Produced by Patricia Peters, Tonya Allen, and Project

Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

BY

HENRY VAN DYKE

1923

CONTENTS

I

OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS

  The Veery
  The Song-Sparrow
  The Maryland Yellow-Throat
  The Whip-Poor-Will
  Wings of a Dove
  The Hermit Thrush
  Sea-Gulls of Manhattan
  The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet
  The Angler's Reveille
  A November Daisy
  The Lily of Yorrow

II

OF SKIES AND SEASONS

  If All the Skies
  The After-Echo
  Dulciora
  Matins
  The Parting and the Coming Guest
  When Tulips Bloom
  Spring in the North
  Spring in the South
  How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim
  The First Bird o' Spring
  A Bunch of Trout-Flies
  A Noon-Song
  Turn o' the Tide
  Sierra Madre
  School
  Indian Summer
  Light between the Trees
  The Fall of the Leaves
  Three Alpine Sonnets
  A Snow-Song
  Roslin and Hawthornden
  The Heavenly Hills of Holland
  Flood-Tide of Flowers
  Salute to the Trees

III

OF THE UNFAILING LIGHT

  The Grand Canyon
  God of the Open Air

IV

WAYFARING PSALMS IN PALESTINE

  The Distant Road
  The Welcome Tent
  The Great Cities
  The Friendly Trees
  The Pathway of Rivers
  The Glory of Ruins
  The Tribe of the Helpers
  The Good Teacher
  The Camp-Fires of My Friend

I

OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS

THE VEERY

  The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
  When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
  So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
  I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the woodnotes of the veery.

  The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
  It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
  He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
  I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery.

  In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
  I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
  The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
  And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

  But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
  New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
  And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
  I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.

1895.

THE SONG-SPARROW

  There is a bird I know so well,
    It seems as if he must have sung
    Beside my crib when I was young;
  Before I knew the way to spell
    The name of even the smallest bird,
    His gentle-joyful song I heard.
  Now see if you can tell, my dear,
  What bird it is that, every year,
  Sings "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

  He comes in March, when winds are strong,
    And snow returns to hide the earth;
    But still he warms his heart with mirth,
  And waits for May. He lingers long
    While flowers fade; and every day
    Repeats his small, contented lay;
  As if to say, we need not fear
  The season's change, if love is here
  With "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

  He does not wear a Joseph's-coat
    Of many colours, smart and gay;
    His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
  With darker patches at his throat.
    And yet of all the well-dressed throng
    Not one can sing so brave a song.
  It makes the pride of looks appear
  A vain and foolish thing, to hear
  His "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

  A lofty place he does not love,
    But sits by choice, and well at ease,
    In hedges, and in little trees
  That stretch their slender arms above
    The meadow-brook; and there he sings
    Till all the field with pleasure rings;
  And so he tells in every ear,
  That lowly homes to heaven are near
  In "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

  I like the tune, I like the words;
    They seem so true, so free from art,
    So friendly, and so full of heart,
  That if but one of all the birds
    Could be my comrade everywhere,
    My little brother of the air,
  I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear,
  Because he'd bless me, every year,
  With "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

1895.

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

  When May bedecks the naked trees
  With tassels and embroideries,
  And many blue-eyed violets beam
  Along the edges of the stream,
  I hear a voice that seems to say,
  Now near at hand, now far away,
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

  An incantation so serene,
  So innocent, befits the scene:
  There's magic in that small bird's note—
  See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat;
  A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
  A spark of light that shines and sings
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

  You prophet with a pleasant name,
  If out of Mary-land you came,
  You know the way that thither goes
  Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
  Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
  And try to call her down this way,
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

  Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
  And all her little silver bells
  That blossom into melody,
  And all her maids less fair than she.
  She does not need these pretty things,
  For everywhere she comes, she brings
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

  The woods are greening overhead,
  And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
  The waters babble as they run—
  One thing is lacking, only one:
  If Mary were but here to-day,
  I would believe your charming lay,
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

  Along the shady road I look—
  Who's coming now across the brook?
  A woodland maid, all robed in white—
  The leaves dance round her with delight,
  The stream laughs out beneath her feet—
  Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
    "Witchery—witchery—witchery!"

1895.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

  Do you remember, father,—
  It seems so long ago,—
  The day we fished together
  Along the Pocono?
  At dusk I waited for you,
  Beside the lumber-mill,
  And there I heard a hidden bird
  That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"
  "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
  Sad and shrill,—"whippoorwill!"

