A 55 — £ 1 4 -n 1 m ■ CD NO. 11 ■HH . M THE **r*fc SaNJ IE <1' CHfl* .v v K 1 >f HtiiiiiiflH ISS CARMAN +■ "-■ ■+■' " '■ --"" : ^ '-■* >k- iE LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY GERALD HOWLAND PIPES OF PAN BY BLISS CARMAN Five volumes as follows : Each i vol., cloth, net, $1.00 " " flexible leather, net, i.jo now ready From the Book of Myths From the Green Book of the Bards Songs of the Sea Children Songs from a Northern Garden in preparation From the Book of Pierrot L. C. PAGE & COMPANY New England Building Boston, Mass. Number Two FROM THE GREEN BOOK ™ E BARDS BY BLISS CARMAN AUTHOR OF "LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRE*," " BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN," ETC., JOINT AUTHOR WITH RICHARD HOVEY OF "SONGS FROM VAGA- BONDS," ETC. Copyright 1901, by The Ess Ess Publishing Company (Incorporated) Copyright, 1902, by AlHM.KK M • MTANY ight, 1902, by «■ Company Copyright, 1899, 1900, by Charles Scribner's Suns Copyright, 1900, by HAKPKK ANU I'.KOTHBKi Copyright, 1903, by L. C. Page & Company (Incorporated) Published, May, 1903 TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND (EUtoatU JRatban <3ibb& Out of doors are budding trees, calling birds., and opening flowers, Purple rainy distances, fragrant -winds and lengthening hours. Only in the loving heart, with its unforgetting mind, There is grief for seasons gone and the friend it cannot find. For upon this lovely earth mortal sorrow still must bide, And remembrance still must lurk like a pang in beauty^s side. Ah, one wistful heartache now April with her joy must bring, And the want of you return always with returning spring I New York, April, 1903. CONTENTS Page "Lord of My Heart's Elation" ... i The Green Book of the Bards .... 3 First Croak 9 A Supplication 15 April Weather 16 Spring Magic 20 The Enchantress 23 The Madness of Ishtar 25 A Creature Catechism 32 sursum corda 40 The Word in the Beginning 49 From an Old Ritual 68 Fellow Travellers 70 The Field by the Sea 71 The Dancers of the Field 74 The Breath of the Reed 76 Poppies 80 CONTENTS Pace Compensation 83 The Spell 88 A Forest Shrine 90 Among the Aspens 95 The Green Dancers 105 The Wind at the Door lie At the Yellow of the Leaf 114 The Silent Wayfellow 119 Pictor Ignotus 125 Ephemeron 130 The Heretic 133 After School 137 "LORD OF MY HEART'S ELATION." Lord of my heart's elation, Spirit of things unseen, Be thou my aspiration Consuming and serene ! Bear up, bear out, bear onward This mortal soul alone, To selfhood or oblivion, Incredibly thine own, — As the foamheads are loosened And blown along the sea, Or sink and merge forever In that which bids them be. LORD OF MY HEART S ELATION I, too, must climb in wonder, Uplift at thy command, — Be one with my frail fellows Beneath wind's strong hand, A fleet and shadowy column Of dust or mountain rain, To walk the earth a moment And be dissolved again. Be thou my exaltation Or fortitude of mien, Lord of the world's elation Thou breath of things unseen ! THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS. There is a book not written By any human hand, The prophets all have studied, The priests have always banned. I read it every morning, I ponder it by night ; And Death shall overtake me Trimming my humble light. He'll say, as did my father When I was young and small, " My son, no time for reading ! The night awaits us all." THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS He'll smile, as did my father When I was small and young, That I should be so eager Over an unknown tongue. Then I would leave my volume And willingly obey, — Get me a little slumber Against another day. Content that he who taught me Should bid me sleep awhile, I would expect the morning To bring his courtly smile ; New verses to decipher, New chapters to explore, While loveliness and wisdom Grew ever more and more. THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS For who could ever tire Of that wild legendry, The folk-lore of the mountains, The drama of the sea ? I pore for days together Over some lost refrain, — The epic of the thunder, The lyric of the rain. This was the creed and canon Of Whitman and Thoreau, And all the free believers Who worshipped long ago. Here Amiel in sadness, And Burns in pure delight, Sought for the hidden import Of man's eternal plight. THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS No Xenophon nor Caesar This master had for guide, Yet here are well recorded The marches of the tide. Here are the marks of greatness Accomplished without noise, The Elizabethan vigour, And the Landorian poise ; The sweet Chaucerian temper, Smiling at all defeats ; The gusty moods of Shelley, The autumn calms of Keats. Here were derived the gospels Of Emerson and John ; 'Twas with this revelation The face of Moses shone. THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS Here Blake and Job and Omar The author's meaning traced ; Here Virgil got his sweetness, And Arnold his unhaste. Here Horace learned to question, And Browning to reply, When Soul stood up on trial For her mortality. And all these lovely spirits Who read in the great book, Then went away in silence With their illumined look, Left comment, as time furnished A margin for their skill, — Their guesses at the secret Whose gist eludes us still. THE GREEN BOOK OF THE BARDS And still in that green volume, With ardour and with youth Undaunted, my companions Are searching for the truth. One page, entitled Grand Pre, Has the idyllic air That Bion might have envied : I set a foot-note there. FIRST CROAK. Northward, crow, Croak and fly ! Tell her I Long to go, — Only am Satisfied Where the wide Maples flame, Over