A Wood-path
At evening and at morning
By an enchanted way
I walk the world in wonder,
And have no word to say.
It is the path we traversed
One twilight, thou and I;
Thy beauty all a rapture,
My spirit all a cry.
The red leaves fall upon it,
The moon and mist and rain,
But not the magic footfall
That made its meaning plain.
Weather of the Soul
There is a world of being
We range from pole to pole,
Through seasons of the spirit
And weather of the soul.
It has its new-born Aprils,
With gladness in the air,
Its golden Junes of rapture,
Its winters of despair.
And in its tranquil autumns
We halt to re-enforce
Our tattered scarlet pennons
With valor and resource.
From undiscovered regions
Only the angels know,
Great winds of aspiration
Perpetually blow,
To free the sap of impulse
From torpor of distrust,
And into flowers of joyance
Quicken the sentient dust.
From nowhere of a sudden
Loom sudden clouds of fault,
With thunders of oppression
And lightnings of revolt.
With hush of apprehension
And quaking of the heart,
There breed the storms of anger,
And floods of sorrow start.
And there shall fall,—how gently!—
To make them fertile yet,
The rain of absolution
On acres of regret.
Till snows of mercy cover
The dream that shall come true,
When time makes all things wondrous,
And life makes all things new.
Here and Now
Where is Heaven? Is it not
Just a friendly garden plot,
Walled with stone and roofed with sun,
Where the days pass one by one,
Not too fast and not too slow,
Looking backward as they go
At the beauties left behind
To transport the pensive mind!
Is it not a greening ground
With a river for its bound,
And a wood-thrush to prolong
Fragrant twilights with his song,
When the peonies in June
Wait the rising of the moon,
And the music of the stream
Voices its immortal dream!
There each morning will renew
The miracle of light and dew,
And the soul may joy to praise
The Lord of roses and of days;
There the caravan of noon
Halts to hear the cricket's tune,
Fifing there for all who pass
The anthem of the summer grass!
Does not Heaven begin that day
When the eager heart can say,
Surely God is in this place,
I have seen Him face to face
In the loveliness of flowers,
In the service of the showers,
And His voice has talked to me
In the sunlit apple tree.
I can feel Him in my heart,
When the tears of knowledge start
For another's joy or woe,
Where the lonely soul must go.
Yea, I learned His very look,
When we walked beside the brook,
And you smiled and touched my hand.
God is love... I understand.
The Angel of Joy
There is no grief for me
Nor sadness any more;
For since I first knew thee
Great Joy has kept my door.
That angel of the calm
All-comprehending smile,
No menace can dismay,
No falsity beguile.
Out of the house of life
Before him fled away
Languor, regret, and strife
And sorrow on that day.
Grim fear, unmanly doubt,
And impotent despair
Went at his bidding forth
Among the things that were,—
Leaving a place all clean,
Resounding of the sea
And decked with forest green,
To be a home for thee.
The Homestead.
Here we came when love was young.
Now that love is old,
Shall we leave the floor unswept
And the hearth acold?
Here the hill-wind in the dusk.
Wandering to and fro,
Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost
Of the long ago.
Here from every doorway looks
A remembered face,
Every sill and panel wears
A familiar grace.
Let the windows smile again
To the morning light,
And the door stand open wide
When the moon is bright.
Let the breeze of twilight blow
Through the silent hall,
And the dreaming rafters hear
How the thrushes call.
Oh, be merciful and fond
To the house that gave
All its best to shelter love,
Built when love was brave!
Here we came when love was young,
Now that love is old,
Never let its day be lone,
Nor its heart acold!
"The Starry Midnight Whispers"
The starry midnight whispers,
As I muse before the fire
On the ashes of ambition
And the embers of desire,
"Life has no other logic,
And time no other creed,
Than: 'I for joy will follow.
Where thou for love dost lead!'"
A Lyric
Oh, once I could not understand
The sob within the throat of spring,—
The shrilling of the frogs, nor why
The birds so passionately sing.
That was before your beauty came
And stooped to teach my soul desire,
When on these mortal lips you laid
The magic and immortal fire.
I wondered why the sea should seem
So gray, so lonely, and so old;
The sigh of level-driving snows
In winter so forlornly cold.
