The Campfire of the Sun
Lo, now, the journeying sun,
Another day's march done,
Kindles his campfire at the edge of night!
And in the twilight pale
Above his crimson trail,
The stars move out their cordons still and bright.
Now in the darkening hush
A solitary thrush
Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep;
While brooding on her best,
The wandering soul has rest,
And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep.
Summer Streams
All day long beneath the sun
Shining through the fields they run,
Singing in a cadence known
To the seraphs round the throne.
And the traveller drawing near
Through the meadow, halts to hear
Anthems of a natural joy
No disaster can destroy.
All night long from set of sun
Through the starry woods they run,
Singing through the purple dark
Songs to make a traveller hark.
All night long, when winds are low,
Underneath my window go
The immortal happy streams,
Making music through my dreams.
The God of the Wood
Here all the forces of the wood
As one converge,
To make the soul of solitude
Where all things merge.
The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain,
The visiting moon,
The hurrying cloud by peak and plain,
Each with its boon.
Here power attains perfection still
In mighty ease,
That the great earth may have her will
Of joy and peace.
And so through me, the mortal born
Of plasmic clay,
Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn,
And glad, have sway.
Eternal passions, ardors fine,
And monstrous fears,
Rule and rebel, serene, malign,
Or loosed in tears;
Until at last they shall evolve
From griefs and joys
Some steady light, some firm resolve,
Some Godlike poise.
At Sunrise
Now the stars have faded
In the purple chill,
Lo, the sun is kindling
On the eastern hill.
Tree by tree the forest
Takes the golden tinge,
As the shafts of glory
Pierce the summit's fringe.
Rock by rock the ledges
Take the rosy sheen,
As the tide of splendor
Floods the dark ravine.
Like a shining angel
At my cabin door,
Shod with hope and silence,
Day is come once more.
Then, as if in sorrow
That you are not here,
All his magic beauties
Gray and disappear.
At Twilight
Now the fire is lighted
On the chimney stone,
Day goes down the valley,
I am left alone.
Now the misty purple
Floods the darkened vale,
And the stars come out
On the twilight trail.
The mountain river murmurs
In his rocky bed,
And the stealthy shadows
Fill the house with dread.
Then I hear your laughter
At the open door,—
Brightly burns the fire,
I need fear no more.
Moonrise
At the end of the road through the wood
I see the great moon rise.
The fields are flooded with shine,
And my soul with surmise.
What if that mystic orb
With her shadowy beams,
Should be the revealer at last
Of my darkest dreams!
What if this tender fire
In my heart's deep hold
Should be wiser than all the lore
Of the sages of old!
The Queen of Night
Mortal, mortal, have you seen
In the scented summer night,
Great Astarte, clad in green
With a veil of mystic light,
Passing on her silent way,
Pale and lovelier than day?
Mortal, mortal, have you heard,
On an odorous summer eve,
Rumors of an unknown word
Bidding sorrow not to grieve,—
Echoes of a silver voice
Bidding every heart rejoice?
Mortal, when the slim new moon
Hangs above the western hill,
When the year comes round to June
And the leafy world is still,
Then, enraptured, you shall hear
Secrets for a poet's ear.
Mortal, mortal, come with me,
When the moon is rising large,
Through the wood or from the sea,
Or by some lone river marge.
There, entranced, you shall behold
Beauty's self, that grows not old.
Night Lyric
In the world's far edges
Faint and blue,
Where the rocky ledges
Stand in view,
Fades the rosy, tender
Evening light;
Then in starry splendor
Comes the night.
So a stormy lifetime
Comes to close,
Spirit's mortal strifetime
Finds repose.
Faith and toil and vision
Crowned at last,
Failure and derision
Overpast,—
All the daylight splendor
Far above,
Calm and sure and tender
Comes thy love.
The Heart of Night
When all the stars are sown
Across the night-blue space,
With the immense unknown,
In silence face to face.
We stand in speechless awe
While Beauty marches by,
And wonder at the Law
Which wears such majesty.
How small a thing is man
In all that world-sown vast,
That he should hope or plan
Or dream his dream could last!
O doubter of the light,
Confused by fear and wrong,
Lean on the heart of night
And let love make thee strong!
The Good that is the True
Is clothed with Beauty still.
Lo, in their tent of blue,
The stars above the hill!
Peace
The sleeping tarn is dark
Below the wooded hill.