  The place was all deserted;
  The mill-wheel hung at rest;
  The lonely star of evening
  Was throbbing in the west;
  The veil of night was falling;
  The winds were folded still;
  And everywhere the trembling air
    Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
    "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
  Sad and shrill,—"whippoorwill!"

  You seemed so long in coming,
    I felt so much alone;
  The wide, dark world was round me,
    And life was all unknown;
  The hand of sorrow touched me,
    And made my senses thrill
  With all the pain that haunts the strain
    Of mournful whip-poor-will.
  "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
    Sad and shrill,—"whippoorwill!"

  What knew I then of trouble?
    An idle little lad,
  I had not learned the lessons
    That make men wise and sad.
  I dreamed of grief and parting,
    And something seemed to fill
  My heart with tears, while in my ears
    Resounded "whip-poor-will."
    "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
    Sad and shrill,—"whippoorwill!"

  'Twas but a cloud of sadness,
    That lightly passed away;
  But I have learned the meaning
    Of sorrow, since that day.
  For nevermore at twilight,
    Beside the silent mill,
  I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,
    And hear the whip-poor-will.
    "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
    Sad and shrill,—"whippoorwill!"

  But if you still remember
    In that fair land of light,
  The pains and fears that touch us
    Along this edge of night,
  I think all earthly grieving,
    And all our mortal ill,
  To you must seem like a sad boy's dream
    Who hears the whip-poor-will.
    "Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"
    A passing thrill,—"whippoorwill!"

1894.

WINGS OF A DOVE

I

  At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
    Far down the pathway of the west,
  I saw a lonely dove in silence flying,
      To be at rest.

  Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow
    Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest,
  I'd fly away from every careful sorrow,
      And find my rest.

II

  But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling,
    Home flew the dove to seek his nest,
  Deep in the forest where his mate was calling
      To love and rest.

  Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander;
    Lose not thy life in barren quest.
  There are no happy islands over yonder;
              Come home and rest.

1874.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

  O wonderful! How liquid clear
  The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
  Floating and falling through the wood alone,
  A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!

  O holy, holy! holy! Hyaline,
  Long light, low light, glory of eventide!
  Love far away, far up,—love divine!
  Little love, too, for ever, ever near,
  Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
  In the leafy dark where you hide,
  You are mine,—mine,—mine!

  Ah, my belovèd, do you feel with me
  The hidden virtue of that melody,
  The rapture and the purity of love,
  The heavenly joy that can not find the word?

  Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
  Come very near to me, and do not move,—
  Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
  The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
  And we will drink the wine of love with you.

May, 1908.

SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN

  Children of the elemental mother,
    Born upon some lonely island shore
  Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper,
    Where the crested billows plunge and roar;
  Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers,
    Fearless breasters of the wind and sea,
  In the far-off solitary places
    I have seen you floating wild and free!

  Here the high-built cities rise around you;
    Here the cliffs that tower east and west,
  Honeycombed with human habitations,
    Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest:
  Here the river flows begrimed and troubled;
    Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume,
  Restless, up and down the watery highway,
    While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.

  Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion,
    Clank and clamour of the vast machine
  Human hands have built for human bondage—
    Yet amid it all you float serene;
  Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly
    Down to glean your harvest from the wave;
  In your heritage of air and water,
    You have kept the freedom Nature gave.

  Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan
    Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray;
  Even so you fluttered, followed, floated,
    Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay;
  Even so your voices creaked and chattered,
    Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips,
  While your black and beady eyes were glistening
    Round the sullen British prison-ships.

  Children of the elemental mother,
    Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue,
  From the crowded boats that cross the ferries
    Many a longing heart goes out to you.
  Though the cities climb and close around us,
    Something tells us that our souls are free,
  While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour,
    While the river flows to meet the sea!

December, 1905.

THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET

I

  Where's your kingdom, little king?
    Where the land you call your own,
    Where your palace and your throne?
  Fluttering lightly on the wing
    Through the blossom-world of May,
    Whither lies your royal way,
               Little king?

    Far to northward lies a land
    Where the trees together stand
    Closely as the blades of wheat
    When the summer is complete.
    Rolling like an ocean wide
    Over vale and mountainside,
    Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine,—
    All those mighty trees are mine.
    There's a river flowing free,—
    All its waves belong to me.
    There's a lake so clear and bright
    Stars shine out of it all night;
    Rowan-berries round it spread
    Like a belt of coral red.
    Never royal garden planned
    Fair as my Canadian land!
    There I build my summer nest,
    There I reign and there I rest,
    While from dawn to dark I sing,
    Happy kingdom! Lucky king!

