romance I used to know: + “Leave the lands beyond to others; + Our wee woodfolk are your brothers; + And the earth is bursting treasure!” So I go. + + When the wander urge is on me, there are never bonds that hold; + When the summons comes, it never comes in vain; + But the foreign trails are either far too new or far too old-- + Give me April in my native woods again! + + _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ + + + + +_The Gipsy Trail_ + + + The white moth to the closing vine, + The bee to the open clover, + And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood + Ever the wide world over. + + Ever the wide world over, lass, + Ever the trail held true, + Over the world and under the world, + And back at the last to you. + + Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, + Out of the grime and the gray + (Morning waits at the end of the world), + Gipsy, come away! + + The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, + The red crane to her reed, + And the Romany lass to the Romany lad + By the tie of a roving breed. + + Morning waits at the end of the world + Where winds unhaltered play, + Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, + Till the white sea-horses neigh. + + The pied snake to the rifted rock, + The buck to the stony plain, + And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, + And both to the road again. + + Both to the road again, again! + Out on a clean sea-track-- + Follow the cross of the gipsy trail + Over the world and back! + + Follow the Romany patteran + North where the blue bergs sail, + And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, + And the masts are shod with mail. + + Follow the Romany patteran + Sheer to the Austral Light, + Where the besom of God is the wild south wind, + Sweeping the sea-floors white. + + Follow the Romany patteran + West to the sinking sun, + Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, + And the east and the west are one. + + Follow the Romany patteran + East where the silence broods + By a purple wave on an opal beach + In the hush of the Mahim Woods. + + The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, + The deer to the wholesome wold, + And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, + As it was in the days of old. + + The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- + Light of my tents, be fleet! + Morning waits at the end of the world, + And the world is all at our feet! + + _Rudyard Kipling_ + + + + +_St. Bartholomew’s On The Hill_ + + + Bartholomew, my brother, + I like your roomy church; + I like your way of leaving + No sinners in the lurch. + + I wish the world were wealthy + In ministers like you, + When at the lovely August + You give the blessed dew. + + I love your rambling Abbey, + So long ago begun, + Whose choirs are in the tree-tops, + Whose censor is the sun. + + Its windows are the morning; + Its rafters are the stars; + The fog-banks float like incense + Up from its purple floors. + + And where the ruddy apples + Make lamps in the green gloom, + The flowers in congregation + Are never pressed for room; + + But in your hillside chapel, + Gay with its gorgeous paints, + They bow before the Presence,-- + Sweet, merry little saints. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Fishing_ + + + “Men will grow weary,” said the Lord, + “Of working for their bed and board. + They’ll weary of the money chase + And want to find a resting place + Where hum of wheel is never heard + And no one speaks an angry word. + And selfishness and greed and pride + And petty motives don’t abide. + They’ll need a place where they can go + To wash their souls as white as snow. + They will be better men and true + If they can play a day or two.” + + The Lord then made the brooks to flow + And fashioned rivers here below, + And many lakes; for water seems + Best suited for a mortal’s dreams. + He placed about them willow trees + To catch the murmur of the breeze. + And the birds that sing the best + Among the foliage to nest. + He filled each pond and stream and lake + With fish for man to come and take. + Then stretched a velvet carpet deep + On which a weary soul could sleep. + + It seemed to me the Good Lord knew + That man would want something to do + When, worn and wearied with the stress + Of battling hard for world success, + When sick at heart of all the strife + And pettiness of daily life. + He knew he’d need, from time to time + To cleanse himself of city grime, + And he would want some place to be + Where hate and greed he’d never see, + And so on lakes and streams and brooks + The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks. + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_A Vagabond Song_ + + + There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- + Touch of manner, hint of mood; + And my heart is like a rhyme, + With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. + + The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry + Of bugles going by. + And my lonely spirit thrills + To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. + + There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; + We must rise and follow her, + When from every hill of flame + She calls and calls each vagabond by name. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Have You?_ + + + Have you ever built a camp-fire at the closing of the day? + Have you sat and watched the embers glowing red? + With your scanty supper finished and the things all cleared away, + Have you sat and smoked and thought about your bed? + Of the bed you left behind you in the dwelling-place of man, + In the much o’er-furnished room you knew of yore; + Ere you sought the silent places where a fellow learns he can + Do a lot of things he never did before? + + Have you ever spread a blanket down beneath the star-strewn skies? + Rolled yourself within its cozy folds to sleep, + At the base of mighty mountains, with their peaks that rise and rise? + Have you known the age-old silence that they keep? + Have you seen the red sun climbing up the eastern slope? Then know + You will ne’er forget those rugged, happy days. + What! You’ve never known the glory of the new-born day? Then go-- + It’s a road that’s hard to travel--but it pays. + + _Harry M. Dean_ + + + + +_Gypsy-Heart_ + + + The April world is misted with emerald and gold; + The meadow-larks are calling sweet and keen; + Gypsy-heart is up and off for woodland and for wold, + Roaming, roaming, roaming through the green. + Gypsy-heart, away! + Oh, the wind--the wind and the sun! + Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive to-day; + Youth will soon be done. + + From buds that May is kissing there trembles forth a soul; + The rosy boughs are whispering the white; + Gypsy-heart is heedless now of thrush and oriole, + Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of delight. + Gypsy-heart, beware! + Oh, the song--the song in the blood! + Magic walks the forest; there’s bewitchment on the air. + Spring is at the flood. + + The wings of June are woven of fragrance and of fire; + Heap roses, crimson roses, for her throne. + Gypsy-heart is anguished with tumultuous desire, + Seeking, seeking, seeking for its own. + Gypsy-heart, abide! + Oh, the far--the far is the near! + ’Tis a foolish fable that the universe is wide. + All the world is here. + + _Katharine Lee Bates_ + + + + +_A More Ancient Mariner_ + + + The swarthy bee is a buccaneer, + A burly velveted rover, + Who loves the booming wind in his ear + As he sails the seas of clover. + + A waif of the goblin pirate crew, + With not a soul to deplore him, + He steers for the open verge of blue + With the filmy world before him. + + * * * * * + + He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, + And levies on poor Sweetbrier; + He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, + And the Rose is his desire. + + He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; + He rifles the Buckwheat patches; + Then battens his store of pelf galore + Under the tautest hatches. + + He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, + Inveigles Daffodilly, + And then like a tramp abandons each + For the gorgeous Canada Lily. + + * * * * * + + He dares to boast, along the coast, + The beauty of Highland Heather,-- + How he and she, with night on the sea, + Lay out on the hills together. + + He pilfers from every port of the wind, + From April to golden autumn; + But the thieving ways of his mortal days + Are those his mother taught him. + + * * * * * + + He never could box the compass round; + He doesn’t know port from starboard; + But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, + Where the choicest goods are harbored. + + He never could see the Rule of Three, + But he knows a rule of thumb + Better than Euclid’s, better than yours, + Or the teachers’ yet to come. + + * * * * * + + He drones along with his rough sea-song + And the throat of a salty tar, + This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair + By the light of a yellow star. + + He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, + And works like a Trojan hero; + Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, + With the mercury at zero. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_Vagabonds_ + + + Upon us vagabonds who take + Our packs and paddles Sunday + The good folk look austerely down, + Though they may smile on Monday. + + Some call us pagans, others tramps; + The truth they never knew-- + We faithfully attend the Church + Of Saint Bartholomew. + + Among the birches on the hill + His holydays are kept + Where thrushes flute the anthems, and + Crumb-charity accept. + + The sermon never wearies us; + We hold the Amen pew, + And pay our pew-rent to the Church + Of Saint Bartholomew. + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_The Gypsying_ + + + I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young-- + On a blue October morning + Beneath a cloudless sky, + When all the world’s a vibrant harp + The winds o’ God have strung, + And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by; + The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung-- + I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young. + + I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old-- + To step it with the wild west wind + And sing the while we go, + Through far forgotten orchards + Hung with jewels red and gold; + Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show, + To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold-- + I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old. + + I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. + The while we’ve heart for hazarding, + The while we’ve will to sing, + The while we’ve wit to hear the call + And youth and mirth to spare, + Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying, + Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare-- + I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_The Mendicants_ + + + We are as mendicants who wait + Along the roadside in the sun. + Tatters of yesterday and shreds + Of morrow clothe us every one. + + And some are dotards, who believe + And glory in the days of old; + While some are dreamers, harping still + Upon an unknown age of gold. + + Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, + As lavish Time comes down the way + And tosses in the suppliant hat + One great new-minted gold To-day. + + * * * * * + + O foolish ones, put by your care! + Where wants are many, joys are few; + And at the wilding springs of peace, + God keeps an open house for you. + + * * * * * + + But there be others, happier few, + The vagabondish sons of God, + Who know the by-ways and the flowers, + And care not how the world may plod. + + They idle down the traffic lands, + And loiter through the woods with spring; + To them the glory of the earth + Is but to hear a bluebird sing. + + * * * * * + + One I remember kept his coin, + And laughing flipped it in the air; + But when two strolling pipe-players + Came by, he tossed it to the pair. + + Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart + Danced to their wild outlandish bars; + Then supperless he laid him down + That night, and slept beneath the stars. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Beloved Vagabond_ + + + You who were once so careless, I can recall you now, + Your blue-gray visionary eyes, your great and open brow, + With naught to bind your heart-strings, and all the world in fee, + You went where all the roads lead, beyond the farthest sea. + + Lover of space and skyline, what vision seared your eyes? + What gypsy word was winged to you that bade you gird and rise? + What thread of smoke sent onward your restless, eager feet? + What vagrant heart was waiting your wayward heart to greet? + + We, who are kin to the city, across the candles praise + Your tales of camps in twilight, your great and gallant ways, + Your knowledge of the mysteries deep-hidden by the wood, + The pagan trust you placed in man, the world you found so good. + + Then leave a _patrin_ for mine eyes that I may follow too, + Some day when all the world grows dim, and I shall beckon you; + Across the distant moorland, from beacon furze piled high, + May I, the newest rover, see your fire against the sky! + + _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ + + + + +_The Secret Voices_ + + + Have you heard the secret voices go whispering in your blood, + Of burning wood and falling leaf and swelling Springtime flood? + Have you felt the tang of lusty wind, the stinging lash of rain, + As tides of Spring march down the days with summer in their train? + + Have you known the zest and sparkle, felt the magic in the air, + And set your feet upon the road that leads to Anywhere? + And seen the skirts of storm-clouds trailing over budding trees, + And drunk the wine of virile life down to the very lees? + + Have you heard and have you known the voices of the wind, + That bid a man rise up and go and follow till he find + The pot of gold at the rainbow’s base, + Or a secret dream in a hidden place.... + Have you heard the secret voices whispering that Spring has come, + Calling you to rise and follow till you walk into the sun? + + _Ethel Mannin_ + + + + +_The Changing Year_ + + + + + _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._ + + BLISS CARMAN + + + + +_Turn O’ The Year_ + + + This is the time when bit by bit + The days begin to lengthen sweet + And every minute gained is joy-- + And love stirs in the heart of a boy. + + This is the time the sun, of late + Content to lie abed till eight, + Lifts up betimes his sleepy head-- + And love stirs in the heart of a maid. + + This is the time we dock the night + Of a whole hour of candlelight; + When song of linnet and thrush is heard-- + And love stirs in the heart of a bird. + + This is the time when sword-blades green, + With gold and purple damascene, + Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row-- + And love stirs in a heart I know. + + _Katharine Tynan_ + + + + +_April Music_ + + + The lyric sound of laughter + Fills all the April hills, + The joy-song of the crocus, + The mirth of daffodils. + + They ring their golden changes + Through all the azure vales; + The sunny cowslips answer, + Athwart the reedy swales. + + Far down the woodland aisleways + The trillium’s voice is heard; + The little wavering wind-flowers + Join in with jocund word. + + The white cry of the dogwood + Mounts up against the sky; + The breath of violet music + Upon the breeze goes by. + + Give me to hear, O April, + These choristers of thine + Calling across the distance + Serene and hyaline; + + To clear my clouded vision + Bedimmed and dulled so long, + And heal my aching spirit + With fragrance that is song! + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_The Year’s Awakening_ + + + How do you know that the pilgrim track + Along the belting zodiac + Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds + Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds + And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud + Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, + And never as yet a tinct of spring + Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling; + Oh, vespering bird, how do you know, + How do you know? + + How do you know, deep underground, + Hid in your bed from sight and sound, + Without a turn in temperature, + With weather life can scarce endure, + That light has won a fraction’s strength, + And day put on some moments’ length, + Whereof in merest rote will come, + Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; + Oh, crocus root, how do you know, + How do you know? + + _Thomas Hardy_ + + + + +_Spring’s Answer_ + + + I heard God calling + And I came, + His Sun signalled me + With its flame. + His Wind called me + With its song. + His Birds said they had been waiting + Over long. + His little Brooks ran tumbling + Down the hills, + Luring me with laughter + Of rocky rills. + His Grasses, yellow-green, + Standing in the sun, + Held up their fingers + For me to come. + Heart of Oak and heart of Pine + Beat a faint tattoo-- + Flowing sap in bole and bud + Climbing up anew. + Till at last the summons + Set my heart aflame-- + I heard God calling, + And I came! + + _Edwin Osgood Grover_ + + + + +_Morning Song_ + + + The grass is taller, greener, + And the birds more loud; + The flowers open freshly + To a sky of cloud. + + And man awakens gladly + In a world that’s good, + And thrills to some new beauty + Not quite understood. + + Though all the world is clouded + It’s a gray delight-- + For spring is swelling, swelling, + And it rained last night. + + _Lancaster Pollard_ + + + + +_April Weather_ + + + Soon, ah, soon the April weather + With the sunshine at the door, + And the mellow melting rain-wind + Sweeping from the South once more. + + Soon the rosy maples budding, + And the willows putting forth, + Misty crimson and soft yellow + In the valleys of the North. + + Soon the hazy purple distance, + Where the cabined heart takes wing, + Eager for the old migration + In the magic of the spring. + + Soon, ah, soon the budding windflowers + Through the forest white and frail, + And the odorous wild cherry + Gleaming in her ghostly veil. + + Soon, about the waking uplands + The hepaticas in blue,-- + Children of the first warm sunlight + In their sober Quaker hue,-- + + All our shining little sisters + Of the forest and the field, + Lifting up their quiet faces + With the secret half revealed. + + Soon across the folding twilight + Of the round earth hushed to hear, + The first robin at his vespers + Calling far, serene and clear. + + Soon the waking and the summons, + Starting sap in bole and blade, + And the bubbling marshy whisper + Seeping up through bog and glade. + + Soon the frogs in silver chorus + Through the night, from marsh and swale, + Blowing in their tiny oboes + All the joy that shall not fail,-- + + Passing up the old earth rapture + By a thousand streams and rills, + From the red Virginian valleys + To the blue Canadian hills. + + Soon, ah, soon the splendid impulse, + Nomad longing, vagrant whim, + When a man’s false angels vanish + And the truth comes back to him. + + Soon the majesty, the vision, + And the old unfaltering dream, + Faith to follow, strength to stablish, + Will to venture and to seem; + + All the radiance, the glamour, + The expectancy and poise, + Of this ancient life renewing + Its temerities and joys. + + Soon the immemorial magic + Of the young Aprilian moon, + And the wonder of thy friendship + In the twilight--soon, ah, soon! + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Runaway_ + + + What are you doing, little day-moon, + Over the April hill? + What are you doing, up so soon, + Climbing the sky with silver shoon? + What are you doing at half-past noon, + Slipping along so still? + + Are you so eager, the heights unwon, + That you cannot wait, + But, unheeding of wind and sun, + Out of your nest of night must run, + Up where the day is far from done, + Shy little shadow-mate? + + Up and away then--with young mists + Tripping, along the blue! + Dance and dally and promise trysts + Unto each that around you lists; + For, little moon, not a one but wists + April’s the time to woo! + + _Cale Young Rice_ + + + + +_Spring Market_ + + + It’s foolish to bring money + To any spring wood, + Jewels won’t help you, + Gold’s no good. + + Silver won’t buy you + One small leaf. + You may bring joy here, + You may bring grief. + + You should look for + Tufted moss, + Marked where a light foot + Ran across. + + Where the old rose hips + Shrivel brown + And dried clematis + Bloom hangs down. + + There you’ll find what + Everyman needs, + Wild religion + Without any creeds, + + Green that lifts its + Blossoming head, + New life springing + Among the dead. + + You needn’t bring money + To this market place, + Or think you can bargain for + Wild flower grace. + + _Louise Driscoll_ + + + + +_Song in March_ + + + I sing the first green leaf upon the bough, + The tiny kindling flame of emerald fire, + The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how + The sap will flush the briar. + + I sing the sweeping beryl on the slopes, + Ephemeræ that come before the bees, + The ferns renascent, and the virgin hopes + Of pale anemones. + + I sing the dream’s unfolding, and I sing + The chrysalis broken by the ice-freed shore, + The clear air winnowed by the bluebird’s wing, + And April at the door! + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_Flower Chorus_ + + + O such a commotion under the ground, + When March called “Ho, there! ho!” + Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, + Such whisperings to and fro! + “Are you ready?” the Snowdrop asked, + “’Tis time to start, you know.” + “Almost, my dear!” the Scilla replied, + “I’ll follow as soon as you go.” + Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came + Of laughter sweet and low, + From millions of flowers under the ground, + Yes, millions beginning to grow. + + “I’ll promise my blossoms,” the Crocus said, + “When I hear the blackbird sing.” + And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, + “My silver and gold I’ll bring.” + “And ere they are dulled,” another spoke, + “The hyacinth bells shall ring.” + But the Violet only murmured “I’m here,” + And sweet grew the air of spring. + Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came + Of laughter sweet and low, + From millions of flowers under the ground, + Yes, millions beginning to grow. + + Oh, the pretty brave things, thro’ the coldest days + Imprisoned in walls of brown, + They never lost heart tho’ the blast shrieked loud, + And the sleet and the hail came down; + But patiently each wrought her wonderful dress, + Or fashioned her beautiful crown, + And now they are coming to lighten the world + Still shadowed by winter’s frown. + And well may they cheerily laugh “Ha! ha!” + In laughter sweet and low, + The millions of flowers under the ground, + Yes, millions beginning to grow. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ + + + + +_April’s Coming_ + + + April comes with sudden showers, + Chilling winds and sunny hours. + April comes with growing green + On the trees still winter-lean. + April brings the singing bird + And a joy that is absurd. + April comes and April goes, + But the flowers April sows-- + Earth’s obituary tears-- + Wake the immemorial years. + So with Spring’s passing comes + Summer with her borrowed drums; + Fall and winter in a ring + Till April comes again with spring. + + _Lancaster Pollard_ + + + + +_The Secret_ + + + On that first day so singular + Under the ground, + It was too dark for crescent or for star, + Too deep for sound. + + And lying there one thought alone + I could not still: + How soon would snow-white cherry buds be blown + Across the hill. + + And then a voice within the tomb + Said very low: + “When April lights her first sharp flame of bloom + You’ll know!” + + _John Richard Moreland_ + + + + +_Spring_ + + + All the lanes are lyric, + All the bushes sing; + You are at your kissing, + Spring! + + Romping with your children + Do not fail to bring + Mary to the haystack, + Spring! + + Froth upon the fingers, + Bosom for a king, + Speed her from the milking, + Spring! + + _Norman Gale_ + + + + +_April Weather_ + + + Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, + For here is April weather! + The daffodils beneath the trees + Are all a-row together. + + The thrush is back with his old note; + The scarlet tulip blowing; + And white, aye, white as my love’s throat-- + The dogwood boughs are growing. + + The lilac bush is sweet again; + Down every wind that passes, + Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; + The bees are in the grasses. + + And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, + And care is but a feather; + And every lad his love can win, + For here is April weather. + + _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ + + + + +_Renewal_ + + + April, when I heard + Your lyrical low word, + And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossom stirred, + + Something strangely came-- + Something I cannot name-- + And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame. + + When the yellow gleam + Of your hosts that stream-- + Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus--made the world a golden dream, + + Something, April, said + To my heart that bled-- + Bled with old remembrance--“Lo, the grief-strewn days are fled!” + + _Sursum corda!_ Now, + When blooms the apple-bough, + April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow; + + Heal me, if you will; + Bathe my heart until + I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil! + + _Charles Hanson Towne_ + + + + +_April_ + + + Something tapped at my window pane, + Someone called me without my door. + Someone laughed like the tinkle o’ rain, + The robin echoed it o’er and o’er. + + I threw the door and the window wide; + Sun and the touch of the breeze and then-- + “Ah, were you expecting me, dear?” she cried, + And here was April come back again. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_The Immortal_ + + + Spring has come up from the South again, + With soft mists in her hair, + And a warm wind in her mouth again, + And budding everywhere. + Spring has come up from the South again, + And her skies are azure fire, + And around her is the awakening + Of all the world’s desire. + + Spring has come up from the South again, + And dreams are in her eyes, + And music is in her mouth again + Of love, the never-wise. + Spring has come up from the South again, + And bird and flower and bee + Know that she is their life and joy-- + And immortality! + + _Cale Young Rice_ + + + + +_Spring_ + + + I said in my heart, “I am sick of four walls and a ceiling. + I have need of the sky. + I have business with the grass. + I will up and get me away where the hawk is wheeling, + Lone and high, + And the slow clouds go by. + I will get me away to the waters that glass + The clouds as they pass, + To the waters that lie + Like the heart of a maiden aware of a doom drawing nigh + And dumb for sorcery of impending joy. + I will get me away to the woods. + Spring, like a huntsman’s boy, + Halloos along the hillsides and unhoods + The falcon in my will. + The dogwood calls me, and the sudden thrill + That breaks in apple blooms down country roads + Plucks me by the sleeve and nudges me away. + The sap is in the boles today, + And in my veins a pulse that yearns and goads.” + + When I got to the woods, I found out + What the Spring was about, + With her gypsy ways, + And her heart ablaze, + Coming up from the South + With the wander-lure of witch songs in her mouth. + For the sky + Stirred and grew soft and swimming as a lover’s eye + As she went by; + The air + Made love to all it touched, as if its care + Were all to spare; + The earth + Prickled with lust of birth; + The woodland streams + Babbled the incoherence of the thousand dreams + Wherewith the warm sun teems. + And out of the frieze + Of the chestnut trees + I heard + The sky and the fields and the thickets find voice in a bird. + The goldenwing--hark! + How he drives his song + Like a golden nail + Through the hush of the air! + I thrill to his cry in the leafage there; + I respond to the new life mounting under the bark. + I shall not be long + To follow + With eft and bulrush, bee and bud and swallow, + On the old trail. + + * * * * * + + Spring in the world! + And all things are made new! + There was never a mote that whirled + In the nebular morn, + There was never a brook that purled + Where the hills were born, + There was never a leaf uncurled-- + Not the first that grew-- + Nor a bee-flight hurled, + Nor a bird-note skirled, + Nor a cloud-wisp swirled + In the depth of the blue, + More alive and afresh and impromptu, more thoughtless and certain and free, + More a-shout with the glee + Of the Unknown new-burst on the wonder, than here, than here, + In the re-wrought sphere + Of the new-born year-- + Now, now, + When the greenlet sings on the red-bud bough + Where the blossoms are whispering “I and thou”--“I and thou,” + And a lass at the turn looks after a lad with a dawn on her brow, + And the world is just made--now! + + Spring in the heart! + With her pinks and pearls and yellows! + Spring, fellows, + And we too feel the little green leaves a-start + Across the bare-twigged winter of the mart. + The campus is reborn in us today; + The old grip stirs our hearts with new-old joy; + Again bursts bonds for madcap holiday + The eternal boy. + + _Richard Hovey_ + + + + +_Blind_ + + + The Spring blew trumpets of color; + Her Green sang in my brain-- + I heard a blind man groping + “Tap--tap” with his cane; + + I pitied him in his blindness; + But can I boast, “I see”? + Perhaps there walks a spirit + Close by, who pities me,-- + + A spirit who hears me tapping + The five-sensed cane of mind + Amid such unguessed glories-- + That I am worse than blind. + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_Spring Song_ + + + 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 re-cherish + And restore them in the sun, + Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, + With their heart-beats every one. + + Set me in the urge and tide-drift + Of the streaming hosts a-wing! + Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow, + Raucous challenge, wooings mellow-- + Every migrant is my fellow, + Making northward with the spring. + Loose me in the urge and tide-drift + Of the streaming hosts a-wing! + + Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, + In the valleys come again; + Fife of frog and call of tree-toad, + All my brothers, five or three-toed, + With their revel no more vetoed, + Making music in the rain, + Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, + In the valleys come again. + + Make me of thy seed to-morrow, + When the sap begins to stir! + Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin, + Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin, + Gnarl the good life goes askew in, + Whisky-jack or tanager,-- + Make me anything to-morrow, + When the sap begins to stir! + + Make me even (How do I know?) + Like my friend the gargoyle there; + It may be the heart within him + Swells that doltish hands should pin him + Fixed forever in mid-air. + Make me even sport for swallows, + Like the soaring gargoyle there! + + Give me the old clue to follow, + Through the labyrinth of night! + Clod of clay with heart of fire, + Things that burrow and aspire, + With the vanishing desire, + For the perishing delight,-- + Only the old clue to follow, + Through the labyrinth of night! + + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + Fashion me from swamp or meadow, + Garden plot or ferny shadow, + Hyacinth or humble burr! + Make me over, mother April, + When the sap begins to stir! + + Let me hear the far, low summons, + When the silver winds return; + Rills that run and streams that stammer, + Goldenwing with his loud hammer, + Icy brooks that brawl and clamor, + Where the Indian willows burn; + Let me hearken to the calling, + When the silver winds return, + + Till recurring and recurring, + Long since wandered and come back, + Like a whim of Grieg’s or Gounod’s, + This same self, bird, bud, or Bluenose, + Some day I may capture (Who knows?) + Just the one last joy I lack, + Waking to the far new summons, + When the old spring winds come back. + + For I have no choice of being, + When the sap begins to climb,-- + Strong insistence, sweet intrusion, + Vasts and verges of illusion,-- + So I win, to time’s confusion, + The one perfect pearl of time, + Joy and joy and joy forever, + Till the sap forgets to climb! + + Make me over in the morning + From the rag-bag of the world! + Scraps of dream and duds of daring, + Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, + Faded colors once so flaring, + Shreds of banners long since furled! + Hues of ash and glints of glory, + In the rag-bag of the world! + + Let me taste the old immortal + Indolence of life once more; + Not recalling or foreseeing, + Let the great slow joys of being + Well my heart through as of yore! + Let me taste the old immortal + Indolence of life once more! + + Give me the old drink for rapture, + The delirium to drain! + All my fellows drank in plenty + At the Three-Score Inns and Twenty + From the mountains to the main! + Give me the old drink for rapture, + The delirium to drain! + + Only make me over, April + When the sap begins to stir! + Make me man or make me woman, + Make me oaf or ape or human, + Cup of flower or cone of fir; + Make me anything but neuter + When the sap begins to stir! + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Sweet, Low Speech Of The Rain_ + + + It is pleasant to lie in the gloaming + When the autumn is on the wane, + And the careful, rejoicing reaper + Has gathered and stored his grain, + And hear at the doors and the windows + The sweet, low speech of the rain. + + To put by the thought of the sailor + Far out on the storm-rocked main, + Where the fierce waves leap and struggle. + Like beasts in passionate pain, + And lie by the hearth and listen + To the sweet, low speech of the rain. + + Ah, May has the burst of the blossom, + And the red of the willow vein, + And the glad uplift of the flowers + That lead in the fragrant train; + But nothing so dear as the sweet, low + Speech of the autumn rain. + + July has the rose and the purple, + And the sunset’s golden stain + On the river that draws thro’ the valley + A glittering, wave-linked chain; + But never this lyrical, tremulous, + Sweet, low speech of the rain. + + Each heart knows the joy of the winter, + The drift of the snow on the plain, + The book and the charm of the fireside, + The icicles fringing the pane; + But ah, for the faltering, pausing, + Sweet, low speech of the rain. + + Old friends of my heart come to-morrow, + Remembrance, Regret, and Pain, + But to-night I will lie in the gloaming + And be lulled by the lure of the rain--And + the rhythmical, lyrical, rhyming, + Sweet, low speech of the rain. + + _Ella Higginson_ + + + + +_Early Spring_ + + + Once more the Heavenly Power + Makes all things new, + And domes the red-plowed hills + With loving blue; + The blackbirds have their wills, + The throstles too. + + Opens a door in Heaven; + From skies of glass + A Jacob’s ladder falls + On greening grass, + And o’er the mountain-walls + Young angels pass. + + Before them fleets the shower, + And burst the buds, + And shine the level lands, + And flash the floods; + The stars are from their hands + Flung through the woods, + + The woods with living airs + How softly fanned, + Light airs from where the deep, + All down the sand, + Is breathing in his sleep, + Heard by the land. + + O, follow, leaping blood, + The season’s lure! + O heart, look down and up, + Serene, secure, + Warm as the crocus cup, + Like snow-drops pure! + + Past, Future glimpse and fade + Through some slight spell, + A gleam from yonder vale, + Some far blue fell, + And sympathies, how frail, + In sound and smell! + + Till at thy chuckled note, + Thou twinkling bird, + The fairy fancies range, + And, lightly stirred, + Ring little bells of change + From word to word. + + For now the Heavenly Power + Makes all things new, + And thaws the cold, and fills + The flower with dew; + The blackbirds have their wills, + The poets too. + + _Alfred Tennyson_ + + + + +_Spring_ + + + Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air + Which dwells with all things fair, + Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, + Is with us once again. + + Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns + Its fragrant lamps, and turns + Into a royal court with green festoons + The banks of dark lagoons. + + In the deep heart of every forest tree + The blood is all aglee, + And there’s a look about the leafless bowers + As if they dreamed of flowers. + + Yet still on every side we trace the hand + Of Winter in the land, + Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, + Flushed by the season’s dawn; + + Or where, like those strange semblances we find + That age to childhood bind, + The elms put on, as if in Nature’s scorn, + The brown of Autumn corn. + + As yet the turf is dark, although you know + That, not a span below, + A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, + And soon will burst their tomb. + + Already, here and there, on frailest stems + Appear some azure gems, + Small as might deck, upon a gala day + The forehead of a fay. + + In gardens you may note amid the dearth, + The crocus breaking earth; + And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green, + The violet in its screen. + + But many gleams and shadows needs must pass + Along the budding grass, + And weeks go by, before the enamored South + Shall kiss the rose’s mouth. + + Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn + In the sweet airs of morn; + One almost looks to see the very street + Grow purple at his feet. + + At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, + And brings, you know not why, + A feeling as when eager crowds await + Before a palace gate + + Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, + If from a beech’s heart + A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, + “Behold me! I am May!” + + _Henry Timrod_ + + + + +_April, April_ + + + April, April, + Laugh thy girlish laughter; + Then, the moment after, + Weep thy girlish tears, + April, that mine ears + Like a lover greetest, + If I tell thee, sweetest, + All my hopes and fears. + April, April, + Laugh thy golden laughter, + But, the moment after, + Weep thy golden tears! + + _William Watson_ + + + + +_April Rain_ + + + It is not raining rain for me, + It’s raining daffodils; + In every dimpled drop I see + Wild flowers on the hills. + + The clouds of gray engulf the day + And overwhelm the town; + It is not raining rain to me, + It’s raining roses down. + + It is not raining rain to me, + But fields of clover bloom, + Where any buccaneering bee + Can find a bed and room. + + A health unto the happy, + A fig for him who frets! + It is not raining rain to me, + It’s raining violets. + + _Robert Loveman_ + + + + +April + + + An altered look about the hills; + A Tyrian light the village fills; + A wider sunrise in the dawn; + A deeper twilight on the lawn; + A print of a vermilion foot; + A purple finger on the slope; + A flippant fly upon the pane; + A spider at his trade again; + An added strut in chanticleer; + A flower expected everywhere; + An