Save for its homing sounds,
The twilit world grows still.
And I am left to muse
In grave-eyed mystery,
And watch the stars come out
As sandalled dusk goes by.
And now the light is gone,
The drowsy murmurs cease,
And through the still unknown
I wonder whence comes peace.
Then softly falls the word
Of one beyond a name,
"Peace only comes to him
Who guards his life from shame,—
"Who gives his heart to love,
And holding truth for guide,
Girds him with fearless strength,
That freedom may abide."
The Old Gray Wall
Time out of mind I have stood
Fronting the frost and the sun,
That the dream of the world might endure,
And the goodly will be done.
Did the hand of the builder guess,
As he laid me stone by stone,
A heart in the granite lurked,
Patient and fond as his own?
Lovers have leaned on me
Under the summer moon,
And mowers laughed in my shade
In the harvest heat at noon.
Children roving the fields
With early flowers in spring,
Old men turning to look,
When they heard a bluebird sing,
Have seen me a thousand times
Standing here in the sun,
Yet never a moment dreamed
Whose likeness they gazed upon.
Ah, when will ye understand,
Mortals who strive and plod,—
Who rests on this old gray wall
Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!
Te Deum
If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all
things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush
of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and
the head to bow.
I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness,
too,—
The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from
line and hue;
I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth
of ours,
Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with
all her powers.
See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside
of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion
and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue
of the sun!
The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves
are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for
a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring
is brought to pass.
Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and
softer picture lies,
As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream
of paradise,—
Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and
luring the mind
With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap
are left behind.
So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and
endless joy,
Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine
employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,
Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides—our
privilege here.
Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is
here and now,
Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by
somewhere, somehow?
I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for
a journey hence
Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made
for spirit and sense.
"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit
filled from a blighted flower?
Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy
beatified hour?
Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our
command,
Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of
heaven at hand."
So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to
feed my soul.
With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for
a further dole?
In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain
of truth,
Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor
of dreamful youth.
The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun
shall lend me poise.
I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth
and all her joys.
Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my
veins like wine;
While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge
with the life divine.
In October
Now come the rosy dogwoods,
The golden tulip-tree,
And the scarlet yellow maple,
To make a day for me.
The ash-trees on the ridges,
The alders in the swamp,
Put on their red and purple
To join the autumn pomp.
The woodbine hangs her crimson
Along the pasture wall,
And all the bannered sumacs
Have heard the frosty call.
Who then so dead to valor
As not to raise a cheer,
When all the woods are marching
In triumph of the year?
By Still Waters
"He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth
my soul."
"My tent stands in a garden
Of aster and goldenrod,
Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,
And sown by the hand of God,—
An old New England pasture
Abandoned to peace and time,
And by the magic of beauty
Reclaimed to the sublime.
About it are golden woodlands
Of tulip and hickory;
On the open ridge behind it
You may mount to a glimpse of sea,—
The far-off, blue, Homeric
Rim of the world's great shield,
A border of boundless glamor
For the soul's familiar field.
In purple and gray-wrought lichen
The boulders lie in the sun;
Along its grassy footpath
The white-tailed rabbits run.
The crickets work and chirrup
Through the still afternoon;
And the owl calls from the hillside
Under the frosty moon.
The odorous wild grape clambers
Over the tumbling wall,
And through the autumnal quiet
The chestnuts open and fall.
Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,
Part of the earth's great soul,
Here man's spirit may ripen
To wisdom serene and whole.
Shall we not grow with the asters—
Never reluctant nor sad,
Not counting the cost of being,
Living to dare and be glad?
Shall we not lift with the crickets
A chorus of ready cheer,
Braving the frost of oblivion,
Quick to be happy here?
Is my will as sweet as the wild grape,
Spreading delight on the air
For the passer-by's enchantment,
Subtle and unaware?
Have I as brave a spirit,
Sprung from the self-same mould,
As this weed from its own contentment
Lifting its shaft of gold?
The deep red cones of the sumach
And the woodbine's crimson's sprays
Have bannered the common roadside
For the pageant of passing days.
These are the oracles Nature
Fills with her holy breath,
Giving them glory of color,
Transcending the shadow of death.