those Hills of fir, Flooding her Morning snows. FIRST CROAK Thou shalt see Break and sing Days of spring, Dawning free. Northward, crow, Croak and fly, — Strive, or die Striving so ! Darker hearts, We, than some Who shall come When spring starts. Well I see, You and I By and by Shall get free. FIRST CROAK Only now, Beat away As we may Best know how ! Never soar We, nor float ; But one note, And no more. Northward, crow, Croak and fly ! Would that I Too might go ! Lark or thrush Someday, you Up the blue Cleave the hush. FIRST CROAK. O the joy Then you feel, Who shall steal Or destroy ? Have not I Known how good, Field and wood, Stream and sky ? — Longed to free Soul in flight, Night by night, Tree to tree ? Northward, crow, Croak and fly You and I, — Striving, go. FIRST CROAK Still though fail Singing, keep Croaking deep Strong and hale ! Flying straight, Soon we go Where the snow Tarries late. Yet the spring Is — how sweet ! Hark that beat ; Goldenwing ! Good for all Faint of heart, What a start In his call ! 13 FIRST CROAK Northward, crow, Croak and fly, Though the sky Thunder No ! 14 A SUPPLICATION. O April, angel of our mortal joy, Consoler of our human griefs and fears, Bringer of sunshine to this old grey earth, Hear once again the prayer of thy lone child, Return, return ! Mother of solace in the soft spring rain, Restorer of sane health to wounded souls, Ah, tarry not thy coming to our doors, But soon with twilight and the robin's voice, Return. Behold, across the borders of the world, We wait thy reappearance with the flowers, Disconsolate, dispirited, forlorn, Our only childish and perpetual prayer, " Return, return ! " 15 APRIL WEATHER. Soon, ah, soon the April weather With the sunshine at the door, And the mellow melting rain-wind Sweeping from the South once more. Soon the rosy maples budding, And the willows putting forth, Misty crimson and soft yellow In the valleys of the North. Soon the hazy purple distance, Where the cabined heart takes wing, Eager for the old migration In the magic of the spring. 16 APRIL WEATHER Soon, ah, soon the budding windflowers Through the forest white and frail, And the odorous wild cherry Gleaming in her ghostly veil. Soon about the waking uplands The hepaticas in blue, — Children of the first warm sunlight In their sober Quaker hue, — All our shining little sisters Of the forest and the field, Lifting up their quiet faces With the secret half revealed. Soon across the folding twilight Of the round earth hushed to hear, The first robin at his vespers Calling far, serene and clear. 17 APRIL WEATHER Soon the waking and the summons, Starting sap in bole and blade, And the bubbling, marshy whisper Seeping up through bog and glade. Soon the frogs in silver chorus Through the night, from marsh and swale, Blowing in their tiny oboes All the joy that shall not fail, — Passing up the old earth rapture By a thousand streams and rills, From the red Virginian valleys To the blue Canadian hills. Soon, ah, soon the splendid impulse, Nomad longing, vagrant whim, When a man's false angels vanish And the truth comes back to him. 18 APRIL WEATHER Soon the majesty, the vision, And the old unfaltering dream, Faith to follow, strength to stablish, Will to venture and to seem ; All the radiance, the glamour, The expectancy and poise, Of this ancient life renewing Its temerities and joys. Soon the immemorial magic Of the young Aprilian moon, And the wonder of thy friendship In the twilight — soon, ah, soon ! »9 SPRING MAGIC. This morning soft and brooding In the warm April rain, The doors of sense are opened To set me free again. I pass into the colour And fragrance of the flowers, And melt with every bird-cry To haunt the mist-blue showers. I thrill in crimson quince-buds To raptures without name ; And in the yellow tulips Burn with a pure still flame. SPRING MAGIC I blend with the soft shadows Of the young maple leaves, And mingle in the rain-drops That shine along the eaves. I lapse among the grasses That green the river's brink ; And with the shy wood creatures Go down at need to drink. I fade in silver music, Whose fine unnumbered notes The frogs and rainy fifers Blow from their reedy throats. No glory is too splendid To house this soul of mine, No tenement too lowly To serve it for a shrine. SPRING MAGIC How is it we inherit This marvel of new birth, Sharing the ancient wonder And miracle of earth ? What wisdom, what enchantment, What magic of Green Fire, Could make the dust and water Obedient to desire ? Keep thou, by some large instinct, Unwasted, fair, and whole, The innocence of nature, The ardour of the soul ; And through the house of being Thou art at liberty To pass, enjoy, and linger, Inviolate and free. THE ENCHANTRESS. Have you not seen a witch to-day Go dancing through the misty woods, Her mad young beauty hid beneath A tattered gown of crimson buds ? She glinted through the alder swamp, And loitered by the willow stream, Then vanished down the wood-road dim, With bare brown throat and eyes a-dream. The wild white cherry is her flower, Her bird the flame-bright oriole ; She comes with freedom and with peace, And glad temerities of soul. 23 THE ENCHANTRESS Her lover is the great Blue Ghost, Who broods upon the world at noon, And wooes her wonder to his will At setting of the frail new moon. 24 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR. Vermilion and ashen and azure, Pigment of leaf and wing, What will the sorceress Ishtar Make out of colour and spring ? Of old was she not Aphrodite, She who is April still, Mistress of longing and beauty, The sea, and the Hollow Hill ? Ashtoreth, Tanis, Astarte — A thousand names she has borne, Since the first new moon's white magic Was laid on a world forlorn. 