axe shrill singing in the woods; + Fern-odors on untravelled roads,-- + All this, and more I cannot tell, + A furtive look you know as well, + And Nicodemus’ mystery + Receives its annual reply. + + _Emily Dickinson_ + + + + +_April Morning_ + + + I would spend a morning + With an April apple tree, + Speaking to it softly + And laughing out in glee. + + All the summer sunshine + And all the winter moon + Are shining in the blossoms + That will be gone so soon. + + I will spend a morning + With a friendly apple tree, + Hearing many secrets + That it will tell to me. + + I will take a morning + To drink the beauty in; + I will take a morning-- + But how shall I begin? + + _George Elliston_ + + + + +_May-Lure_ + + + How the heart pulls at its tether + In the magic warm spring weather! + How the blood leaps in its courses + When the deep ebullient forces + Break the bosom brown of earth! + + It is worth + All a man can scrape or squander + Just to idle, just to wander + Forth from trade, away from duty, + Revelling in all the beauty + And the glamour of the May. + + Who to-day + Cares a fig for any other + Thought save this: The earth, great mother, + Has turned kind, has banished gloom and dole; + Music, that audient outlet for the soul, + Comes in, and grief goes out, and life is whole. + + _Richard Burton_ + + + + +_Sunrise_ + + + Day! + Faster and more fast, + O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: + Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim + Where spurting and suppressed it lay, + For not a froth-flake touched the rim + Of yonder gap in the solid gray + Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; + But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, + Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, + Rose, reddened, and its seething breast + Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. + + _Robert Browning_ + + + + +_The Throstle_ + + + “Summer is coming, summer is coming, + I know it, I know it, I know it. + Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,” + Yes, my wild little Poet. + + Sing the new year in under the blue. + Last year you sang it as gladly. + “New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new + That you should carol so madly? + + “Love again, song again, nest again, young again,” + Never a prophet so crazy! + And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, + See, there is hardly a daisy. + + “Here again, here, here, here, happy year!” + Oh, warble unchidden, unbidden! + Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, + And all the winters are hidden. + + _Alfred Tennyson_ + + + + +_Tell All The World_ + + + Tell all the world that summer’s here again + With song and joy; tell them, that they may know + How, on the hillside, in the shining fields + New clumps of violets and daisies grow. + + Tell all the world that summer’s here again, + That white clouds voyage through a sky so still + With blue tranquillity, it seems to hang + One windless tapestry, from hill to hill. + + Tell all the world that summer’s here again: + Folk go about so solemnly and slow, + Walking each one his grooved and ordered way-- + I fear that, otherwise they will not know! + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_Sorrow in a Garden_ + + + Here to this ancient garden + When wintry days had flown + I came, with Comrade Sorrow + To dwell with her alone. + + Within this sweet seclusion + Far from the world’s rude stare + What exquisite communings + Sorrow and I would share! + + What banquets of remembrance, + What luxury of tears + With Sorrow in a garden + Through the rose scented years! + + But one day when she called me + I did not hear her voice; + I only heard the lilies + Which sang, Rejoice! Rejoice! + + For _June_ was in the garden + And June was in my heart,-- + I had forgot pale Sorrow + And now we dwell apart. + + But often in the twilight + When birds and gardens sleep + I feel her presence with me + Her arms about me creep. + + And when the ghost of Summer + With the dead roses talks + I hear her softly sobbing + Along the moon-lit walks. + + I never can forget her + So intimate were we + But when I walk my garden + She comes no more to me. + + _May Riley Smith_ + + + + +_The Naturalist On A June Sunday_ + + + My old gardener leans on his hoe, + Tells me the way that green things grow; + “Goin’ to church? Why no. + All nature’s church enough for me!” + Says he. + + “Preachin’ o’ flower and choir o’ bird, + An’ the wind passin’ the plate-- + Sweetest service that ever I heard, + That’s straight! + _Eternal Rest?_ + What for, friend? + Gimme a swarm o’ bees to tend, + A honey-makin’, world without end, + That’s what I’d like the best! + (Scoop ’em right up an’ find the queen, + They’d not sting me--the bees ain’ mean!) + + “Heaven’s all right! + But still I guess I’ll kinder miss + The Lady Lunar moth at night + And the White Wanderer butterfly + Crawlin’ out of its chrysalis! + I want my heaven human too, + ’Twixt me an’ you-- + Why I’d jus’ love to see + A chipmunk hop up to the Lord + An’ eat right out o’ His dread Hand + Same as it does to me! + Eternity--eternity-- + Don’t it sound grand? + But say + _What’s the matter with today?_ + Just step into the wood an’ take a look! + Ain’t that a page o’ teachin’ from the Holy Book? + ‘He that hath eyes to see + An’ ears to hear’-- + That’s good enough for me! + I guess God’s pretty near, + He’ll understand, I know, + Why I ain’t in no hurry to let June go!” + + My old gardener turns to his hoe, + Helping the green things how to grow, + “The Missis can go to church for me! + Amen!” says he. + + _Leonora Speyer_ + + + + +_Summer_[4] + + + By sea and by land, + In the water-wooed marshes or meadows wide-reaching and bland, + The summer is regal and rich, the summer on every hand + Spills largesses splendid to mortals, to women and men. + For when + Is the breeze sweeter fraught with the breath of the hay, + Is the thrush-note more calm or the robin’s loud lay + More blithe, or the rose more the queen of the day? + Now say, + What month is more bounteous in beauties, in balms, + In lyrics, in psalms, + In gold-heart fair fancies of sunset, and calms + Of twilight, or after-glows wondrously clear? + One may hear + The booming of bees and the brook’s lulled refrain, + The stream’s liquid epic, the grasshopper’s plain, + The frog’s bass reiterant languor at night, + The day-long and dark-long sound-woof, interplight + With dreamings and memories somber or bright. + + A very miracle, + I saw a moment gone: + A honeysuckle, vine and bloom, + Lustrous green and coral red, + I glimpsed above my head + Shedding a rapt perfume. + And then this marvel fell + That I would dwell upon: + A bird--nay, rather say an airy sprite + Compact of color, light, + And a most ravishing power of flight, + Darted from nowhere, somewhere, + And alighted there, + And sat at gaze a moment or twain, + And then was off again. + Not Wordsworth’s cuckoo were a dearer guest + Unto my quest, + So insubstantial, spirit small + And fleetsome in his call; + Ah, ye know well + It was the humming-bird whereof I tell. + + This mother-month of Summer holds her place + Not only by the grace + Attending on her many winsome ways,-- + Her flower-gifts, her bird-lays, + Her bridal form and face,--But + by what went before and cometh after; + April tears, May blooms and laughter, + September’s blazonry, and then October + Fruit-ripe and hushed and most imperially sober + With sense of harvest dignity and worth. + Thus, memory and expectation, + Spring-gleams, fruitions of the fall, + Encircle June and give unto her station + A reverend look, a light historical; + Child, maiden, matron, she is each and all. + + _Richard Burton_ + +[4] From “Dumb in June” + + + + +_Autumn_ + + + The morns are meeker than they were, + The nuts are getting brown; + The berry’s cheek is plumper, + The rose is out of town. + + The maple wears a gayer scarf, + The field a scarlet gown. + Lest I should be old-fashioned, + I’ll put a trinket on. + + _Emily Dickinson_ + + + + +_Overtones_ + + + I heard a bird at break of day + Sing from the autumn trees + A song so mystical and calm, + So full of certainties, + No man, I think, could listen long + Except upon his knees. + Yet this was but a simple bird, + Alone, among dead trees. + + _William Alexander Percy_ + + + + +_Carouse_ + + + Autumn, in her scarlet cloak, + Comes tumbling down the hills. + Oh, she is tipsy with her dreams + That the blue day distils; + An amber cup is in her hands + From which the wonder spills. + + Now leaf and vine turn golden brown, + And purple asters shine + Along the roads where Autumn runs, + Drunken with mystic wine. + The world is one vast tapestry + Of intricate design. + + Where Autumn lurches through the dusk + In raiment wildly red, + A crowd of urchins follow her, + With many a tousled head-- + Chrysanthemums, like naughty boys, + Driving the crone to bed! + + _Charles Hanson Towne_ + + + + +_A Song in Autumn_ + + + Autumn, Autumn, give me of your crimson, + Give it me for courage, for the year has left me meek, + And your crimson banners flying, as the sign of your defying, + Shall dare my heart’s denying the patience of the weak. + + Autumn, Autumn, give me of your yellow, + Give it unto me for hope--the hope I could not hold; + For where your gold is burning I feel the dream returning, + The darling pain of yearning whose passing left me old. + + Autumn, Autumn, take me to your heart so, + The bold heart, the singing heart whose strength shall make me strong; + Send my healed life faring in colors of your wearing, + Your gold and crimson bearing, against a grief too long. + + _Theodosia Garrison_ + + + + +_An Autumn Garden_ + + + My tent stands in a garden + Of aster and golden-rod, + 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 glamour + 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 at twilight + 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? + + The deep red cones of the sumach + And the woodbine’s crimson 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, athrob with 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 to 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 and 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. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_September_ + + + The wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by. + It’s time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie; + It’s time to take your basket up, and follow on with me, + Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see. + + For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine, + The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine; + The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow; + The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow. + + Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call, + September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all, + But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill-- + The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still. + + Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by! + The sweet September calls us before the flowers die. + The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet. + Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet! + + _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ + + + + +_Days Like These_ + + + I like the tangled brakes and briers, + The hazy smoke of forest fires; + + The misty hills’ soft robe of brown, + The ravished fields’ regretful frown: + + The wrinkled road’s unconscious snare, + The free, unbreathed and fragrant air. + + I like the wide, unworried sky, + The resting wind’s contented sigh; + + The rustle of the vagrant leaves, + The whisper in the standing sheaves; + + The birds’ lament for summer lost, + The stinging challenge of the frost. + + The sturdy life of stalwart trees + Thrills in my veins on days like these! + + _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_ + + + + +_Indian Summer_ + + + These are the days when birds come back, + A very few, a bird or two, + To take a backward look. + + These are the days when skies put on + The old, old sophistries of June-- + A blue and gold mistake. + + Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, + Almost thy plausibility + Induces my belief, + + Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, + And softly through the altered air + Hurries a timid leaf! + + Oh, sacrament of summer days, + Oh, last communion in the haze, + Permit a child to join, + + Thy sacred emblems to partake, + Thy consecrated bread to break, + Taste thine immortal wine! + + _Emily Dickinson_ + + + + +_The Deserted Pasture_ + + + I love the stony pasture + That no one else will have. + The old gray rocks so friendly seen, + 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. + + _Bliss Carman_ + + + + +_The Coming of Dawn_ + + + Midnight--the black, dead vast of night, + Rain dripping slow on the sod, + Fear of the future, darkness-born, + Doubt of myself and God. + + A sudden flush on the face of night, + A veil from my soul withdrawn, + A bird-note thrilling the silence through. + And after that--the dawn. + + _Grace