Here in the sifted sunlight
A spirit seems to brood
On the beauty and worth of being,
In tranquil, instinctive mood;
And the heart, filled full of gladness
Such as the wise earth knows,
Wells with a full thanksgiving
For the gifts that life bestows:
For the ancient and virile nurture
Of the teeming primordial ground,
For the splendid gospel of color,
The rapt revelations of sound;
For the morning-blue above us
And the rusted gold of the fern,
For the chickadee's call of valor
Bidding the faint-heart turn;
For fire and running water,
Snowfall and summer rain;
For sunsets and quiet meadows,
The fruit and the standing grain;
For the solemn hour of moonrise
Over the crest of trees,
When the mellow lights are kindled
In the lamps of the centuries;
For those who wrought aforetime,
Led by the mystic strain
To strive for the larger freedom,
And live for the greater gain;
For plenty of peace and playtime,
The homely goods of earth,
And for rare immaterial treasures
Accounted of little worth;
For art and learning and friendship,
Where beneficent truth is supreme,—
Those everlasting cities
Built on the hills of dream;
For all things growing and goodly
That foster this life, and breed
The immortal flower of wisdom
Out of the mortal seed.
But most of all for the spirit
That cannot rest nor bide
In stale and sterile convenience,
Nor safety proven and tried,
But still inspired and driven,
Must seek what better may be,
And up from the loveliest garden
Must climb for a glimpse of sea.
Lines for a Picture
When the leaves are flying
Across the azure sky,
Autumn on the hill top
Turns to say good-by;
In her gold-red tunic,
Like an Eastern queen,
With untarnished courage
In her wilding mien.
All the earth below her
Answers to her gaze,
And her eyes are pensive
With remembered days.
Yet, with cheek ensanguined,
Gay at heart she goes
On the great adventure
Where the north wind blows.
The Deserted Pasture
I love the stony pasture
That no one else will have.
The old gray rocks so friendly seem,
So durable and brave.
In tranquil contemplation
It watches through the year.
Seeing the frosty stars arise,
The slender moons appear.
Its music is the rain-wind,
Its choristers the birds,
And there are secrets in its heart
Too wonderful for words.
It keeps the bright-eyed creatures
That play about its walls,
Though long ago its milking herds
Were banished from their stalls.
Only the children come there,
For buttercups in May,
Or nuts in autumn, where it lies
Dreaming the hours away.
Long since its strength was given
To making good increase,
And now its soul is turned again
To beauty and to peace.
There in the early springtime
The violets are blue,
And adder-tongues in coats of gold
Are garmented anew.
There bayberry and aster
Are crowded on its floors,
When marching summer halts to praise
The Lord of Out-of-doors.
And there October passes
In gorgeous livery,—
In purple ash, and crimson oak,
And golden tulip tree.
And when the winds of winter
Their bugle blasts begin,
The snowy hosts of heaven arrive
And pitch their tents therein.
Autumn
Now when the time of fruit and grain is come,
When apples hang above the orchard wall,
And from the tangle by the roadside stream
A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air,
Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan,
Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay
And tattered colors of the Orient,
Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills.
The woods of Wilton at her coming wear
Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand:
The maples glow with their Pompeian red,
The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold;
And while the crickets fife along her march,
Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.
November Twilight
Now Winter at the end of day
Along the ridges takes her way,
Upon her twilight round to light
The faithful candles of the night.
As quiet as the nun she goes
With silver lamp in hand, to close
The silent doors of dusk that keep
The hours of memory and sleep.
She pauses to tread out the fires
Where Autumn's festal train retires.
The last red embers smoulder down
Behind the steeples of the town.
Austere and fine the trees stand bare
And moveless in the frosty air,
Against the pure and paling light
Before the threshold of the night.
On purple valley and dim wood
The timeless hush of solitude
Is laid, as if the time for some
Transcending mystery were come,
That shall illumine and console
The penitent and eager soul,
Setting her free to stand before
Supernal beauty and adore.
Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico
It is the hour of prayer. And lo,
Above the earth, serene and still,
One star—our star—o'er Lonetree Hill!
The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod
When the first silent frost has trod
The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,
And laid the blight of his cold hand
Upon the warm autumnal land,
And all things wait the subtle change
That men call death, is it not strange
That I—without a care or need,
Who only am an idle weed—
Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,
The coming of the final cold!
Before the Snow
Now soon, ah, very soon, I know
The trumpets of the north will blow,
And the great winds will come to bring
The pale, wild riders of the snow.
Darkening the sun with level flight,
At arrowy speed, they will alight,
Unnumbered as the desert sands,
To bivouac on the edge of night.