II

  Back again, my little king!
    Is your happy kingdom lost
    To the rebel knave, Jack Frost?
  Have you felt the snow-flakes sting?
    Houseless, homeless in October,
    Whither now? Your plight is sober,
               Exiled king!

    Far to southward lie the regions
    Where my loyal flower-legions
    Hold possession of the year,
    Filling every month with cheer.
    Christmas wakes the winter rose;
    New Year daffodils unclose;
    Yellow jasmine through the wood
    Flows in February flood,
    Dropping from the tallest trees
    Golden streams that never freeze.
    Thither now I take my flight
    Down the pathway of the night,
    Till I see the southern moon
    Glisten on the broad lagoon,
    Where the cypress' dusky green,
    And the dark magnolia's sheen,
    Weave a shelter round my home.
    There the snow-storms never come;
    There the bannered mosses gray
    Like a curtain gently sway,
    Hanging low on every side
    Round the covert inhere I bide,
    Till the March azalea glows,
    Royal red and heavenly rose,
    Through the Carolina glade
    Where my winter home is made.
    There I hold my southern court,
    Full of merriment and sport:
    There I take my ease and sing,
    Happy kingdom! Lucky king!

III

  Little boaster, vagrant king,
    Neither north nor south is yours,
    You've no kingdom that endures!
  Wandering every fall and spring,
  With your ruby crown so slender,
  Are you only a Pretender,
               Landless king?

    Never king by right divine
    Ruled a richer realm than mine!
    What are lands and golden crowns,
    Armies, fortresses and towns,
    Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings,—
    What are these to song and wings?
    Everywhere that I can fly,
    There I own the earth and sky;
    Everywhere that I can sing,
    There I'm happy as a king.

1900.

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE

  What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
  And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light,
  'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,
  And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

      This is the carol the Robin throws
        Over the edge of the valley;
      Listen how boldly it flows,
        Sally on sally:
            Tirra-lirra,
            Early morn,
            New born!
            Day is near,
            Clear, clear.
            Down the river
            All a-quiver,
            Fish are breaking;
            Time for waking,
            Tup, tup, tup!
            Do you hear?
            All clear—
            Wake up!

  The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,
  And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;
  Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,
  While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.

      This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,
        Unto his mate replying,
      Shaking the tune from his wings
        While he is flying:
            Surely, surely, surely,
                Life is dear
                Even here.
                Blue above,
                You to love,
              Purely, purely, purely.

  There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell,
  And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;
  The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,
  Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.

      This is the song of the Yellow-throat,
        Fluttering gaily beside you;
      Hear how each voluble note
        Offers to guide you:

            Which way, sir?
            I say, sir,
            Let me teach you,
            I beseech you!
            Are you wishing
            Jolly fishing?
            This way, sir!
            I'll teach you.

  Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind,
  And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;
  For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will give,
  And all the day your heart will say, "'Tis luck enough to live."

      This is the song the Brown Thrush flings
        Out of his thicket of roses;
      Hark how it bubbles and rings,
        Mark how it closes:

            Luck, luck,
            What luck?
            Good enough for me,
            I'm alive, you see!
            Sun shining,
            No repining;
            Never borrow
            Idle sorrow;
            Drop it!
            Cover it up!
            Hold your cup!
            Joy will fill it,
            Don't spill it,
            Steady, be ready,
            Good luck!

1899.

A NOVEMBER DAISY

  Afterthought of summer's bloom!
  Late arrival at the feast,
  Coming when the songs have ceased
  And the merry guests departed,
  Leaving but an empty room,
  Silence, solitude, and gloom,—
  Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;
  You, the last of all your kind,
  Nodding in the autumn wind;
  Now that all your friends are flown,
  Blooming late and all alone?

  Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
  Reading mournful mood of mine
  In your looks, that give no sign
  Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
  You possess the heavenly power
  That rejoices in the hour.
  Glad, contented, free, and fearless,
  Lift a sunny face to heaven
  When a sunny day is given!
  Make a summer of your own,
  Blooming late and all alone!