Atherton Dennen_ + + + + +_Alms in Autumn_ + + + Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, + A little flaming lantern to light me on my way? + The fairy folk have vanished from the meadow and the glen, + And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again; + Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light + To show the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. + + Ash tree, ash tree, throw me, if you please, + Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys; + I fear the gates of fairyland may all be shut fast; + Give me of your magic keys that I may get past; + I’ll tie them to my girdle, that as I go along + My heart may find a comfort in their tiny tinkling song. + + Holly bush, holly bush, help me in my task, + A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask; + A pocketful of berries to thread on glowing strands + (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands); + So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, + They’ll set the realms of fairyland a-dancing with delight. + + _Rose Fyleman_ + + + + +_November in England_ + + + No sun--no moon! + No morn--no noon! + No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- + No sky--no earthly view-- + No distance looking blue-- + No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”--No + end to any “Row”-- + No indications where the Crescents go-- + No top to any steeple-- + No recognitions of familiar people-- + No courtesies for showing ’em-- + No knowing ’em! + No travelling at all--no locomotion, + No inkling of the way--no notion-- + “No go”--by land or ocean-- + No mail--no post-- + No news from any foreign coast-- + No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- + No company--no nobility-- + No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, + No comfortable feel in any member-- + No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, + No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, + November! + + _Thomas Hood_ + + + + +_The Hound_ + + + Some are sick for Spring and warm winds blowing + Over close-sheathed buds and a patch of old snow, + With the early arc-lamps delicately bowing + Across thin sunshine that hesitates to go. + + But it’s not for any April promises I sicken, + Though their stammering sweetness be a plucked string; + My mind is bent toward Autumn, I am shaken + More by her denials than by all the hopes of Spring. + + The curt cold days, the blue and windy weather, + The smoke of burning brushwood keener than a frost, + An orchard full of odors night is wise to gather, + The fur-collared stubble where the flower is lost. + + A clear green sunset and a pale moon showing, + A sense of dawning ends, like the light in the sky. + Autumn is a hound that shrills, my heart is for her gnawing, + The quarry goes to Autumn, let Spring die. + + _Babette Deutsch_ + + + + +_Sky-Born Music_ + + + + + _Earth’s crammed with heaven + And every common bush afire with God; + But only he who sees takes off his shoes...._ + + _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ + + + + +_Let Me Go Where’er I Will_ + + + Let me go where’er I will, + I hear a sky-born music still; + It sounds from all things old, + It sounds from all things young, + From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul, + Peals out a cheerful song. + It is not only in the rose, + It is not only in the bird, + Not only where the rainbow glows, + Nor in the song of woman heard, + But in the darkest, meanest things + There alway, alway something sings. + ’Tis not in the high stars alone, + Nor in the cups of budding flowers, + Nor in the red-breast’s mellow tone, + Nor in the bow that smiles in showers, + But in the mud and scum of things + There alway, alway something sings. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ + + + + +_Pippa’s Song_ + + + The year’s at the spring, + And day’s at the morn; + Morning’s at seven; + The hill-side’s dew-pearled. + The lark’s on the wing; + The snail’s on the thorn; + God’s in his heaven-- + All’s right with the world! + + _Robert Browning_ + + + + +_The Whisper Of Earth_ + + + In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches + Soften to the South wind, bending to the rain. + From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, + Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain. + + Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, + Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, + Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, + Little crying wind-sounds come before the King. + + Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, + Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, + Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, + God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne. + + _Edward J. O’Brien_ + + + + +_Sunrise_ + + + Today I saw the sun come up, like Neptune from the sea. + I saw him light a cliff with gold and wake a distant tree, + I saw him shake his shaggy head and laugh the night away + And toss unto a sleeping world another golden day. + + The waves, which had been black and cold, came in with silver crests. + I saw the sunbeams gently wake the songbirds in their nests, + The slow-retreating night slipped back, and strewn on field and lawn, + On every blade of grass I saw the jewels of the dawn. + + Never was monarch ushered in with such a cavalcade; + No hero bringing victory home has seen such wealth displayed. + In honor of the coming day, the humblest plant and tree + Stood on the curbstone of the world in radiant livery. + + Pageants of splendor man may plan with robes of burnished gold, + On horses from Arabia may prance the knights of old; + Heralds on silver horns may blow, and kings come riding in, + But I have seen God’s pageantry--I’ve watched a day begin! + + _Edgar A. Guest_ + + + + +_Prayer Before Poems_ + + + Great Author of a world, of sky, of sea; + Whose lyrics are translated by the birds, + Come close and in the stillness I may learn + To worship Thee with words. + + Thou, who dost guide all groping, gifted hands + ’Till they can finger every helpless string + And find the souls of violins and harps, + Aid me to sing. + + Artist, who did the great originals, + And carved the tender features of a saint, + Who chose the colors for a universe, + Teach me to paint. + + _Anne Blackwell Payne_ + + + + +_How Miracles Abound_ + + + How miracles abound + In each small plot of ground-- + Aye, in the sky above it! + (Do you not love it, + The vast of sky a-thrill with lyric sound?) + Now comes, now goes, + The wonder of the rose; + Color or flower, and both a boon + Renewed with dawn or June. + Each day the hyacinthine twilight fills + The chalice of the hills. + Ever there’s some fresh nectary + For the knight-errant bee. + And song--ah, the blithe bounty that sheds beauty + On the stern ways of duty! + Forsooth the doctrine’s sound + That miracles abound! + E’en the green sod, + Yea, or the umbered clod, + Revealeth God! + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_Little Things_ + + + There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay + About the rush of faces in the town by day, + But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, + That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed. + And the soft March wind and the low March mist + Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed.... + The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, + The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, + The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play-- + These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! + And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn + When the feast is laid for a day new-born.... + Oh, better let the little things I loved when little + Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; + And better is a temple made of bark and thong + Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long. + + _Orrick Johns_ + + + + +_Clouds and Sky_ + + + One time when I was sick, + And could but see + The sky above the top + Of a tall tree, + + It first was coldly blue + Far past the tree. + Without a cloud, it seemed + Eternity. + + But when clouds came, the sky, + (I know not how), + Was caught among the leaves-- + And it was Now. + + _Lancaster Pollard_ + + + + +_My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold_ + + + My heart leaps up when I behold + A rainbow in the sky: + So was it when my life began; + So is it now I am a man: + So be it when I shall grow old, + Or let me die! + The Child is father of the Man-- + And I could wish my days to be + Bound each to each by natural piety. + + _William Wordsworth_ + + + + +_The Marshes_[5] + + + Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free + Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! + Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, + Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won + God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain + And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. + + As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, + Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: + I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies + In the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies: + By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod + I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: + Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within + The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. + + _Sidney Lanier_ + +[5] Extract from “The Marshes of Glynn.” + + + + +_Song_ + + + The birds of the air, they sing it, + Round the rim of the world they ring it; + The bees in the blossom-bell, + They tell, they tell. + + No; birds in the air, none sing it, + For the rift of the dawn none ring it; + Noon bees in the blossom-bell, + None tell, none tell. + + I say it over and over,-- + There is none can speak for a lover; + But oh, ere the roses go, + Her heart will know! + + _John Vance Cheney_ + + + + +_Out-of-Doors_ + + + What came ye out for to seek, O Maker of Words? + The color of grass in the sunshine, the music of birds; + And what shall ye do when ye find them, O Singer of Songs? + Weave a bright fabric of beauty, and give it to whom it belongs; + Weave a gay fabric of music, to lay at the feet of mankind, + All purple and gold for the sense, all golden and gray for the mind? + + This came I out for to seek--the daffodil’s gold, + The magic of buds all unfolding, the treasure untold + That lies in the heart of the forest, the moss and the leaves, + The jewel of flowers in the thicket, that no eye perceives; + And these will I weave into music, these will I fashion to words, + The wind in the grass and the rushes, the dawn-song of birds. + + _Ethel E. Mannin_ + + + + +_The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks_ + + + To build the trout a crystal stair; + To comb the hillside’s thick green hair; + To water jewel-weed and rushes; + To teach first notes to baby thrushes; + To flavor raspberry and apple + And make a whirling pool to dapple + With scattered gold of late October; + To urge wise laughter on the sober + And lend a dream to those who laugh; + To chant the beetle’s epitaph; + To mirror the blue dragonfly, + Frail air-plane of a slender sky; + Over the stones to lull and leap + Herding the bubbles like white sheep; + The claims of worry to deny, + And whisper sorrow into sleep! + + _Grace Hazard Conkling_ + + + + +_A Word With a Skylark_ + + + If this be all, for which I’ve listened long, + Oh, spirit of the dew! + You did not sing to Shelley such a song + As Shelley sang to you. + + Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest, + Worm-eaten through and through,-- + This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and crest,-- + What better could you do? + + Ah me! but when the world and I were young, + There was an apple-tree, + There was a voice in the dawn that sung + The buds awake--ah me! + + Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near, + Like some spent leaf at best, + You’d never sing again if you could hear + My Bluebird of the West! + + _Sarah Piatt_ + + + + +_The Perilous Light_ + + + The Eternal Beauty smiled on me + From the long lily’s curved form, + She laughed in a wave of the sea, + She flashed on white wings through the storm. + + In the bulb of a daffodil + She made a little joyful stir, + And the white cabin on the hill + Was my heart’s home because of Her. + + Her laughter fled the eyes of pride, + Barefoot She went o’er stony land, + And ragged children, hungry-eyed, + Clung to Her skirts and held Her hand. + + When storm winds shook the cabin door + And red the Atlantic sunset blazed, + The fisher folk of Mullaghmore + Into Her eyes indifferent gazed. + + By lonely waves She dwells apart, + And sea gulls circling on white wings, + Crowd round the windows of Her heart, + Most dear to Her of starving things. + + The ploughman, down by Knocknarea, + Was free of Her twilight abode, + In shining sea-winds, salt with spray, + She haunted every gray cross road. + + Some peasants with a creel of turf + Along the wind-swept boreen came, + Her feet went flashing through the surf, + Her wings were in the sunset’s flame. + + Beyond the rocks of Classiebawn, + The mackerel fishers sailing far, + Out in the vast Atlantic dawn + Found, tangled in their nets, a star. + + In every spent and broken wave + The Eternal Beauty takes Her rest, + She is the Lover of the Brave, + The comrade of the perilous quest. + + The Eternal Beauty wrung my heart, + Faithful is She, and true to shed + The austere glory of Art + On the scarceness of daily bread. + + Men follow Her with toil and thought, + Over the heaven’s starry pride,-- + The Eternal Beauty comes unsought + To the child by the roadside. + + _Eva Gore-Booth_ + + + + +_Folly_ + + + The moon has made me weary + With its silver and its song. + Such ardor in so old a thing + Is wrong, all wrong. + + It should be limping silently + Across the leaden sky + Or grumbling at the cloud-hills + The wind piles high. + + It should be teaching little moons + The proper way to shine, + Instead of singing sonnets + To each adoring pine. + + _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_ + + + + +_One Blackbird_ + + + The stars must make an awful noise + In whirling round the sky; + Yet somehow I can’t even hear + Their loudest song or sigh. + + So it is wonderful to think + One blackbird can outsing + The voice of all the swarming stars + On any day in spring. + + _Harold Monro_ + + + + +_A Rune of Riches_ + + + I have a golden ball, + A big, bright, shining one, + Pure gold; and it is all + Mine.