25 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR Odour of tulip and cherry, Scent of the apple blow, Tang of the wild arbutus — These to her crucible go. Honey of lilac and willow, The spoil of the plundering bees, Savour of sap from the maples — What will she do with these ? Oboe and flute in the forest, And pipe in the marshy ground, And the upland call of the flicker — What will she make of sound ? Start of the green in the meadow, Push of the seed in the mould, Burst of the bud into blossom — What will her cunning unfold ? 26 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR The waning belt of Orion, The crescent zone of the moon — What is the mystic transport We shall see accomplished soon ? The sun and the rain and the South wind, With all the treasure they bring — What will the sorceress Ishtar Make from the substance of spring ? She will gather the blue and the scarlet, The yellow and crimson dye, And weave them into a garment Of magical texture and ply. And whoso shall wear that habit And favour of the earth, He shall be lord of his spirit, The creatures shall know his worth. 27 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR She will gather the broken music, Fitting it chord by chord, Till the hearer shall learn the meaning, As a text that has been restored. She will gather the fragrance of lilacs, The scent of the cherry flower, And he who perceives it shall wonder, And know, and remember the hour. She will gather the moonlight and starshine, And breathe on them with desire, And they shall be changed on the moment To the marvel of earth's green fire, — The ardour that kindles and blights not, Consumes and does not destroy, Renewing the world with wonder, And the hearts of men with joy. 28 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR For this is the purpose of Ishtar, In her great lone house of the sky, Beholding the work of her hands As it shall be by and by : Out of the passion and splendour, Faith, failure and daring, to bring The illumined dream of the spirit To perfection in some far spring. Therefore, shall we not obey her, — Awake and be glad and aspire, — Wise with the ancient knowledge, Touched with the earthly fire ? In the spell of the wild enchantment The shy wood creatures know, Must we not also with Ishtar Unhindered arise and go ? 29 THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR Hearing the call and the summons, Heeding the hint and the sign, Rapt in the flush and the vision, Shall we demur or repine ? Dare you deny one impulse, Dare I one joy suppress ? Knowing the might and dominion, The lure and the loveliness, Delirium, glamour, bewitchment, Bidding earth blossom and sing, Shall we falter or fail to follow The voice of our mother in spring ? For Love shall be clothed with beauty, And walk through the world again, Hearing the haunted cadence Of an immortal strain ; 3° THE MADNESS OF ISHTAR Caring not whence he wandered, Fearing not whither he goes, Great with the fair new freedom That every earth-child knows ; Impetuous as the wood-wind, Ingenuous as a flower, Glad with the fulness of being, Born of the perfect hour ; Counting not cost nor issue, Weighing not end and aim, Sprung from the clay-built cabin To powers that have no name. And with all his soul and body He shall only seek one thing ; For that is the madness of Ishtar, Which comes upon earth in spring. 3i A CREATURE CATECHISM, i. Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the sea ? Lord, said a flying fish, Below the foundations of storm We feel the primal wish Of the earth take form. Through the dim green water-fire We see the red sun loom, And the quake of a new desire Takes hold on us down in the gloom. No more can the filmy drift Nor drafty currents buoy Our whim to its bent, nor lift Our heart to the height of its joy. 32 A CREATURE CATECHISM When sheering down to the Line Come polar tides from the North, Thy silver folk of the brine Must glimmer and forth. Down in the crumbling mill Grinding eternally, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the sea. II. Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the air ? Lord, said a butterfly, Out of a creeping thing, For days in the dust put by, The spread of a wing 33 A CREATURE CATECHISM Emerges with pulvil of gold On a tissue of green and blue, And there is thy purpose of old Unspoiled and fashioned anew. Ephemera, ravellings of sky And shreds of the Northern light, We age in a heart-beat and die Under the eaves of night. What if the small breath quail, Or cease at a touch of the frost ? Not a tremor of joy shall fail, Nor a pulse be lost. This fluttering life, never still, Survives to oblivion's despair. We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the air. 34 A CREATURE CATECHISM HI. Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the field? Lord, said a maple seed, Though well we are wrapped and bound, We are the first to give heed, When thy bugles give sound. We banner thy House of the Hills With green and vermilion and gold, When the floor of April thrills With the myriad stir of the mould, And her hosts for migration prepare. We too have the veined twin-wings, Vans for the journey of air. With the urge of a thousand springs 35 A CREATURE CATECHISM Pent for a germ in our side, We perish of joy, being dumb, That our race may be and abide For aeons to come. When rivulet answers to rill In snow-blue valleys unsealed, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the field. IV. Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the ground ? Lord, when the time is ripe, Said a frog through the quiet rain, We take up the silver pipe For the pageant again. 