I wondered what it was could give
The scarlet autumn pomps their pride.
And paint with colors not of earth
The glory of the mountainside.
I could not tell why youth should dream
And worship at the evening star,
And yet must go with eager feet
Where danger and where splendor are.
I could not guess why men at times,
Beholding beauty, should go mad
With joy or sorrow or despair
Or some unknown delight they had.
I wondered what they had received
From Time's inexorable hand
So full of loveliness and doom.
But now, ah, now I understand!
"April now in Morning Clad"
April now in morning clad
Like a gleaming oread,
With the south wind in her voice,
Comes to bid the world rejoice.
With the sunlight on her brow,
Through her veil of silver showers,
April o'er New England now
Trails her robe of woodland flowers,—
Violet and anemone;
While along the misty sea,
Pipe at lip, she seems to blow
Haunting airs of long ago.
Nike
What do men give thanks for?
I give thanks for one,
Lovelier than morning,
Dearer than the sun.
Such a head the victors
Must have praised and known,
With that breast and bearing,
Nike's very own—
As superb, untrammeled,
Rhythmed and poised and free
As the strong pure sea-wind
Walking on the sea;
Such a hand as Beauty
Uses with full heart,
Seeking for her freedom
In new shapes of art;
Soft as rain in April,
Quiet as the days
Of the purple asters
And the autumn haze;
With a soul more subtle
Than the light of stars,
Frailer than a moth's wing
To the touch that mars;
Wise with all the silence
Of the waiting hills,
When the gracious twilight
Wakes in them and thrills;
With a voice more tender
Than the early moon
Hears among the thrushes
In the woods of June;
Delicate as grasses
When they lift and stir—
One sweet lyric woman—
I give thanks for her.
The Enchanted Traveller
We travelled empty-handed
With hearts all fear above,
For we ate the bread of friendship,
We drank the wine of love.
Through many a wondrous autumn,
Through many a magic spring,
We hailed the scarlet banners,
We heard the blue-bird sing.
We looked on life and nature
With the eager eyes of youth,
And all we asked or cared for
Was beauty, joy, and truth.
We found no other wisdom,
We learned no other way,
Than the gladness of the morning,
The glory of the day.
So all our earthly treasure
Shall go with us, my dears,
Aboard the Shadow Liner,
Across the sea of years.
Spring's Saraband
Over the hills of April
With soft winds hand in hand,
Impassionate and dreamy-eyed,
Spring leads her saraband.
Her garments float and gather
And swirl along the plain,
Her headgear is the golden sun,
Her cloak the silver rain.
With color and with music,
With perfumes and with pomp,
By meadowland and upland,
Through pasture, wood, and swamp,
With promise and enchantment
Leading her mystic mime,
She comes to lure the world anew
With joy as old as time.
Quick lifts the marshy chorus
To transport, trill on trill;
There's not a rod of stony ground
Unanswering on the hill.
The brooks and little rivers
Dance down their wild ravines,
And children in the city squares
Keep time, to tambourines.
The bluebird in the orchard
Is lyrical for her,
The blackbird with his meadow pipe
Sets all the wood astir,
The hooded white spring-beauties
Are curtsying in the breeze,
The blue hepaticas are out
Under the chestnut trees.
The maple buds make glamor,
Viburnum waves its bloom,
The daffodils and tulips
Are risen from the tomb.
The lances of Narcissus
Have pierced the wintry mold;
The commonplace seems paradise
Through veils of greening gold.
O heart, hear thou the summons,
Put every grief away,
When all the motley masques of earth
Are glad upon a day.
Alack, that any mortal
Should less than gladness bring
Into the choral joy that sounds
The saraband of spring!
Triumphalis
Soul, art thou sad again
With the old sadness?
Thou shalt be glad again
With a new gladness,
When April sun and rain
Mount to the teeming brain
With the earth madness.
When from the mould again,
Spurning disaster,
Spring shoots unfold again,
Follow thou faster
Out of the drear domain
Of dark, defeat, and pain,
Praising the Master.
Hope for thy guide again,
Ample and splendid;
Love at thy side again,
All doubting ended;
(Ah, by the dragon slain,
For nothing small or vain
Michael contended!)