--It is the sun. + + I have a silver ball, + A white and glistering stone + That other people call + The moon;--my very own! + + The jewel things that prick + My cushion’s soft blue cover + Are mine,--my stars, thick, thick, + Scattered the sky all over. + + And everything that’s mine + Is yours, and yours, and yours,-- + The shimmer and the shine!-- + Let’s lock our wealth out-doors! + + _Florence Converse_ + + + + +_The Picture_ + + + “There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” + The painter-poet said, + “That is violet-blue and emerald + From the face of the sky o’erhead.” + + So, far in the ancient forest, + To the heart of the wood went I, + But found no pool of emerald, + No violet-blue for sky. + + “There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” + Said the painter-poet still. + “That is violet-blue and emerald, + Near the breast of a rose-green hill.” + + And the heart of the ancient forest + The painter-poet drew, + And painted a pool of emerald + That thrilled me through and through. + + Then back to the ancient forest + I went with a strange, wild thrill, + And I found the pool of emerald, + Near the breast of a rose-green hill. + + _Frederick O. Sylvester_ + + + + +“_Sic Vita_” + + + Heart free, hand free, + Blue above, brown under, + All the world to me + Is a place of wonder. + Sun shine, moon shine, + Stars, and winds a-blowing, + All into this heart of mine + Flowing, flowing, flowing! + + Mind free, step free, + Days to follow after, + Joys of life sold to me + For the price of laughter. + Girl’s love, man’s love + Love of work and duty, + Just a will of God’s to prove + Beauty, beauty, beauty! + + _William Stanley Braithwaite_ + + + + +_A Blackbird Suddenly_ + + + Heaven is in my hand, and I + Touch a heart-beat of the sky, + Hearing a blackbird’s cry. + + Strange, beautiful, unquiet thing, + Lone flute of God, how can you sing + Winter to spring? + + You have outdistanced every voice and word, + And given my spirit wings until it stirred + Like you--a bird! + + _Joseph Auslander_ + + + + +_Credo_ + + + I believe + In the whispering of the peacock-plumaged sea, + In the moonshine and the little shining star, + I believe that in all color harmony + His angels are. + + I believe + In the sunshine and the message of the flowers, + In the wind-song and the sea-song and the rain-- + I believe that in summer’s greening hours + God comes again. + + _Vera Wheatly_ + + + + +_Gospel of the Fields_ + + + Have you ever thought, my friend, + As daily you toil and plod + In the noisy paths of man, + How still are the ways of God? + + Have you ever paused in the din + Of traffic’s insistent cry + To think of the calm in the cloud, + Of the peace in your glimpse of sky? + + Go out in the growing fields + That quietly yield you meat, + And let them rebuke your noise + Whose patience is still and sweet. + + They toil their æons--and we + Who flutter back to their breast, + A handful of clamorous clay, + Forget their silence is best! + + _Arthur Upson_ + + + + +_The Welcome_ + + + God spreads a carpet soft and green + O’er which we pass; + A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen-- + And that is Grass. + + Delightful music woos the ear; + The grass is stirred + Down to the heart of every spear-- + Ah, that’s a Bird. + + Clouds roll before a blue immense + That stretches high + And lends the soul exalted sense-- + That scroll’s a Sky. + + Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; + Their jubilee + Extols brave Captains and their quests-- + And that is Sea. + + New-leaping grass, the feathery flute, + The sapphire ring, + The sea’s full-voiced, profound salute,-- + Ah, this is Spring! + + _Arthur Powell_ + + + + +_Angels of the Spring_ + + + We see them not--we cannot hear + The music of their wing-- + Yet know we that they sojourn near, + The angels of the spring! + + They glide along this lovely ground + When the first violet grows; + Their graceful hands have just unbound + The zone of yonder rose. + + I gather it for thy dear breast, + From stain and shadow free: + That which an Angel’s love hath blest + Is meet, my love, for thee! + + _Robert Stephen Hawkes_ + + + + +_God’s World_ + + + O World, I cannot hold thee close enough! + Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! + Thy mists that roll and rise! + Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag + And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag + To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! + World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! + + Long have I known a glory in it all, + But never knew I this; + Here such a passion is + As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear + Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year. + My soul is all but out of me,--let fall + No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. + + _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ + + + + +_Rain_ + + + I never knew how words were vain + Until I strove to say + The thoughts that fell like the gray rain + Upon my heart today. + + The April rain falls on the earth, + That waits a while for words, + And then becomes articulate + In buds and bees and birds. + + The thoughts that rain upon my heart + Bring nothing fair to birth; + O God, I kneel before the art, + Of this great lyrist, earth. + + _Kenneth Slade Alling_ + + + + +_The Lark_ + +(_Salisbury, England_) + + + A close gray sky, + And poplars gray and high, + The country-side along; + The steeple bold + Across the acres old-- + And then a song! + + Oh, far, far, far, + As any spire or star, + Beyond the cloistered wall! + Oh, high, high, high, + A heart-throb in the sky-- + Then not at all! + + _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ + + + + +_Farewell_ + + + Tell them, O Sky-born, when I die + With high romance to wife, + That I went out as I had lived, + Drunk with the joy of life. + + Yea, say that I went down to death + Serene and unafraid, + Still loving Song, but loving more + Life, of which Song is made! + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_The Comfort of the Stars_ + + + When I am overmatched by petty cares + And things of earth loom large, and look to be + Of moment, how it soothes and comforts me + To step into the night and feel the airs + + Of heaven fan my cheek; and, best of all, + Gaze up into those all-uncharted seas + Where swim the stately planets: such as these + Make mortal fret seem light and temporal. + + I muse on what of Life may stir among + Those spaces knowing naught of metes nor bars; + Undreamed-of dramas played in outmost stars, + And lyrics by archangels grandly sung. + + I grow familiar with the solar runes + And comprehend of worlds the mystic birth; + Ringed Saturn, Mars, whose fashion apes the earth, + And Jupiter, the giant, with his moons. + + Then, dizzy with the unspeakable sights above, + Rebuked by Vast on Vast, my puny heart + Is greatened for its transitory part, + My trouble merged in wonder and in love. + + _Richard Burton_ + + + + +_The Last Hour_ + + + O joys of love and joys of fame, + It is not you I shall regret: + I sadden lest I should forget + The beauty woven in earth’s name. + + The shout and battle of the gale, + The stillness of the sun-rising, + The sound of some deep hidden spring, + The glad sob of the filling sail, + + The first green ripple of the wheat, + The rain-song of the lifted leaves, + The waking birds beneath the eaves, + The voices of the summer heat. + + _Ethel Clifford_ + + + + +_Wasted Hours_ + + + There was a day I wasted long ago, + Lying upon a hillside in the sun-- + An April day of wind and drifting clouds, + An idle day and all my work undone. + + The little peach trees with their coral skirts + Were dancing up the hillside in the breeze; + The gray walled meadows gleamed like bits of jade + Against the crimson bloom of maple trees. + + And I could smell the warmth of trodden grass, + The coolness of a freshly harrowed field; + And I could hear a bluebird’s wistful song + Of love and beauty only half revealed. + + I have forgotten many April days + But one there is that comes to haunt me still-- + A day of feathered trees and windy skies + And wasted hours on a sunlit hill. + + _Medora Addison_ + + + + +_God is at the Anvil_ + + + God is at the anvil, beating out the sun; + Where the molten metal spills, + At His forge among the hills + He has hammered out the glory of a day that’s done. + + God is at the anvil, welding golden bars; + In the scarlet-streaming flame + He is fashioning a frame + For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars. + + _Lew Sarett_ + + + + +_The End of the Trail_ + + + + + _Have little care that life is brief, and less that Art is long, + Success is in the silences, though fame is in the song._ + + RICHARD HOVEY + + + + +_Hesperides_ + + + Beyond the blue rim of the world, + Washed round with languid-lapsing seas, + Where the Wind’s wings were ever furled + The Ancients dreamed Hesperides. + + Ship after ship each age sent forth + To find the Islands of the Blest; + The loosed winds drove them south and north, + But west they weathered, ever west. + + Sky after sky they dropped behind, + Those mighty-handed, bearded men, + Till, seeking what they could not find, + They rounded upward, home again. + + A desultory waif of time + Flying adventure from my mast, + ’Twas thus I voyaged every clime + To come back to myself at last! + + _Harry Kemp_ + + + + +_Changeless_ + + + They cannot change the hills; though they may hew + The fir-sweet slopes and cut their roadways through, + Yet will they stand, each long-loved mountain face + And smile at me from its appointed place; + And past their friendly crests the sun shall rise + To paint new pictures on the morning skies-- + They cannot change the hills. + + They cannot still the winds; the winds that shake + The hemlock fragrance free and sweep the lake, + The waves at dusk shall whisper to the shore + Their pebbled secrets as they did before; + The wild white clouds as in the days of old + Shall sink to rest in sunset seas of gold-- + They cannot still the winds. + + They cannot dim the stars; the crowding camps + That dot the dusk with closely-clustered lamps, + The jazz, the laughter, and the shrill tin blare + Of phonographs, the motor headlight’s flare-- + These shall be stilled at last--the clamor cease + And leave a fir-sweet world of wave-lapped peace-- + They cannot dim the stars! + + _Martha Haskell Clark_ + + + + +_Homesick_ + + + O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, + Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, + And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam + With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream! + + I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, + And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, + And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, + While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by. + + I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses’ crimson glow, + And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, + And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, + And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil. + + Oh, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! + Oh, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole’s nest! + Oh, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep + In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep! + + Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, + With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, + And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars + The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars. + + With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, + From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes + All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through + To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew! + + _Julia C. R. Dorr_ + + + + +_If all the Skies_ + + + If all the skies were sunshine, + Our faces would be fain + To feel once more upon them + The cooling plash of rain. + + If all the world were music, + Our hearts would often long + For one sweet strain of silence, + To break the endless song. + + If life were always merry, + Our souls would seek relief, + And rest from weary laughter + In the quiet arms of grief. + + _Henry van Dyke_ + + + + +“_Gratias Ago_” + + + Since of earth, air and water, + The gods have made me part-- + Let every human sin be mine + Except the thankless heart! + Privileged and greatly, I partake + Of sleep and death and birth; + And kneeling, drink the sacrament-- + The good red wine of earth. + + I shall not ask the High Gods + For aught that they can give; + They gave the greatest gift of all + When first they bade me live. + Great gift of dawn and starlight, + Of sea and grass and river; + With leave to toil and laugh and weep + And praise the Sun forever! + + Be death the end or not the end, + Too richly blest am I + To seek the hill behind the hill, + The sky behind the sky. + Let the red earth that bore me + Give me her call again, + And I’ll lie still beneath her flowers + And sleep and not complain. + + Let those the gods have blinded + Hold their long feud with Fate-- + And clutch at toys that never yet + Could make one mean man great. + Let those that Earth has bastarded + Fret and contrive and plan-- + But I will enter like an heir + The old estate of man! + + _Geoffrey Howard_ + + + + +_Song of Ballyshannon_ + + + Take me home to Ballyshannon, for there’s music in the word; + The name o’ Ballyshannon is the sweetest ever heard! + The little hills are lying fair and green behind the town, + And the skies of Ballyshannon, why, they’re never known to frown. + Take me back and let me hearken to the plaintive Irish wind; + Take me back to Ballyshannon, where the neighbors’ hearts are kind. + + I will wander in the moonlight out upon the ragged moor, + With the flaming gorse and heather,--I’ll not find it mean or poor. + In the glen with lads a-dancing, I will pass the night away; + For the nights in Ballyshannon, they are sweeter than the day. + Take me back to Ballyshannon, there’s a voice that calls to me; + For my heart’s in Ballyshannon on the other side the sea. + + I came to Ballyshannon on a wet and mournful night, + And all the way was darkness, with never a ray of light; + The mist was waving round me and the winds were blowing free + When I came to Ballyshannon, sure my heart was whole in me. + + I went from Ballyshannon when the sun was rolling high, + And every rowan bud was glad and looked me in the eye; + The clouds were white above me and the winds played in the tree, + Yet I went from Ballyshannon bearing little heart in me. + + Sure my heart was crushed and broken; there were kisses on my mouth; + There were cruel words upon me like a summer’s parching drouth. + Woman’s wiles are full of mystery, they’re inconstant as the sea; + Just for sport in Ballyshannon, someone stole the heart of me. + + The bells of Ballyshannon, I hear them on the wind, + And every care and sorrow my heart leaves far behind; + I can live and thrive a season upon an alien shore, + But I’m wanting Ballyshannon forever all the more; + And when light o’ life has left me and I’m like an empty byre, + Lay my bones in Ballyshannon, take me back to heart’s desire, + Where I’ll hear the bells a-ringing, folded arms beneath the sod, + For the bells of Ballyshannon, they will ring me home to God. + + _Jeanne Robert Foster_ + + + + +_A Song of the Road_ + + + I lift my cap to Beauty, + I lift my cap to Love; + I bow before my Duty, + And know that God’s above! + My heart through shining arches + Of leaf and blossom goes; + My soul, triumphant, marches + Through life to life’s repose. + And I, through all this glory, + Nor know, nor fear my fate,-- + The great things are so simple, + The simple are so great! + + _Fred G. Bowles_ + + + + +_After Sunset_ + + + I have an understanding with the hills + At evening when the slanted radiance fills + Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, + And they are quiet and look down at me. + Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes + Out of the centuries that made them wise. + They lend me hoarded memory and I learn + Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern, + And why a dream of forests must endure + Though every tree be slain: and how the pure, + Invisible beauty has a word so brief + A flower can say it or a shaken leaf, + But few may ever snare it in a song, + Though for the quest a life is not too long. + When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull + The twilight close with gesture beautiful, + And shadows are their garments, and the air + Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer,-- + Their arms are strong around me; and I know + That somehow I shall follow when you go + To the still land beyond the evening star, + Where everlasting hills and valleys are: + And silence may not hurt us any more, + And terror shall be past, and grief, and war. + + _Grace Hazard Conkling_ + + + + +_The Wanderer_ + + + The ships are lying in the bay, + The gulls are swinging round their spars; + My soul as eagerly as they + Desires the margin of the stars. + + So much do I love wandering, + So much I love the sea and sky, + That it will be a piteous thing + In one small grave to lie. + + _Zoe Akins_ + + + + +_The Trumpet of the Dawn_ + + + Above the crestward-climbing pines, + Above the dewy slopes of lawn, + Above the copse’s coil of vines, + I have gone up to meet the dawn. + + I have grown weary of the night + That from day’s gold mine eye debars,-- + Of seeing up the purple height + Troop the processional of stars. + + I yearn to mark the shattering beam + Backward the gates of darkness throw; + I long to hear across my dream + The wakening trump of morning blow. + + Hark! ’tis the first bird-note!--and mark, + Flushing the east, a crimson ray!-- + Soul, from the girdling wastes of dark + Go thou, too, up to meet the day! + + _Clinton Scollard_ + + + + +_Shared_ + + + I said it in the meadow-path, + I say it on the mountain-stairs,-- + The best things any mortal hath + Are those which every mortal shares. + + The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze, + The light without us and within,--Life, + with its unlocked treasuries,-- + God’s riches,--are for all to win. + + The grass is softer to my tread + For rest it yields unnumbered feet; + Sweeter to me the wild-rose red, + Because she makes the whole world sweet. + + * * * * * + + And up the radiant, peopled way, + That opens into worlds unknown, + It will be life’s delight to say, + “Heaven is not Heaven for me alone.” + + _Lucy Larcom_ + + + + +_Up-Hill_ + + + Does the road wind-up all the way? + _Yes, to the very end._ + Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? + _From morn to night, my friend._ + + But is there for the night a resting-place? + A roof for when the slow dark hours begin? + May not the darkness hide it from my face? + _You cannot miss that inn._ + + Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? + _Those who have gone before._ + Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? + _They will not keep you standing at that door._ + + Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? + _Of labor you shall find the sum._ + Will there be beds for me and all who seek? + _Yea, beds for all who come._ + + _Christina Rossetti_ + + + + +_The Epitaph_ + + + Write on my grave when I am dead, + Whatever road I trod + That I admired and honorèd + The wondrous works of God. + + That all the days and years I had, + The greatest and the least, + Each day with grateful heart and glad + I sat me to a feast. + + That not alone for body’s meat + Which takes the lowest place + I gave Him grace when I did eat + And with a shining face. + + But for the spirit filled and fed + That else must waste and die, + With sun and stars replenishèd + And dew and evening sky. + + The beauty of the hills and seas + Brimmed that immortal cup; + And when I went by fields and trees + My heart was lifted up. + + Lap me in the green grass and write + Upon the daisied sod + That still I praised with all my might + The wondrous works of God. + + _Katharine Tynan_ + + + + +_Index of Authors_ + + + Abbey, Henry, 69 + Addison, Medora, 253 + Akins, Zoe, 24 + Alling, Kenneth Slade, 250 + Allingham, William, 44 + Auslander, Joseph, 124, 246 + + Baker, Karl Wilson, 71 + Banning, Kendall, 162 + Bates, Katherine Lee, 172 + Birchall, Sara Hamilton, 55, 57, 139, 144, 146, 156, 165, 175, 223 + Blanden, Charles G., 42 + Bowles, Fred G., 263 + Braithwaite, William Stanley, 245 + Brotherton, Alice Williams, 49 + Brown, Thomas E., 41 + Browning, Elizabeth, 53 + Browning, Robert, 94, 212, 233 + Burnet, Dana, 157 + Burton, Richard, 95, 211, 216, 251 + Byron, Lord, 100 + + Carman, Bliss, 17, 49, 53, 65, 75, 119, 136, 168, 171, 173, 176, 186, + 200, 220, 226 + Chalmers, Stephens, 140 + Cheney, John Vance, 41, 239 + Clark, Martha Haskell, 91, 104, 161, 257 + Clifford, Ethel, 252 + Cole, Samuel Valentine, 67 + Cone, Helen Gray, 51, 56 + Conkling, Grace Hazard, 240, 263 + Converse, Florence, 244 + Craik, Dina Mulock, 42 + Crane, Jr. L. Burton, 28 + Cunningham, Allan, 87 + + Davis, Fannie Stearns, 120, 158 + Davies, Mary Carolyn, 163 + Davies, William H., 76, 112 + Dean, Harry W., 171 + Dennen, Grace Atherton, 227 + Deutsch, Babette, 229 + Dickinson, Emily, 54, 210, 218, 225 + Dorr, Julia C. R., 258 + Driscoll, Louise, 5, 40, 189 + + Egbert, Ella Elizabeth, 224 + Elliston, George, 210 + Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 52, 191, 233 + + Fenton, Cora D., 31 + Foster, Jeanne Robert, 261 + Fox-Smith, C., 133, 147 + Fyleman, Rose, 228 + + Gale, Norman, 35, 193 + Galsworthy, John, 110 + Garland, Hamlin, 4, 109 + Garrison, Theodosia, 15, 18, 114, 125, 175, 195, 219 + Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 61 + Gore-Booth, Eva, 78, 241 + Gould, Gerald, 155 + Grover, Edwin Osgood, 135, 185 + Guest, Edgar A., 10, 16, 34, 150, 155, 169, 234 + Guiterman, Arthur, 121 + + Hagedorn, Hermann, 143 + Hardy, Thomas, 184 + Hare, Amory, 23 + Hawkes, Robert Stephen, 249 + Higginson, Ella, 203 + Hood, Thomas, 228 + Hopper, Nora, 81 + Hovey, Richard, 12, 31, 79, 92, 122, 196 + Howard, Geoffrey, 260 + Hoyt, Helen, 132 + + Jennings, Leslie Nelson, 8 + Johns, Orrick, 236 + + Kauffman, Ruth Wright, 165 + Kemp, Harry, 77, 115, 134, 199, 213, 251, 257 + Kenyon, Theda, 50 + Ketchum, Arthur, 111, 131 + King, Georgiana Goddard, 19 + Kipling, Rudyard, 166 + Knowles, Frederic Lawrence, 102 + + Lanier, Sidney, 66, 238 + Laramore, Vivian Yeiser, 243 + Larcom, Lucy, 44, 71, 160, 265 + Laurence, Ray, 48 + Le Gallienne, Richard, 111 + Loveman, Robert, 209 + Lowell, James Russell, 45 + + Mackay, Isabel Ecclestine, 19 + Macleod, Fiona, 88 + McGiffert, Gertrude Huntington, 27 + McGroarty, John Steven, 32, 99 + McLeod, Irene Ruthford, 126 + McQuilland, Louis J., 25 + Mannin, Ethel E., 80, 150, 178, 239 + Markham, Edwin, 57 + Masefield, John, 3, 75 + Mason, Caroline Atherton, 112 + Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 125, 145, 249 + Monro, Harold, 243 + Montgomery, James Stuart, 22, 82, 104 + Moreland, John Richard, 193 + Morley, Christopher, 68 + + Norton, Eleanour, 29 + + O’Brien, Edward J., 234 + O’Reilly, John Boyle, 7 + + Payne, Anne Blackwell, 235 + Peace, Dorothy, 103 + Percy, William Alexander, 218 + Piatt, Sarah, 241 + Pollard, Lancaster, 144, 186, 192, 237 + Powell, Arthur, 248 + Procter, Bryan Waller, 89 + + Randolph, Thomas, 30 + Reese, Lizette Woodworth, 194, 250 + Rice, Cale Young, 86, 115, 188, 196 + Rittenhouse, Jessie B., 72 + Roberts, Charles G. D., 39, 89 + Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt, 9 + Rossetti, Christina, 110, 266 + Runcie, John, 85 + Russell, Maud, 29 + + Sarett, Lew, 253 + Scollard Clinton, 43, 149, 183, 190, 236, 265 + Service, Robert W., 13 + Shephard, Odell, 3 + Slender, Pauline, 164 + Smith, Ada, 20 + Smith, May Riley, 142, 213 + Speyer, Leonora, 62, 215 + Stuart, Keith, 82 + Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 97 + Sylvester, Frederick O., 245 + + Tabb, John B., 55 + Tennyson, Alfred, 205, 212 + Thorley, Wilfrid C., 47 + Timrod, Henry, 109, 206 + Tinckom-Fernandez, W. G., 24, 177 + Towne, Charles Hanson, 6, 195, 219 + Trench, Herbert, 62 + Tynan, Katherine, 96, 183, 267 + + Unknown, 63, 100 + Upson, Arthur 247 + + van Dyke, Henry, 70, 259 + Vinal, Harold, 84 + + Waterman, Nixon, 148 + Watson, William, 208 + Welby, Amelia C., 103 + Wetherald, Ethelwyn, 64 + Wheatly, Vera, 247 + Whitman, Walt, 9, 47, 84 + Widdemer, Margaret, 79, 113 + Williams, Oscar, 85 + Wolfe, Humbert, 48, 54 + Wordsworth, William, 21, 94, 238 + + + + +_Index to Titles_ + + + A.B.C.’