36 A CREATURE CATECHISM When the melting wind of the South Is over meadow and pond, We draw the breath of thy mouth, Reviving the ancient bond. Then must we fife and declare The unquenchable joy of earth, — Testify hearts still dare, Signalise beauty's worth. Then must we rouse and blow On the magic reed once more, Till the glad earth-children know Not a thing to deplore. When rises the marshy trill To the soft spring night's profound, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the ground. 37 A CREATURE CATECHISM V. Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the earth ? Lord, said an artist born, We leave the city behind For the hills of open morn, For fear of our kind. Our brother they nailed to a tree For sedition ; they bully and curse All those whom love makes free. Yet the very winds disperse Rapture of birds and brooks, Colours of sea and cloud, — Beauty not learned of books, Truth that is never loud. 38 A CREATURE CATECHISM We model our joy into clay, Or help it with line and hue, Or hark for its breath in stray Wild chords and new. For to-morrow can only fulfil Dreams which to-day have birth ; We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the earth. 39 SURSUM CORD A. i. The wind on the sea, The breath of God over the face of the deep, Whispers a word The tribes of his watery dominion rejoice having heard. To-day through the vaultless chambers Of the sea, below the range Of light's great beam to fathom, Soundless, unsearched of change, There passed more vague than a shadow Which is, then is no more, The aura and draft of being, Like a breath through an open door. 40 SURSUM CORDA The myriad fins are moving, The marvellous flanges play ; Herring and shad and menhaden, They stir and awake and away. Ungava, Penobscot, Potomac, Key Largo and Fundy side, The droves of the frail sea people Are arun in the vernal tide. The old sea hunger to herd them, The old spring fever to drive, Within them the thrust of an impulse To wander and joy and thrive ; Below them the lift of the sea-kale, Before them the fate that shall be ; As it was when the first white summer Drew the fog from the face of the sea. 4i SURSUM CORDA II. The wind on the hi//s y The breath of God over the tops of the trees y Whispers a word The tribes of his airy dominion rejoice having heard. Last night we saw the curtain Of the red aurora wave, Through the ungirdered heaven Built without joist or trave, Fleeting from silence to silence, As a mirror is stained by a breath, — The only sign from the Titan Sleeping in frosty death. 42 SURSUM CORD A Yet over the world this morning The old wise trick has been done ; Our legions of rovers and singers, Arrived and saluting the sun. The myriad wings atremble, The marvellous throats astrain, Come the airy migrant people In the wake of the purple rain. One joy that needs no bidding, One will that does not quail ; The whitethroat up from the barren, The starling down in the swale ; The honk and clamour of wild geese, The call of the goldenwing ; From valley to lonely valley, The long exultation of spring. 43 SURSUM CORDA III. The wind on the fields, The breath of God over the face of the ground, Whispers a word The tribes of his leafy dominion rejoice having heard. Crimson of Indian willow, Orange of maple plume, As a web of endless pattern Falls from a soundless loom, The wide green marvel of summer Breaks from catkin and sheath, So silently only a spirit Could guess at the spirit beneath. 44 SURSUM CORDA For these are the moveless people, Who only abide and endure, Yet no less feel their heart beat To the lift of the wild spring lure. These are the keepers of silence, Who only adore and are dumb, With faith's own look of expecting The bidding they know will come. The revel of leaves is beginning, The riot of sap is astir ; Dogwood and peach and magnolia Have errands they will not defer. In the long sweet breath of the rainwind, In the warm, sweet hours of sun, They arise at the Sursum corda, A thousand uplifted as one. 45 SURSUM CORDA IV. The wind in the street, The breath of God over the roofs of the town, tVhispers a word The tribes of the Wandering Shadow rejoice having heard. The tribes of the Wandering Shadow ! Ah, gypsying spirit of man, What tent hast thou, what solace, Since the nomad life began ? Forever, wherever the springtime Halts by the open door, The heart-sick are healed in the sunshine, The sorry are sad no more. 46 SURSUM CORDA Something brighter than morning Washes the windowpane ; Something wiser than knowledge Sits by the hearth again. Within him the sweet disquiet, Before him the old dismay, When the hand of Beauty beckons The wayfarer must away. " A brother to him who needs me, A son to her who needs; Modest and free and gentle ; " This is his creed of creeds. To-night when the belt of Orion Hangs in the linden bough, The girl will meet her lover Where the quince is crimson now. 47 SURSUM CORDA For the sun of a thousand winters Will stop his pendulous swing, Ere man be a misbeliever In the scarlet legend of spring. 48 THE WORD IN THE BE- GINNING. In principio erat verbum. PRELUDE. 1 This is the sound of the Word From the waters of sleep, The rain-soft voice that was heard On the face of the deep, When the fog was drawn back like a veil, and the sentinel tides Were given their thresholds to keep. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Go far ! " 1 Reprinted from Last Songs from Vagabondia with the courteous permission of Small, Maynard & Co. 49 T HE WORD IN T H E H BO I N N I NO Ami the silvery sea-folk heard, Where their word (ruts are, From the long slow lift of the blue through the Cai ib keys, I o the thresh on Sable bai . This is the Won! that went by, ( )vei sun-land and swale, I'lu- long Aprilian cry, Clear, joyous, and hale, Whin the summons went forth to the wild shv broods of the air, To bid them once more to the trail. The South Wind said, "Come forth," And the West Wind said, M Be swift ! " The fluttering sky-folk heard, And the warm dark thrift 5° i ii E vv o R I) in T ii B BE 01 N N I N <• Of the nomad Mood revived, and they gathered i., i flight, By Column and pair and drift. Thl8 is the sound ol the Word Prom bud sheath and blade, When the ueds and the grasses conferred, And a gold beam was laid At the taciturn doors ol" the forest, where tar- i led the sun, I'oi a sign they should not he dismayed. The South Wind said, "Come forth," And the West Wind said, « Be glad ! " The abiding WOOd-folk heard, In (heir new green id. id, Sanguine, mist-silver, ami rose, while the sap in (hen veins Welled up as ot old all unsad. 5» THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING This is the Word that flew Over snow-marsh and glen, When the frost-bound slumberers knew, In tree-trunk and den, Their bidding had come, they questioned not whence nor why, — They reckoned not whither nor when. The South Wind said, « Come forth," And the West Wind said, u Be wise ! " The wintering ground-folk heard, Put the dark from their eyes, Put the sloth from sinew and thew, to wander and dare, — For ever the old surmise ! This is the Word that came To the spirit of Man, 52 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING And shook his soul like a flame In the breath of a fan, Till it burned as a light in his eyes, as a colour that grew And prospered under the tan. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Be free ! " Then he rose and put on the new garb, And knew he should be The master of knowledge and joy, though sprung from the tribes Of the earth and the air and the sea. S3 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING THE WORD TO THE WATER PEOPLE. Who hath uttered the formless whisper, The rumour afloat on the tide, The need that speaks in the heart, The craving that will not bide ? For the word without shape is abroad, The vernal portent of change ; And from winter grounds, empty to-morrow, The fin-folk will gather and range. It runs in the purple currents, Swaying the idle weed ; It creeps by the walls of coral, Where the keels of the ebb recede ; 54 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING It calls in the surf above us, In thunder of reef and key, And where the green day filters Through soundless furlongs of sea. It moves where the moving sea-fans Shadow the white sea-floor ; It stirs where the dredging sand-runs Furrow and trench and score. In channel and cave it finds us, In the curve of the Windward Isles, In the sway of the heaving currents, In the run of the long sea-miles, In the green Floridian shallows, By marshes hot and rank, And below the reach of soundings Off the Great Bahaman Bank. 55 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING The tribes of the water people, Scarlet and yellow and blue, Are awake, for the old sea-magic Is on them to rove anew. They will ride in the great sea-rivers, And feed in the warm land streams, By cliffs where the gulls are nesting, By capes where the blue berg gleams. The fleet and shining thousands Will follow the trackless lead Of the bidding that rises in them, The old ancestral need. Will they mistrust or falter, Question or turn or veer ? Will they put off their harness of colour, Or their gaudy hues ungear ? 56 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING Eager, unwasted, undaunted, They go and they go. They have heard The lift of the faint strong summons, The lure of the watery word. ii. the word to the people of the air. Who hath uttered the wondrous hearsay, The rumour abroad on the air, The tribal journey summons, The signal to flock and fare ? Who hath talked to the shy bird-people, And counselled the feathered breast To follow the sagging rain-wind Over the purple crest ? 57 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING O tribes of the silver whistle, And folk of the azure wing, Who hath revived in a night The magic tradition of spring ? By shores of the low Gulf Islands, Where the steaming lands emerge, By reefs of the Dry Tortugas, Drenched by the crumbling surge, From the hot and drowsy shallows Of the silent Everglades, From creamy coral beaches In the breath of the Northeast Trades, We have heard, without note or warble, Ouaver or chirp or trill, The far and soft-blown tidings Summon from hill to hill. 58 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING Up from the blue horizon, By canyon and ridge and plain, Where ride in misty columns 'The spearmen of the rain, The broods of the light air-people Will bevy and team and throng, To fill the April valleys With gurgle and lisp and song. They know where the new green leafage Spreads like the sweep of day, Over the low Laurentians And up through the Kootenay. They know where the nests are waiting, And the icy ponds are thawed, For the stir and the sight are on them, Moving the legions abroad. 59 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING The oriole under Monadnoc Will cast his golden spells ; In deep Ontarian meadows The reed-bird will loose his bells ; The thrushes will flute over Grand Pre, The quail by the Manomet shore, The wild drake feed in the bogan, The swallow come back to the door. Tanager, robin, and sparrow, Grosbeak, warbler and wren, The children of gladness gather In clearing and grove and fen For the bright primeval summer, In their slumbering heart having heard A strain of the great Resurgam, A call of the airy word. 60 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING III. THE WORD TO PEOPLE OF THE WOOD Who hath uttered the leafy whisper, The rumour that stirs the bough, That mounts with the sap, and flushes The buds with beauty now ? None hath report of the message, No single authentic word ; Yet the tribes of the wood are stirring At the tidings they have heard. To-day will the pear-trees blossom And the yellow jasmine vines, Where the soft Gulf winds are surfing In the dreamy Georgian pines. 