Then I, within their somber ring,
Shall hear a voice that seems to sing,
Deep, deep within my tranquil heart,
The valiant prophecy of spring.
Winter
When winter comes along the river line
And Earth has put away her green attire,
With all the pomp of her autumnal pride,
The world is made a sanctuary old,
Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray,
And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest
Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine,
Showing the sunset glory through the chinks.
There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul,
Uplift in adoration, sees the world
Transfigured to a temple of her Lord;
While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow
Night, like a sacristan with silent step,
Passes to light the tapers of the stars.
A Winter Piece
Over the rim of a lacquered bowl,
Where a cold blue water-color stands,
I see the wintry breakers roll
And heave their froth up the freezing sands.
Here in immunity safe and dull,
Soul treads her circuit of trivial things.
There soul's brother, a shining gull,
Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings.
Winter Streams
Now the little rivers go
Muffled safely under snow,
And the winding meadow streams
Murmur in their wintry dreams,
While a tinkling music wells
Faintly from there icy bells,
Telling how their hearts are bold
Though the very sun be cold.
Ah, but wait until the rain
Comes a-sighing once again,
Sweeping softly from the Sound
Over ridge and meadow ground!
Then the little streams will hear
April calling far and near,—
Slip their snowy bands and run
Sparkling in the welcome sun.
Winter Twilight
Along the wintry skyline,
Crowning the rocky crest,
Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees
Against the saffron west,—
Its gray and purple network
Of branching tracery
Outspread upon the lucent air,
Like weed within the sea.
The scarlet robe of autumn
Renounced and put away,
The mystic Earth is fairer still,—
A Puritan in gray.
The spirit of the winter,
How tender, how austere!
Yet all the ardor of the spring
And summer's dream are here.
Fear not, O timid lover,
The touch of frost and rime!
This is the virtue that sustained
The roses in their prime.
The anthem of the northwind
Shall hallow thy despair,
The benediction of the snow
Be answer to thy prayer.
And now the star of evening
That is the pilgrim's sign,
Is lighted in the primrose dusk,—
A lamp before a shrine.
Peace fills the mighty minster,
Tranquil and gray and old,
And all the chancel of the west
Is bright with paling gold.
A little wind goes sifting
Along the meadow floor,—
Like steps of lovely penitents
Who sighingly adore.
Then falls the twilight curtain,
And fades the eerie light,
And frost and silence turn the keys
In the great doors of night.
The Twelfth Night Star
It is the bitter time of year
When iron is the ground,
With hasp and sheathing of black ice
The forest lakes are bound,
The world lies snugly under snow,
Asleep without a sound.
All the night long in trooping squares
The sentry stars go by,
The silent and unwearying hosts
That bear man company,
And with their pure enkindling fires
Keep vigils lone and high.
Through the dead hours before the dawn,
When the frost snaps the sill,
From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea
The earth lies dark and still,
Till one great silver planet shines
Above the eastern hill.
It is the star of Gabriel,
The herald of the Word
In days when messengers of God
With sons of men conferred,
Who brought the tidings of great joy
The watching shepherds heard;
The mystic light that moved to lead
The wise of long ago,
Out of the great East where they dreamed
Of truths they could not know,
To seek some good that should assuage
The world's most ancient woe.
O well, believe, they loved their dream,
Those children of the star,
Who saw the light and followed it,
Prophetical, afar,—
Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior,
And eager Balthasar.
Another year slips to the void,
And still with omen bright
Above the sleeping doubting world
The day-star is alight,—
The waking signal flashed of old
In the blue Syrian night.
But who are now as wise as they
Whose faith could read the sign
Of the three gifts that shall suffice
To honor the divine,
And show the tread of common life
Ineffably benign?
Whoever wakens on a day
Happy to know and be,
To enjoy the air, to love his kind,
To labor, to be free,—
Already his enraptured soul
Lives in eternity.
For him with every rising sun
The year begins anew;
The fertile earth receives her lord,
And prophecy comes true,
Wondrously as a fall of snow,
Dear as a drench of dew.
Who gives his life for beauty's need,
King Caspar could no more;
Who serves the truth with single mind
Shall stand with Melchior;
And love is all that Balthasar
In crested censer bore.
A Christmas Eve Choral
Halleluja!
What sound is this across the dark
While all the earth is sleeping? Hark!
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why are thy tender eyes so bright,
Mary, Mary?