Thou shalt take heart again,
No more despairing;
Play thy great part again,
Loving and caring.
Hark, how the gold refrain
Runs through the iron strain,
Splendidly daring!
Thou shalt grow strong again,
Confident, tender,—
Battle with wrong again,
Be truth's defender,—
Of the immortal train,
Born to attempt, attain,
Never surrender!
"Now the Lengthening Twilights Hold"
Now the lengthening twilights hold
Tints of lavender and gold,
And the marshy places ring
With the pipers of the spring.
Now the solitary star
Lays a path on meadow streams,
And I know it is not far
To the open door of dreams.
Lord of April, in my hour
May the dogwood be in flower,
And my angel through the dome
Of spring twilight lead me home.
The Soul of April
Over the wintry threshold
Who comes with joy to-day,
So frail, yet so enduring,
To triumph o'er dismay?
Ah, quick her tears are springing,
And quickly they are dried,
For sorrow walks before her,
But gladness walks beside.
She comes with gusts of laughter,—
The music as of rills;
With tenderness and sweetness,—
The wisdom of the hills.
Her hands are strong to comfort,
Her heart is quick to heed.
She knows the signs of sadness,
She knows the voice of need.
There is no living creature,
However poor or small,
But she will know its trouble,
And hasten to its call.
Oh, well they fare forever,
By mighty dreams possessed,
Whose hearts have lain a moment
On that eternal breast.
An April Morning
Once more in misted April
The world is growing green.
Along the winding river
The plumey willows lean.
Beyond the sweeping meadows
The looming mountains rise,
Like battlements of dreamland
Against the brooding skies.
In every wooded valley
The buds are breaking through,
As though the heart of all things
No languor ever knew.
The golden-wings and bluebirds
Call to their heavenly choirs.
The pines are blued and drifted
With smoke of brushwood fires.
And in my sister's garden
Where little breezes run,
The golden daffodillies
Are blowing in the sun.
Earth Voices
I
I heard the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
"The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.
I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.
"I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.
"Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.
"Within the dying ashes
I blow the sacred spark,
And make the hearts of lovers
To leap against the dark."
II
I heard the spring light whisper
Above the dancing stream,
"The world is made forever
In likeness of a dream.
"I am the law of planets,
I am the guide of man;
The evening and the morning
Are fashioned to my plan.
"I tint the dawn with crimson,
I tinge the sea with blue;
My track is in the desert,
My trail is in the dew.
"I paint the hills with color,
And in my magic dome
I light the star of evening
To steer the traveller home.
"Within the house of being,
I feed the lamp of truth
With tales of ancient wisdom
And prophecies of youth."
III
I heard the spring rain murmur
Above the roadside flower,
"The world is made forever
In melody and power.
"I keep the rhythmic measure
That marks the steps of time,
And all my toil is fashioned
To symmetry and rhyme.
"I plow the untilled upland,
I ripe the seeding grass,
And fill the leafy forest
With music as I pass.
"I hew the raw, rough granite
To loveliness of line,
And when my work is finished,
Behold, it is divine!
"I am the master-builder
In whom the ages trust.
I lift the lost perfection
To blossom from the dust."
IV
Then Earth to them made answer,
As with a slow refrain
Born of the blended voices
Of wind and sun and rain,
"This is the law of being
That links the threefold chain:
The life we give to beauty
Returns to us again."
Resurgam
Lo, now comes the April pageant
And the Easter of the year.
Now the tulip lifts her chalice,
And the hyacinth his spear;
All the daffodils and jonquils
With their hearts of gold are here.
Child of the immortal vision,
What hast thou to do with fear?
When the summons wakes the impulse,
And the blood beats in the vein,
Let no grief thy dream encumber,
No regret thy thought detain.
Through the scented bloom-hung valleys,
Over tillage, wood and plain,
Comes the soothing south wind laden
With the sweet impartial rain.
All along the roofs and pavements
Pass the volleying silver showers,
To unfold the hearts of humans
And the frail unanxious flowers.
Breeding fast in sunlit places,
Teeming life puts forth her powers,
And the migrant wings come northward
On the trail of golden hours.