  Once the daisies gold and white
  Sea-like through the meadow rolled:
  Once my heart could hardly hold
  All its pleasures. I remember,
  In the flood of youth's delight
  Separate joys were lost to sight.
  That was summer! Now November
  Sets the perfect flower apart;
  Gives each blossom of the heart
  Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,—
  Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.

THE LILY OF YORROW

  Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;
  Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing;
  Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.

  Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower;
  Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower;
  Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.

  Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume enchanted
  Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted,
  Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.

  Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning
  Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening?
  Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?

  Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden,
  Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden,
  Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.

  Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a lifelong endeavour;
  Surely to pluck it is gladness,—but they who have found it can never
  Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.

  'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me:
  Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,—
  Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.

  Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow?
  Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow:
  He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.

1894.

II

OF SKIES AND SEASONS

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.

THE AFTER-ECHO

  How long the echoes love to play
    Around the shore of silence, as a wave
    Retreating circles down the sand!
    One after one, with sweet delay,
  The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave,
    Have lingered in the crescent bay,
    Until, by lightest breezes fanned,
  They float far off beyond the dying day
        And leave it still as death.
          But hark,—
        Another singing breath
      Comes from the edge of dark;
        A note as clear and slow
      As falls from some enchanted bell,
      Or spirit, passing from the world below,
        That whispers back, Farewell.
    So in the heart,
  When, fading slowly down the past,
    Fond memories depart,
  And each that leaves it seems the last;
  Long after all the rest are flown,
  Returns a solitary tone,—
  The after-echo of departed years,—
  And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

DULCIORA

  A tear that trembles for a little while
  Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world
  Wavers within its circle like a dream,
  Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb
  Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

  A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved,
  Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light,
  And grows in silence to an amber dawn
  Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes,
  Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

  A joy that falls into the hollow heart
  From some far-lifted height of love unseen,
  Unknown, makes a more perfect melody
  Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk,
  Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

  Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky
  And the fair ministries of Nature dear,
  But as they set themselves unto the tune
  That fills our life; as light mysterious
  Flows from within and glorifies the world.

  For so a common wayside blossom, touched
  With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet
  Than crowns the royal lily of the South;
  And so a well-remembered perfume seems
  The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

MATINS

  Flowers rejoice when night is done,
  Lift their heads to greet the sun;
  Sweetest looks and odours raise,
  In a silent hymn of praise.

  So my heart would turn away
  From the darkness to the day;
  Lying open in God's sight
  Like a flower in the light.

THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST

  Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
    Who, peering through the window-pane
    At nightfall, under sleet and rain
  Saw the old graybeard totter by?
  Who listened to his parting sigh,
    The sobbing of his feeble breath,
    His whispered colloquy with Death,
    And when his all of life was done
  Stood near to bid a last good-bye?
    Of all his former friends not one
  Saw the forsaken Winter die.

  Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?
    Who heard her footfall, swift and light
    As fairy-dancing in the night?
  Who guessed what happy dawn would bring
  The flutter of her bluebird's wing,
  The blossom of her mayflower-face
    To brighten every shady place?
    One morning, down the village street,
  "Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,—
    And none had been awake to greet
  The coming of the maiden Spring.

  But look, her violet eyes are wet
    With bright, unfallen, dewy tears;
    And in her song my fancy hears
  A note of sorrow trembling yet.
  Perhaps, beyond the town, she met
    Old Winter as he limped away
    To die forlorn, and let him lay
    His weary head upon her knee,
  And kissed his forehead with regret
    For one so gray and lonely,—see,
  Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

  And so, by night, while we were all at rest,
  I think the coming sped the parting guest.

1873.

WHEN TULIPS BLOOM

I

  When tulips bloom in Union Square,
  And timid breaths of vernal air
    Go wandering down the dusty town,
  Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

  When every long, unlovely row
  Of westward houses stands aglow,
    And leads the eyes to sunset skies
  Beyond the hills where green trees grow;

  Then weary seems the street parade,
  And weary books, and weary trade:
    I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
  For this the month of May was made.

II

  I guess the pussy-willows now
  Are creeping out on every bough
    Along the brook; and robins look
  For early worms behind the plough.

  The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
  For yellow coats, to match the sun;
    And in the same array of flame
  The Dandelion Show's begun.

  The flocks of young anemones
  Are dancing round the budding trees:
    Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
  In days as full of joy as these?

III

  I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
  Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
    While on the wing the bluebirds ring
  Their wedding-bells to woods around.