On the prophetic deep of night
Joseph, Joseph,
I see the borders of the light,
And in the day that is to be
An aureoled man-child I see,
Great love's son, Joseph.
Halleluja!
He hears not, but she hears afar,
The Minstrel Angel of the star.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy gentle smile so deep,
Mary, Mary?
It is the secret I must keep,
Joseph, Joseph,—
The joy that will not let me sleep,
The glory of the coming days,
When all the world shall turn to praise
God's goodness, Joseph.
Halleluja!
Clear as the bird that brings the morn
She hears the heavenly music borne.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy radiant face so calm,
Mary, Mary?
His strength is like a royal palm,
Joseph, Joseph;
His beauty like the victor's psalm.
He moves like morning o'er the lands
And there is healing in his hands
For sorrow, Joseph.
Halleluja!
Tender as dew-fall on the earth
She hears the choral of love's birth.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
What is the message come to thee,
Mary, Mary?
I hear like wind within the tree,
Joseph, Joseph,
Or like a far-off melody
His deathless voice proclaiming peace,
And bidding ruthless wrong to cease,
For love's sake, Joseph.
Halleluja!
Moving as rain-wind in the spring
She hears the angel chorus ring.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why are thy patient hands so still,
Mary, Mary?
I see the shadow on the hill,
Joseph, Joseph,
And wonder if it is God's will
That courage, service, and glad youth
Shall perish in the cause of truth
Forever, Joseph.
Halleluja!
Her heart in that celestial chime
Has heard the harmony of time.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy voice so strange and far,
Mary, Mary?
I see the glory of the star,
Joseph, Joseph;
And in its light all things that are,
Made glad and wise beyond the sway
Of death and darkness and dismay,
In God's time Joseph.
Halleluja!
To every heart in love 'tis given
To hear the ecstasy of heaven.
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja.
Christmas Song
Above the weary waiting world,
Asleep in chill despair,
There breaks a sound of joyous bells
Upon the frosted air.
And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo,
A star is dancing on the snow.
What makes the yellow star to dance
Upon the brink of night?
What makes the breaking dawn to glow
So magically bright,—
And all the earth to be renewed
With infinite beatitude?
The singing bells, the throbbing star,
The sunbeams on the snow,
And the awakening heart that leaps
New ecstasy to know,—
They all are dancing in the morn
Because a little child is born.
The Wise Men from the East
(A LITTLE BOY'S CHRISTMAS LESSON)
Why were the Wise Men three,
Instead of five or seven?"
They had to match, you see,
The archangels in Heaven.
God sent them, sure and swift,
By his mysterious presage,
To bear the threefold gift
And take the threefold message.
Thus in their hands were seen
The gold of purest Beauty,
The myrrh of Truth all-clean,
The frankincense of Duty.
And thus they bore away
The loving heart's great treasure,
And knowledge clear as day,
To be our life's new measure.
They went back to the East
To spread the news of gladness.
There one became a priest
To the new word of sadness;
And one a workman, skilled
Beyond the old earth's fashion;
And one a scholar, filled
With learning's endless passion.
God sent them for a sign
He would not change nor alter
His good and fair design,
However man may falter.
He meant that, as He chose
His perfect plan and willed it,
They stood in place of those
Who elsewhere had fulfilled it;
Whoso would mark and reach
The height of man's election,
Must still achieve and teach
The triplicate perfection.
For since the world was made,
One thing was needed ever,
To keep man undismayed
Through failure and endeavor—
A faultless trinity
Of body, mind, and spirit,
And each with its own three
Strong angels to be near it;
Strength to arise and go
Wherever dawn is breaking,
Poise like the tides that flow,
Instinct for beauty-making;
Imagination bold
To cross the mystic border,
Reason to seek and hold,
Judgment for law and order;
Joy that makes all things well,
Faith that is all-availing
Each terror to dispel,
And Love, ah, Love unfailing.
These are the flaming Nine
Who walk the world unsleeping,
Sent forth by the Divine
With manhood in their keeping.
These are the seraphs strong
His mighty soul had need of,
When He would right the wrong
And sorrow He took heed of.
And that, I think, is why
The Wise Men knelt before Him,
And put their kingdoms by
To serve Him and adore Him;
So that our Lord, unknown,
Should not be unattended,
When He was here alone
And poor and unbefriended;
That still He might have three
(Rather than five or seven)
To stand in their degree,
Like archangels in Heaven.