61 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING To-morrow the peach and the redbud Will join in the woodland pomp, Floating their crimson banners By smoky ridge and swamp ; And the gleaming white magnolias, In many a city square, Will unfold in the heavenly leisure Of the kindly Southern air. Next day over grey New England The magic of spring will go, Touching her marshes with yellow, Her hills with a purple glow. Then the maple buds will break In an orange mist once more, Through lone Canadian valleys, From Baranov to Bras d'Or. 62 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING And where the snowdrifts vanish From the floor of their piney home, Hepatica and arbutus, The shy wood-children, will come. The elms on the meadow islands Will shadow the rustling sedge, The orchards reveal the glory Of earth by dike and ledge ; The birch will unsheathe her tassels, The willow her silver plume, When the green hosts encamp By lake and river and flume. For the tides of joy are running North with the sap and the sun, And the tribes of the wood are arrayed In their splendour one by one. 63 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING Not one unprepared nor reluctant, With ardour unspent they have heard A note of the woodland music, A breath of the wilding word. IV. THE WORD TO THE PEOPLE OF THE GROUND. Who hath uttered the faint earth-whisper, The rumour that spreads over ground, The sign that is hardly a signal, The sense that is scarcely sound ? Yet listen, the earth is awake, The magic of April is here ; The all but unobserved signal Is answered from far and near. 64 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING Go forth in the morning and listen, For the coming of life is good ; The lapsing of ice in the rivers, The lisping of snow in the wood, The murmur of streams in the mountains, The babble of brooks in the hills, And the sap of gladness running To waste from a thousand stills. Go forth in the noonday and listen ; A soft multitudinous stir Betrays the new life that is moving In the houses of oak and fir. A red squirrel chirps in the balsam ; A fox barks down in the clove j The bear comes out of his tree-bole To sun himself, rummage and rove. 65 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING In the depth of his wilderness fastness The beaver comes forth from his mound, And the tiny creatures awake From their long winter sleep under ground. Go forth in the twilight and listen To that music fine and thin, When the myriad marshy pipers Of the April night begin. Through reed-bed and swamp and shallow The heart of the earth grows bold, And the spheres in their golden singing Are answered on flutes of gold. One by one, down in the meadow, Or up by the river shore, The frail green throats are unstopped, And inflated with joy once more. 66 THE WORD IN THE BEGINNING O heart, canst thou hear and hearken, Yet never an answer bring, When thy brothers, the frogs in the valley, Go mad with the burden of spring ? So the old ardours of April Revive in her creatures to-day — The knowledge that does not falter, The longing that will not stay, And the love that abides. Undoubting, In the deeps of their ken they have heard The ancient unwritten decretal, The lift of the buoyant word. 07 FROM AN OLD RITUAL. O dwellers in the dust, arise, My little brothers of the field, And put the sleep out of your eyes ! Your death-doom is repealed. Lift all your golden faces now, You dandelions in the ground ! You quince and thorn and apple bough, Your foreheads are unbound. O dwellers in the frost, awake, My little brothers of the mould! It is the time to forth and slake Your being as of old. 68 FROM AN OLD RITUAL You frogs and newts and creatures small In the pervading urge of spring, Who taught you in the dreary fall To guess so glad a thing ? From every swale your watery notes, Piercing the rainy cedar lands, Proclaim your tiny silver throats Are loosened of their bands. O dwellers in the desperate dark, My brothers of the mortal birth, Is there no whisper bids you mark The Easter of the earth ? Let the great flood of spring's return Float every fear away, and know We are all fellows of the fern And children of the snow. 69 FELLOW TRAVELLERS. Green are the buds of the snowball, And green are the little birds That come to fill my branches Full of their gentle words. What is it, tiny brothers ? What are you trying to say Over and over and over, In your broken-hearted way ? Have you, too, darkling rumours In your sweet vagrancy, — News of a vast encounter Of storm and night and sea ? 70 THE FIELD BY THE SEA. On a grey day by the sea, I looked from the window and saw The beautiful companies of the daisies bow And toss in the gusty flaw. For the wind was in from sea ; The heavy scuds ran low ; And all the makers of holiday were abashed, Caught in the easterly blow. My heart, too, is a field, Peopled with shining forms, Beautiful as the companies of the grass, And herded by swift grey storms. 