  The flirting chewink calls his dear
  Behind the bush; and very near,
    Where water flows, where green grass grows,
  Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

  And, best of all, through twilight's calm
  The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.
    How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
  In days so sweet with music's balm!

IV

  'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
  I ask for nothing superfine;
    No heavy weight, no salmon great,
  To break the record, or my line.

  Only an idle little stream,
  Whose amber waters softly gleam,
    Where I may wade through woodland shade,
  And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

  Only a trout or two, to dart
  From foaming pools, and try my art:
    'Tis all I'm wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
  And just a day on Nature's heart.

1894.

SPRING IN THE NORTH

I

  Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
  Why the sweet Spring delays,
  And where she hides,—the dear desire
    Of every heart that longs
  For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
  Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
  And that immortal call which fills
    The waiting wood with songs?
  The snow-drops came so long ago,
    It seemed that Spring was near!
    But then returned the snow
  With biting winds, and earth grew sere,
    And sullen clouds drooped low
  To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
  Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
    Beat on the window-pane,

  Through which I watched the solitary bird
  That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed
  With rumpled feathers down the wind again.
    Oh, were the seeds all lost
  When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?
    I searched the woods in vain
  For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
  And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,
  Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
    But every night the frost
  To all my longing spoke a silent nay,
  And told me Spring was far away.
  Even the robins were too cold to sing,
  Except a broken and discouraged note,—
  Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
  Music has put her triple finger-print,
  Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,—
  "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"

II

  But now, Carina, what divine amends
  For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,
    What wine of joy that blends
  A hundred flavours in a single cup,
  Is poured into this perfect day!
  For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers
    That lingered on their way,
  Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,
  Entangled with the bloom of later hours,—
  Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue
  And white, and iris richly gleaming through
  The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
  Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
    Filling the air with praise,
  As if a chime of golden bells had pealed!
    The frozen songs within the breast
  Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
    Melt into rippling floods
    Of gladness unrepressed.
  Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark,
  Warbler and wren and vireo,
  Mingle their melody; the living spark
  Of love has touched the fuel of desire,
  And every heart leaps up in singing fire.

    It seems as if the land
  Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,
    Trembling with tenderness,
    While all the woods expand,
  In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
  To veil a joy too sacred to be seen.

III

    Come, put your hand in mine,
  True love, long sought and found at last,
  And lead me deep into the Spring divine
    That makes amends for all the wintry past.
  For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
      Arrive with you;
  And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
    My dreams come true;
  And in the promise of your generous eyes
    I read the mystic sign
    Of joy more perfect made
    Because so long delayed,
  And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.

  Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
  He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:
  Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,
  You're doubly dear because you come so late.

SPRING IN THE SOUTH

  Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
    Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;
  Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;
    Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings;
  Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying,
    Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,
  Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,—
    Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?

  Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,
    Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn,
  Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing,
    Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.
  Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning;
    Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest;
  Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining
    Jove's golden shower into Danäe's breast!

  Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted,
    Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose,
  Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted,
    Full to the brim the yellow river flows.
  Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,
    Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.
  Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!
    The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.

  Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!
    All of his heart he pours into his lay,—
  "Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:
    Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"
  Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,
    Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:
  Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,—
    Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!

1904.

HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

  I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
  But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure;
  An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
  To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

  It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,
  But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing;
  The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
  But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

  It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
  Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!
  Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign;
  But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

  She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow;
  Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,—
  A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail—
  But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

  She's loopin' down the hillside,—the driffs is fadin' out.
  She's runnin' down the river,—d'ye see them risin' trout?
  She's loafin' down the canyon,—the squaw-bed's growin' blue,
  An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

  A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
  Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
  With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick,
  An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candlestick!

  The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around,
  Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground;
  A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink;
  So saddle up, my sonny,—it's time to ride, I think!

  We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge;
  We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge;
  We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire,
  An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.

  We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear;
  An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer;
  But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes;
  For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!

  Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff?
  The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!
  An' if there's Someone made 'em' I guess He understood,
  To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

California, 1913.

THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING

TO OLIVE WHEELER

  Winter on Mount Shasta,
  April down below;
  Golden hours of glowing sun
  Sudden showers of snow!
  Under leafless thickets
  Early wild-flowers cling;
  But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear
  The first bird o' Spring!

  Alders are in tassel,
  Maples are in bud;
  Waters of the blue McCloud
  Shout in joyful flood;
  Through the giant pine-trees
  Flutters many a wing;
  But, oh, my dear, I long to hear
  The first bird o' Spring!

