THE POEMS
OF
HENRY VAN DYKE

A NEW AND REVISED EDITION
WITH MANY HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED

LONDON
ARTHUR F. BIRD
MCMXXV

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.

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.

1872.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

1873.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Does the snow fall at sea?
  Yes, when the north winds blow,
  When the wild clouds fly low,
  Out of each gloomy wing,
  Silently glimmering,
  Over the stormy sea
    Falleth the snow.

Does the snow hide the sea?
  Nay, on the tossing plains
  Never a flake remains;
  Drift never resteth there;
  Vanishing everywhere,
  Into the hungry sea
    Falleth the snow.

What means the snow at sea?
  Whirled in the veering blast,
  Thickly the flakes drive past;
  Each like a childish ghost
  Wavers, and then is lost;
  In the forgetful sea
    Fadeth the snow.

1875.

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine!
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden.

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between,
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music night and day.

Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the covenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,
From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

Edinburgh, 1877.

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.

'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.

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!”

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!”

1894.

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?

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long 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.

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 wood-notes 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.

1895.

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.”

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.