Over intervale and upland
Sounds the robin's interlude
From his tree-top spire at evening
Where no unbeliefs intrude.
Every follower of beauty
Finds in the spring solitude
Sanctuary and persuasion
Where the mysteries still brood.
Now the bluebird in the orchard,
A warm sighing at the door,
And the soft haze on the hillside,
Lure the houseling to explore
The perennial enchanted
Lovely world and all its lore;
While the early tender twilight
Breathes of those who come no more.
By full brimming river margins
Where the scents of brush fires blow,
Through the faint green mist of springtime,
Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go,
Touched with such immortal madness
Not a thing they care to know
More than those who caught life's secret
Countless centuries ago.
In old Egypt for Osiris,
Putting on the green attire,
With soft hymns and choric dancing
They went forth to greet the fire
Of the vernal sun, whose ardor
His earth children could inspire;
And the ivory flutes would lead them
To the slake of their desire.
In remembrance of Adonis
Did the Dorian maidens sing
Linus songs of joy and sorrow
For the coming back of spring,—
Sorrow for the wintry death
Of each irrevocable thing,
Joy for all the pangs of beauty
The returning year could bring.
Now the priests and holy women
With sweet incense, chant and prayer,
Keep His death and resurrection
Whose new love bade all men share
Immortality of kindness,
Living to make life more fair.
Wakened to such wealth of being,
Who would not arise and dare?
Seeing how each new fulfilment
Issues at the call of need
From infinitudes of purpose
In the core of soul and seed,
Who shall set the bounds of puissance
Or the formulas of creed?
Truth awaits the test of beauty,
Good is proven in the deed.
Therefore, give thy spring renascence,—
Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,—
To make perfect and replenish
All the sorry fault and dearth
Of the life from whose enrichment
Thine aspiring will had birth;
Take thy part in the redemption
Of thy kind from bonds of earth.
So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty,
Even in this mortal clime
Share the life that is eternal,
Brother to the lords of time,—
Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,—
Builders of the world sublime.
Yesterday was not earth's evening
Every morning is our prime.
All that can be worth the rescue
From oblivion and decay,—
Joy and loveliness and wisdom,—
In thyself, without dismay
Thou shalt save and make enduring
Through each word and act, to sway
The hereafter to a likeness
Of thyself in other clay.
Still remains the peradventure,
Soul pursues an orbit here
Like those unreturning comets,
Sweeping on a vast career,
By an infinite directrix,
Focussed to a finite sphere,—
Nurtured in an earthly April,
In what realm to reappear?
Easter Eve
If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows
of Silvermine,
Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began
to shine;
Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking
in Ponus Street;
You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of
enough red meat!"
Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating
on Wampanaw,
Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard black
ice I saw
An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house
to rights,
Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare
for the winter nights.
And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm
as you please.
But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden,
who kept the keys?
Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the
lily roots,
And then in the first warm days of April—out to the sun
with the greening shoots?
By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails
of air,
The spring express—but who despatched it, equipped with speed
and cunning care?
Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant
of the happy heart,
As full of light as a theme of Mozart's—but where did he learn
that more than art?
Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as the
south wind brings the rain,
Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back
to his nest again.
Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose
of natural fact;
Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures,
that bids them act."
Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that
of the beasts and birds,
Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic,
too vague for words.
No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty
is somewhere born;
No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow
as the growing corn.
Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days
of earth.
To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import
and lovely worth.
If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit
of will and power,
To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and the
waiting hour,
It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me
and sorrows scar,
Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the
evening star.
The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the
wind, my friend.
Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare
ill in the end?
Now is the Time of Year
Now is the time of year
When all the flutes begin,—
The redwing bold and clear,
The rainbird far and thin.
In all the waking lands
There's not a wilding thing
But knows and understands
The burden of the spring.
Now every voice alive
By rocky wood and stream
Is lifted to revive
The ecstasy, the dream.
For Nature, never old,
But busy as of yore,
From sun and rain and mould
Is making spring once more.
She sounds her magic note
By river-marge and hill,
And every woodland throat
Re-echoes with a thrill.
O mother of our days,
Hearing thy music call.