  Candle-light and fire-light
  Mingle at "the Bend";
  'Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan
  Light and shadow blend.
  Sweeter than a wood-thrush
  A maid begins to sing;
  And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear
  The first bird o' Spring!

The Bend, California, April 29, 1913.

A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES

FOR ARCHIE RUTLEDGE

  Here's a half-a-dozen flies,
  Just about the proper size
  For the trout of Dickey's Run,—
  Luck go with them every one!

  Dainty little feathered beauties,
  Listen now, and learn your duties:
  Not to tangle in the box;
  Not to catch on logs or rocks,
  Boughs that wave or weeds that float,
  Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat!
  Not to lure the glutton frog
  From his banquet in the bog;
  Nor the lazy chub to fool,
  Splashing idly round the pool;
  Nor the sullen horned pout
  From the mud to hustle out!

  None of this vulgarian crew,
  Dainty flies, is game for you.
  Darting swiftly through the air
  Guided by the angler's care,
  Light upon the flowing stream
  Like a winged fairy dream;
  Float upon the water dancing,
  Through the lights and shadows glancing,
  Till the rippling current brings you,
  And with quiet motion swings you,
  Where a speckled beauty lies
  Watching you with hungry eyes.

  Here's your game and here's your prize!
  Hover near him, lure him, tease him,
  Do your very best to please him,
  Dancing on the water foamy,
  Like the frail and fair Salome,
  Till the monarch yields at last,
  Rises, and you have him fast!
  Then remember well your duty,—
  Do not lose, but land, your booty;
  For the finest fish of all is
  Salvelinus Fontinalis.

  So, you plumed illusions, go,
  Let my comrade Archie know
  Every day he goes a-fishing
  I'll be with him in well-wishing.
  Most of all when lunch is laid
  In the dappled orchard shade,
  With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
  Sitting as we used to do
  Round the white cloth on the grass
  While the lazy hours pass,
  And the brook's contented tune
  Lulls the sleepy afternoon,—
  Then's the time my heart will be
  With that pleasant company!

June 17, 1913.

A NOON-SONG

  There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
    For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
  But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
    And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
        Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
          The noon with golden crest;
        When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
          With his face to the way of the west!

  How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength!
    How slowly he crept as the morning wore by!
  Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
    To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
        Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
          The toil that may not rest,
        Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
          To the wonderful way of the west!

  Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
    The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
  The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
    The workers are resting all over the world.
        Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
          The hour that calms the breast!
        Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
          Where it follows the turn to the west!

  There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
    The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
  The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
    To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
  Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
    Of all the day the best!
  When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
    To his home by the way of the west!

1906.

TURN O' THE TIDE

  The tide flows in to the harbour,—
    The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,—
  And the little ships riding at anchor,
    Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting
      To lift their wings to the wide wild air,
      And venture a voyage they know not where,—
    To fly away and be free!

  The tide runs out of the harbour,—
    The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,—
  And the little ships rocking at anchor,
    Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning
      To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand,
      To rest in the lee of the high hill land,—
  To hold their haven and stay!

  My heart goes round with the vessels,—
    My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,—
  And the turn o' the tide passes through it,
    In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling
      At morn, to range where the far waves foam,
      At night, to a harbour in love's true home,
    With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.

SIERRA MADRE

  O mother mountains! billowing far to the snowlands,
    Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue,
  Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?
    What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

  Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,
    Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,—
  Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,
    Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

  You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,
    Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;
  Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only
    Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

  Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour
    Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?
  What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender
    Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

  Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:
    "Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;
  Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming
    Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.

  "Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land,
    Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields,
  Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky land,
    Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields."

  O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!
    Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty fills,—
  Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,—
    I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.

Pasadena, March, 1913.

SCHOOL

  I put my heart to school
  In the world where men grow wise:
  "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;
  'Come back when you win a prize.'"

  My heart came back again:
  "Now where is the prize?" I cried.—
  "The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
  And the teacher's name was Pride."

  I put my heart to school
  In the woods where veeries sing
  And brooks run clear and cool,
  In the fields where wild flowers spring.

  "And why do you stay so long
  My heart, and where do you roam?"
  The answer came with a laugh and a song,—
  "I find this school is home."

April, 1901.

INDIAN SUMMER

  A silken curtain veils the skies,
  And half conceals from pensive eyes
     The bronzing tokens of the fall;
  A calmness broods upon the hills,
  And summer's parting dream distils
     A charm of silence over all.