7i THE FIELD BY THE SEA A thousand shapes of joy, Sunlit and fair and wild, — All the bright dreams that make the heart of a man As the heart of a little child, — They dance to the rune of the world, The star-trodden ageless rune, Glad as the wind-blown multitudes of the grass, White as the daisies in June. But over them, ah, what storms, — In from the unknown sea, The uncharted and ever-sounding desolate main We have called Eternity ! They shudder and quake and are torn, As the stormy moods race by. And then in the teeth of remorse, the tempes- tuous lull, Once more the hardy cry : 72 THE FIELD BY THE SEA u Fear not, little folk of my heart, Nor let the great hope in you fail ! Being children of light, ye are made as the flowers of the grass, To endure and survive and prevail." 73 THE DANCERS OF THE FIELD. The wind went combing through the grass, The tall white daisies rocked and bowed ; Such ecstasy as never was Possessed the shining multitude. They turned their faces to the sun, And danced the radiant morn away ; Of all his brave eye looked upon, His daughters of delight were they. And when the round and yellow moon, Like a pale petal of the dusk Blown loose above the sea-rim shone, They gave me no more need to ask 74 THE DANCERS OF THE FIELD How immortality is named ; For I remembered like a dream How ages since mv spirit flamed To wear their guise and dance with them. 75 THE BREATH OF THE REED. / heard the rushes in the twilight, I overheard them at the dusk of day. Make me thy priest, O Mother, And prophet of thy mood, With ail the forest wonder Enraptured and imbued. Be mine but to interpret, Follow nor misemploy, The doubtful books of silence, The alphabet of joy. A pipe beneath thy fingers, Blown by thy lips in spring With the old madness, urging Shy foot and furtive wing, 76 THE BREATH OF THE REED A reed wherein the life-note Is fluted clear and high, Immortal and unmeasured, — No more than this am I. Delirious and plangent, I quiver to thy breath ; Thy fingers keep the notches From discord and from death. Unfaltering, unflagging, Comes the long, wild refrain, With ardours of the April In woodnotes of the rain. Be mine the merest inkling Of what the shore larks mean, And what the gulls are crying The wind whereon they lean. 77 THE BREATH OF THE REED Teach me to close the cadence Of one brown forest bird, Who opens so supremely, Then falters for thy word. One hermit thrush entrancing The solitude with sound, — Give me the golden gladness Of music so profound. So leisurely and orbic, Serene and undismayed, He runs the measure over, Perfection still delayed. No hurry nor annoyance ; Enough for him, to try The large few notes of prelude Which put completion by. 78 THE BREATH OF THE REED In ages long hereafter His heritor may learn What meant those pregnant pauses, And that unfinished turn. So one shall read thy world-runes To find them all one day Parts of a single motive, Scored in an ancient way. Till then, be mine to master One phrase in all that strain, — The dominance of beauty, The transiency of pain, As swayed by tides of dreaming, Or bowed by gusts of thought, A reed within the river, I waver and am naught. 79 POPPIES. I who walk among the poppies In the burning hour of noon, Brother to their scarlet beauty, Feel their fervour and their swoon. In this little wayside garden, Under the sheer tent of blue, The dark kindred in forgetting, We are of one dust and dew. They, the summer-loving gipsies, Who frequent the Northern year; From an older land than Egypt, I, too, but a nomad here. 80 POPPIES All day long the purple mountains, Those mysterious conjurors, Send, in silent premonition, Their still shadows by our doors. And we listen through the silence For a far-off sound, which seems Like the long reverberant echo Of a sea-shell blown in dreams. Is it the foreboded summons From the fabled Towers of Sleep, Bidding home the wandered children From the shore of the great deep ? All day long the sun-filled valley, Teeming with its ghostly thought, Glad in the mere lapse of being, Muses and is not distraught. 81 POPPIES Then suffused with earth's contentment, The slow patience of the sun, As our heads are bowed to slumber In the shadows one by one, Sweet and passionless, the starlight Talks to us of things to be ; And we stir a little, shaken In the cool breath of the sea. 82 COMPENSATION. Not a word from the poplar-tree here on the hill ? Not a word from the stream in the bight of the clove ? Not a word from trail, clearing, or forest, to tell Their brother returned, how all winter they throve ? The old mountain ledges lay purple in June ; The green mountain walls arose hazy and dark ; I saw, heard, and loved all their beauty anew, But the soul in my body lay deaf, blind, and stark. " O, Mother Natura, whom most with full heart, Boy, stripling, and man, I have loved, dost thou leave 83 COMPENSATION Unanswered thy suppliant, troubled thy son, — To longing no respite, to doom no reprieve ? " Days, weeks, and months passed. Not a whis- per outbroke, Not a word to be caught, not a hint to be had, By the soul from the world there, all leisure and sun In perfection of summer, warm, waiting, and glad! The rosebreasted grosbeak his triumph pro- claimed ; The veery his wildest enchantment renewed ; And yet the old ardours not once were relit, Nor the heart as of old with wild magic imbued. Until on an evening unlooked for, " O Son," — Said the stream in the clove, spoke the wind on the hill ? 