Teach us to know thy ways
And fear no more at all!
The Redwing
I hear you, Brother, I hear you,
Down in the alder swamp,
Springing your woodland whistle
To herald the April pomp!
First of the moving vanguard,
In front of the spring you come,
Where flooded waters sparkle
And streams in the twilight hum.
You sound the note of the chorus
By meadow and woodland pond,
Till, one after one up-piping,
A myriad throats respond.
I see you, Brother, I see you,
With scarlet under your wing,
Flash through the ruddy maples,
Leading the pageant of spring.
Earth has put off her raiment
Wintry and worn and old,
For the robe of a fair young sibyl.
Dancing in green and gold.
I heed you, Brother. To-morrow
I, too, in the great employ,
Will shed my old coat of sorrow
For a brand-new garment of joy.
The Rainbird
I hear a rainbird singing
Far off. How fine and clear
His plaintive voice comes ringing
With rapture to the ear!
Over the misty wood-lots,
Across the first spring heat,
Comes the enchanted cadence,
So clear, so solemn-sweet.
How often I have hearkened
To that high pealing strain
Across wild cedar barrens,
Under the soft gray rain!
How often I have wondered,
And longed in vain to know
The source of that enchantment,
That touch of human woe!
O brother, who first taught thee
To haunt the teeming spring
With that sad mortal wisdom
Which only age can bring?
Lament
When you hear the white-throat pealing
From a tree-top far away,
And the hills are touched with purple
At the borders of the day;
When the redwing sounds his whistle
At the coming on of spring,
And the joyous April pipers
Make the alder marshes ring;
When the wild new breath of being
Whispers to the world once more,
And before the shrine of beauty
Every spirit must adore;
When long thoughts come back with twilight,
And a tender deepened mood
Shows the eyes of the beloved
Like the hepaticas in the wood;
Ah, remember, when to nothing
Save to love your heart gives heed,
And spring takes you to her bosom,—
So it was with Golden Weed!
Under the April Moon
Oh, well the world is dreaming
Under the April moon,
Her soul in love with beauty,
Her senses all a-swoon!
Pure hangs the silver crescent
Above the twilight wood,
And pure the silver music
Wakes from the marshy flood.
O Earth, with all thy transport,
How comes it life should seem
A shadow in the moonlight,
A murmur in a dream?
The Flute of Spring
I know a shining meadow stream
That winds beneath an Eastern hill,
And all year long in sun or gloom
Its murmuring voice is never still.
The summer dies more gently there,
The April flowers are earlier,—
The first warm rain-wind from the Sound
Sets all their eager hearts astir.
And there when lengthening twilights fall
As softly as a wild bird's wing,
Across the valley in the dusk
I hear the silver flute of spring.
Spring Night
In the wondrous star-sown night,
In the first sweet warmth of spring,
I lie awake and listen
To hear the glad earth sing.
I hear the brook in the wood
Murmuring, as it goes,
The song of the happy journey
Only the wise heart knows.
I hear the trilling note
Of the tree-frog under the hill,
And the clear and watery treble
Of his brother, silvery shrill.
And then I wander away
Through the mighty forest of Sleep,
To follow the fairy music
To the shore of an endless deep.
Bloodroot
When April winds arrive
And the soft rains are here,
Some morning by the roadside
These Fairy folk appear.
We never see their coming,
However sharp our eyes;
Each year as if by magic
They take us by surprise.
Along the ragged woodside
And by the green spring-run,
Their small white heads are nodding
And twinkling in the sun.
They crowd across the meadow
In innocence and mirth,
As if there were no sorrow
In all this wondrous earth.
So frail, so unregarded,
And yet about them clings
A sorcery of welcome,—
The joy of common things.
Perhaps their trail of beauty
Across the pasture sod
In jubilant procession
Is where an angel trod.
Daffodil's Return
What matter if the sun be lost?
What matter though the sky be gray?
There's joy enough about the house,
For Daffodil comes home to-day.
There's news of swallows on the air,
There's word of April on the way,
They're calling flowers within the street,
And Daffodil comes home to-day.
O who would care what fate may bring,
Or what the years may take away!
There's life enough within the hour,
For Daffodil comes home to-day.