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_, 62 + Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_, 39 + Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_, 133 + Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_, 9 + Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 125 + After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 240 + Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_, 122 + “A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 144 + Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_, 228 + An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_, 220 + Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_, 249 + Answer, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 57 + April _Emily Dickinson_, 210 + April _John Vance Cheney_, 41 + April _Theodosia Garrison_, 195 + April, April _William Watson_, 208 + April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_, 192 + April Morning _George Elliston_, 210 + April Music _Clinton Scollard_, 183 + April Rain _Robert Loveman_, 209 + April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 194 + April Weather _Bliss Carman_, 186 + As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_, 86 + Autumn _Emily Dickinson_, 218 + + Beloved Vagabond, The _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_, 177 + Best Road of All, The _Charles Hanson Towne_, 6 + Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_, 161 + Blackbird, The _Humbert Wolfe_, 54 + Blackbird Suddenly, A _Joseph Auslander_, 246 + Blind _Harry Kemp_, 199 + Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_, 47 + + Call, The _Cora D. Fenton_, 31 + Call, The _Edgar A. Guest_, 150 + Call of the Wild, The _Robert W. Service_, 13 + Camping Song _Bliss Carman_, 17 + Carouse _Charles Hanson Towne_, 219 + Changeless _Martha Haskell Clark_, 257 + City Voice, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 15 + City-Weary _Edgar A. Guest_, 10 + Clover _John B. Tabb_, 55 + Clouds and Sky _Lancaster Pollard_, 237 + Come, Spur Away! _Thomas Randolph_, 30 + Comfort of the Stars, The _Richard Burton_, 251 + Coming of Dawn, The _Grace Atherton Dennen_, 227 + Comrades of the Trail _Mary Carolyn Davies_, 163 + Conversation, A _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 55 + Country Faith, The _Norman Gale_, 35 + Coquette _Keith Stuart_, 82 + Credo _Vera Wheatley_, 247 + Cry of the Dreamer, The _John Boyle O’Reilley_, 7 + Cry of the Hillborn, The _Bliss Carman_, 119 + + Daisies _Bliss Carman_, 53 + Dandelions, The _Helen Gray Cone_, 51 + Dandelion, To the _James Russell Lowell_, 45 + Days Like These _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_, 224 + Deep Down _James Stuart Montgomery_, 104 + Deep-Water Man, The _James Stuart Montgomery_, 82 + Denial _Lancaster Pollard_, 144 + Deserted Pasture, The _Bliss Carman_, 226 + Down East and Up Along _Edwin Osgood Grover_, 135 + Do You Fear the Wind? _Hamlin Garland_, 109 + Dreams of the Sea _William H. Davies_, 76 + + Early Morning at Bargis _Hermann Hagedorn_, 143 + Early Spring _Alfred Tennyson_, 205 + Ellis Park _Helen Hoyt_, 132 + Epitaph, The _Katherine Tynan_, 267 + + Farewell _Katherine Tynan_, 96 + Farewell _Harry Kemp_, 251 + Far From the Madding Crowd _Nixon Waterman_, 148 + Faun, The _Richard Hovey_, 12 + Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_, 169 + Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_, 16 + Flower Chorus _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 191 + Folly _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_, 243 + + Gipsy Feet _Fannie Stearns Davis_, 158 + Gypsy-Heart _Katherine Lee Bates_, 172 + Gypsying, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 175 + Gipsy Song _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 156 + Gipsy Trail, The _Rudyard Kipling_, 166 + Gipsy Wedding, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 165 + God is at the Anvil _Lew Sarett_, 253 + God Made This Day For Me _Edgar A. Guest_, 34 + God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree _Unknown_, 63 + God’s World _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 249 + Going Down in Ships _Harry Kemp_, 77 + Going of His Feet, The _Harry Kemp_, 134 + Good Company _Karl Wilson Baker_, 71 + Gospel of the Fields _Arthur Upson_, 247 + Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_, 40 + Grass, The _Walt Whitman_, 47 + “Gratias Ago” _Geoffrey Howard_, 260 + Gray _Oscar Williams_, 85 + Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea _Charles G. D. Roberts_, 89 + Great Outdoors, The _Maud Russell_, 29 + Green Inn, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 18 + Green Tree in the Fall, The _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_, 72 + + Had I the Choice _Walt Whitman_, 84 + Happy Wind _William H. Davies_, 112 + Hark to the Shouting Wind _Henry Timrod_, 109 + Have You? _Harry W. Dean_, 171 + Hesperides _Harry Kemp_, 257 + Highways _Leslie Nelson Jennings_, 8 + Hills _Arthur Guiterman_, 121 + Hills, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 125 + Hill Hunger _Joseph Auslander_, 124 + Hollyhocks, The _Ray Laurence_, 48 + Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_, 258 + Hound, The _Babette Deutsch_, 229 + House of the Trees, The _Ethelwyn Wetherald_, 64 + How Miracles Abound _Clinton Scollard_, 236 + Hunting Song _Richard Hovey_, 31 + + If all the Skies _Henry van Dyke_, 259 + I Meant to Do My Work Today _Richard Le Gallienne_, 111 + Immortal, The _Cale Young Rice_, 196 + In a Garden _Theda Kenyon_, 50 + In City Streets _Ada Smith_, 20 + Indian Summer _Emily Dickinson_, 225 + + Journey _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 145 + Joys of the Road, The _Bliss Carman_, 136 + + King’s Highway, The _John Steven McGroarty_, 32 + + Lake, The _Eleanour Norton_, 29 + Lark, The _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 250 + Last Hour, The _Ethel Clifford_, 252 + Let Me Go Where’er I Will _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 233 + Lilac, The _Humbert Wolfe_, 48 + Little Things _Orrick Johns_, 236 + + Maine Trail, A _Gertrude H. McGiffert_, 27 + Marigolds _Bliss Carman_, 49 + Marshes, The _Sidney Lanier_, 238 + May-Lure _Richard Burton_, 211 + Mendicants, The _Bliss Carman_, 176 + More Ancient Mariner, A _Bliss Carman_, 173 + Morning, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 114 + Morning Song _Lancaster Pollard_, 186 + My Garden _Thomas E. Brown_, 41 + My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold _William Wordsworth_, 238 + Mystic, The _Cale Young Rice_, 115 + + Naturalist on a June Sunday, The _Leonora Speyer_, 215 + November in England _Thomas Hood_, 228 + + Ocean, The _Lord Byron_, 100 + O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees! _Herbert Trench_, 62 + On a Hill _Irene Rutherford McLeod_, 126 + One Blackbird _Harold Monro_, 243 + Out in the Fields with God _Elizabeth Browning_, 53 + Out-of-Doors _Ethel E. Mannin_, 239 + Overtones _William Alexander Percy_, 218 + + Pagan Hymn, A _John Runcie_, 85 + Path that Leads to Nowhere, The _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_, 9 + Perilous Light, The _Eva Gore-Booth_, 241 + Picture, The _Frederick O. Sylvester_, 245 + Pippa’s Song _Robert Browning_, 233 + Port o’ Heart’s Desire, The _John Steven McGroarty_, 99 + Prayer, A _Edwin Markham_, 57 + Prayer Before Poems _Anne Blackwell Payne_, 235 + + Ragged Regiment, The _Alice Williams Brotherton_, 49 + Rain _Kenneth Slade Alling_, 250 + Rain _Lucy Larcom_, 44 + Rebellion _Stephen Chalmers_, 140 + Renewal _Charles Hanson Towne_, 195 + Return, The _Algernon Charles Swinburne_, 97 + Rhodora _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 52 + Road Song _James Stuart Montgomery_, 22 + Road Song _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_, 24 + Road that Leads to Home, The _Ethel E. Mannin_, 150 + Road to Vagabondia, The _Dana Burnet_, 157 + Robin, The _Emily Dickinson_, 54 + Runaway, The _Cale Young Rice_, 188 + Rune of Riches, A _Florence Converse_, 244 + + Sea Call _Margaret Widdemer_, 79 + Sea Change, A _Dorothy Peace_, 103 + Sea, The _Bryan Waller Proctor_, 89 + Sea, The _Richard Hovey_, 92 + Sea, The _Nora Hopper_, 81 + Sea-Fever _John Masefield_, 75 + Sea Longing _Harold Vinal_, 84 + Sea Road, The _Martha Haskell Clark_, 91 + Sea-Song _Martha Haskell Clark_, 104 + Sea-Urge _Unknown_, 100 + Sea Wind, The _Arthur Ketchum_, 111 + Secret, The _John Richard Moreland_, 193 + Secret Voices, The _Ethel E. Mannin_, 178 + September _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 223 + Shared _Lucy Larcom_, 265 + Ship-Love _Ethel E. Mannin_, 80 + Short Beach _Richard Hovey_, 79 + “Sic Vita” _William Stanley Braithwaite_, 245 + Singer’s Quest, The _Odell Shepard_, 3 + Sojourner, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 146 + Song _Georgiana Goddard King_, 19 + Song _John Vance Cheney_, 239 + Song in Autumn, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 219 + Song in March _Clinton Scollard_, 190 + Song of Ballyshannon _Jeanne Robert Foster_, 261 + Song of Desire, A _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_, 102 + Song of the Open _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 139 + Song of the Open Road, A _Louis J. McQuilland_, 25 + Song of the Road, A _Fred G. Bowles_, 263 + Song of the Sea _Richard Burton_, 95 + Song the Grass Sings, A _Charles G. Blanden_, 42 + Son of the Sea, A _Bliss Carman_, 75 + Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_, 213 + Spell of the Pool, The _L. Burton Crane, Jr._, 28 + Spring _Norman Gale_, 193 + Spring _Richard Hovey_, 196 + Spring _Henry Timrod_, 206 + Spring’s Answer _Edwin Osgood Grover_, 185 + Spring Market _Louise Driscoll_, 189 + Spring Song _Bliss Carman_, 200 + St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill _Bliss Carman_, 168 + Streams _Clinton Scollard_, 149 + Strip of Blue, A _Lucy Larcom_, 160 + Summer _Richard Burton_, 216 + Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_, 43 + Sunrise _Edgar A. Guest_, 234 + Sunrise _Robert Browning_, 212 + Sweet, Low Speech of the Rain, The _Ella Higginson_, 203 + + Tell all the World _Harry Kemp_, 213 + That Wind is Best _Caroline Atherton Mason_, 112 + Three Trees _Christopher Morley_, 68 + Throstle, The _Alfred Tennyson_, 212 + Toil of the Trail, The _Hamlin Garland_, 4 + Traveller’s Joy _Arthur Ketchum_, 131 + Traveller’s Rest _C. Fox-Smith_, 147 + Trees _Bliss Carman_, 65 + Trees, The _Lucy Larcom_, 71 + Trees, The _Samuel Valentine Cole_, 67 + Trees _Henry van Dyke_, 70 + Trees and The Master, The _Sidney Lanier_, 66 + Tree Feelings _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_, 61 + Tree-Top Road, The _May Riley Smith_, 142 + Trumpet of the Dawn, The _Clinton Scollard_, 265 + Turn O’ The Year _Katherine Tynan_, 183 + Twilight At Sea _Amelia C. Welby_, 103 + Two Old Men _Louise Driscoll_, 5 + + Undersong, The _Fiona Macleod_, 88 + Up-Hill _Christina Rossetti_, 266 + Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_, 120 + Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books _William Wordsworth_, 21 + + Vagabond at Home, The _Ruth Wright Kauffman_, 165 + Vagabond, The _Edgar A. Guest_, 155 + Vagabonds _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 175 + Vagabond Song, A _Bliss Carman_, 171 + Vagrant, The _Pauline Slender_, 164 + + Walking at Night _Amory Hare_, 23 + Wanderer, The _Zoe Akins_, 264 + Wander Lure, The _Kendall Banning_, 162 + Wanderlust _Isabel Ecclestine Mackay_, 19 + Wanderer’s Song, A _John Masefield_, 3 + Wanderthirst _Gerald Gould_, 155 + Wasted Hours _Medora Addison_, 253 + Waves of Breffny, The _Eva Gore-Booth_, 78 + Welcome, The _Arthur Powell_, 248 + Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A _Allan Cunningham_, 87 + What Do We Plant? _Henry Abbey_, 69 + Whisper of Earth, The _Edward J. O’Brien_, 234 + Who Has Seen the Wind? _Christina Rossetti_, 110 + Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks, The _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 240 + Wind _John Galsworthy_, 110 + Wind-Litany _Margaret Widdemer_, 113 + Wind’s Life, The _Harry Kemp_, 115 + Wishing _William Allingham_, 44 + World is Too Much With Us, The _William Wordsworth_, 94 + Word with a Skylark, A _Sarah Piatt_, 241 + + Year’s Awakening, The _Thomas Hardy_, 184 + Yellow Pansy, A _Helen Gray Cone_, 56 + Young Dandelion, The _Dina Mulock Craik_, 42 + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + +Inconsistencies in poem titles and author names corrected. However, +inconsistencies in the Copyright Acknowledgements section remain +unchanged. + +Inconsistencies in section titles normalized. + +Missing footnote anchors added. The footnote text for The Return is +missing in the original text, so its footnote anchor has been removed +in this edition. + +Obvious typos corrected, particularly in incorrect/missing periods and +commas. + +The House of the Trees: spelling of “ope” has been retained. + +Gipsy Song: verse misalignment corrected. + +“Sunrise” by Robert Browning appears twice in the book, on pages 94 and +212. The poem title appears only once in the Index to Titles. + +Some entries in the Table of Contents and Indexes, as well as some long +poetry lines, have been rewrapped for readability. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78129 *** |