  The stacks of corn, in brown array,
  Stand waiting through the tranquil day,
     Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
  The tribes that find a shelter there
  Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
     And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

  At evening when the crimson crest
  Of sunset passes down the West,
     I hear the whispering host returning;
  On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
  I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—
     The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

Tertius and Henry van Dyke.

November, 1903.

LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

  Long, long, long the trail
    Through the brooding forest-gloom,
  Down the shadowy, lonely vale
    Into silence, like a room
      Where the light of life has fled,
    And the jealous curtains close
    Round the passionless repose
  Of the silent dead.

  Plod, plod, plod away,
    Step by step in mouldering moss;
  Thick branches bar the day
    Over languid streams that cross
      Softly, slowly, with a sound
    Like a smothered weeping,
    In their aimless creeping
      Through enchanted ground.

  "Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
    Whispers through the woodland deep:
  "Come to me and be at rest;
  I am slumber, I am sleep."
      Then the weary feet would fail,
    But the never-daunted will
    Urges "Forward, forward still!
      Press along the trail!"

  Breast, breast, breast the slope
    See, the path is growing steep.
  Hark! a little song of hope
    Where the stream begins to leap.
      Though the forest, far and wide,
    Still shuts out the bending blue,
    We shall finally win through,
      Cross the long divide.

  On, on, on we tramp!
    Will the journey never end?
  Over yonder lies the camp;
    Welcome waits us there, my friend,
      Can we reach it ere the night?
    Upward, upward, never fear!
    Look, the summit must be near;
      See the line of light!

  Red, red, red the shine
    Of the splendour in the west,
  Glowing through the ranks of pine,
    Clear along the mountain-crest!
    Long, long, long the trail
    Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
      But at last the traveller sees
      Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES

I

  In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
    The regiments of autumn stood:
  I saw their gold and scarlet glowing
    From every hillside, every wood.

  Above the sea the clouds were keeping
    Their secret leaguer, gray and still;
  They sent their misty vanguard creeping
    With muffled step from hill to hill.

  All day the sullen armies drifted
    Athwart the sky with slanting rain;
  At sunset for a space they lifted,
    With dusk they settled down again.

II

  At dark the winds began to blow
  With mutterings distant, low;
    From sea and sky they called their strength,
      Till with an angry, broken roar,
      Like billows on an unseen shore,
    Their fury burst at length.

  I heard through the night
    The rush and the clamour;
  The pulse of the fight
    Like blows of Thor's hammer;
  The pattering flight
  Of the leaves, and the anguished
  Moan of the forest vanquished.

  At daybreak came a gusty song:
  "Shout! the winds are strong.
  The little people of the leaves are fled.
  Shout! The Autumn is dead!"

III

  The storm is ended! The impartial sun
    Laughs down upon the battle lost and won,
  And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host
    In rolling lines retreating to the coast.

  But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade,
    And grateful friends of every fallen leaf,
  Forget the glories of the cloud-parade,
    And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.

  For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat
    On fields of triumph dirges of defeat;
  And still we turn on gala-days to tread
    Among the rustling memories of the dead.

1874.

THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I

THE GLACIER

  At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
    The silver-crested waves no murmur make;
    But far away the avalanches wake
  The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream;
  Their momentary thunders, dying, seem
    To fall into the stillness, flake by flake,
    And leave the hollow air with naught to break
  The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

  At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring
    Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls
  Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring
    With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls;
  As if a poet's heart had felt the glow
  Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

II

THE SNOW-FIELD

  White Death had laid his pall upon the plain,
    And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs
       dead;
    The vault of heaven was glaring overhead
  With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain;
  And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain
    For sign or trace of life, my spirit said,
    "Shall any living thing that dares to tread
  This royal lair of Death escape again?"

  But even then I saw before my feet
    A line of pointed footprints in the snow:
    Some roving chamois, but an hour ago,
  Had passed this way along his journey fleet,
  And left a message from a friend unknown
  To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

Zermatt, 1872.

III

MOVING BELLS

  I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair
    And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells,
    To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells
  Go chiming after her across the fair
  And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
    Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
    And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells
  Of peace are woven through the purple air.

  Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems
    To walk before the dark by falling rills,
  And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
    She opens all the doors of night, and fills
  With moving bells the music of my dreams,
    That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Gstaad, August, 1909.