84 COMPENSATION Did a bird in his sleep find the lost ancient tongue, Universal and clear, with the shadowy thrill Mere language has never yet uttered ? — " O Son, Was thy heart cold with doubt, hesitation, dismay, Or hot with resentment, because, as it seemed, For awhile it must journey alone and away ? " All winter the torrent must sleep under snow ; All winter ash, poplar, and beech must endure ; All winter thy rapturous brothers, the birds, Must be silent. Are they, then, downcast or unsure ? " Nay, I but give them their seasons and times, Their moments of joy and their measure of rest j 35 COMPENSATION They keep the great rhythm of life's come and The unwearied repose, the unhurrying zest. w With April I lifted them, bade longings be ; With June I have plenished their heart to the brim. Will they question when over the world I have spread The scarlet of autumn with frost at the rim ? " Behold, while vexation was filling thy days, Thy deeper self, resting unmindful of harms, (With who knows what dreams of the splendid and true To be compassed at length !) lay asleep in my arms." 36 COMPENSATION The moonlight, mysterious, stately, and blue, Lay out on the great mountain wall, deep and still ; Far below the stream talked to itself in the clove ; The poplar-tree talked to itself on the hill. 87 THE SPELL. I hung a string of verses Against my cabin wall. What think you was the fortune They prayed might me befall ? Not fame nor health nor riches To tarry at my door, But that my vanished sweetheart Might visit me once more. Out of the moted day-dream Among the boding firs, They prayed she might remember The lover that was hers. 88 THE SPELL They prayed the gates of silence A moment might unclose, The hour before the hill-crest Is flushed with solemn rose. prayers of mortal longing, What latch can ye undo ? What comrade once departed Ever returned for you ? All day with tranquil spirit 1 kept my cabin door, In wonder at the beauties I had not seen before. I slept the dreamless slumber Of happiness again ; And when I woke, the thrushes Were singing in the rain. A FOREST SHRINE. When you hear that mellow whistle In the beeches unespied, Footfall soft as down of thistle Turn aside ! That's our golden hermit singer In his leafy house and dim, Where God's utterances linger Yet for him. Built out of the firmamental Shafts of rain and beams of sun, Norse and Greek and Oriental Here are one. 90 A FOREST SHRINE Gothic oak and Latin laurel Here but sentry that wild gush Of wood-music with their aural Calm and hush. From those hanging airy arches Soars the azure roof of June, While among the feathery larches Hangs the moon. Through that unfrequented portal, When the twilight winds are low, Messengers of things immortal Come and go ; Whispers of a rumour hidden From slow reason, and revealed To the child of beauty bidden Far afield ; 9i A FOREST SHRINE Hints of rapture rare and splendid Furnished to the heart of man, As if, where mind's journey ended, Soul's began ; As if, when we sighed, " No farther ! Here our knowledge pales and thins ; " One had answered us, " Say rather, 4 Here begins.' " Argue me, " There is no gateway In this great wall we explore," Till there comes a bird-note ; straight- way, There's the door ! Enter here, thou beauty-lover, The domain where soul resides ; Ingress thought could not discover, Sense provides. 92 A FOREST SHRINE Ponder long and build at leisure, Architect ; yet canst thou rear Such a house for such a treasure As is here ? Leader of the woods and brasses, Master of the winds and strings, Hast thou music that surpasses His who sings ? You who lay cold prooPs embargos On all wonder-working, tell Whence those fine reverberant largos Sink and swell ! Hark, that note of limpid glory Melts into the old earth-strain, And begins the woodland story Once again. 93 A FOREST SHRINE Hark that transport of contentment Blown into a mellow reed, Wild, yet tranquil — soul's preventment Of soul's need. There the master voluntaries On his pipe of greenish gold j The wise theme whereon he varies, Never old. What do we with those who grieve them O'er the fevers of the mind ? Beauty's follower will leave them Far behind. As the wind among the rushes, Were it not enough to know The sure joyance of the thrushes ? Even so. 94 AMONG THE ASPENS. THE LOST WORD. The word of the wind to the aspens I listened all day to hear; But over the hill or down in the swale He vanished as I drew near. I asked of the quaking shadows, I questioned the shy green bird ; But the falling river bore away The secret I would have heard. Then I turned to my forest cabin In a clove of the Kaaterskill ; And at dead of night, when the fire was low, The whisper came to my sill. 95 AMONG THE ASPENS Now I know there will haunt me ever That word of the ancient tongue, Whose golden meaning, half divined, Was lost when the world was young. I know I must seek and seek it, Through the wide green earth and round, Though I come in ignorance at last To the place of the Grassy Mound. Yet it may be I shall find it, If I keep the patience mild, The pliant faith, the eager mind, And the heart of a little child. 96 AMONG THE ASPENS II. LEAF TO LEAF. You know how aspens whisper Without a breath of air ! I overheard one lisper Yesterday declare, " When all the woods are sappy And the sweet winds arrive, My dancing leaves are happy Just to be alive." And presently another, With that laconic stir We take to be each other 5 Spoke and answered her, 97 AMONG THE ASPENS " When the great frosts shall splinter Our brothers oak and pine, In the long night of winter Glad fortitude be thine ! " And where the quiet river Runs by the quiet hill, I heard the aspens shiver, Though all the air was still. in. THE PASSER BY. Said Aspen Heart to Ouaking Leaf, " Who goes by on the hill, That you should tremble at dead of noon When the whole earth is still ? " 98 AMONG THE ASPENS Said Quaking Leaf to Aspen Heart, " A loneliness drew nigh, And fear was on us, when we heard The mountain rain go by." Said Aspen Heart to Quaking Leaf, " Who went by on the hill ? The rain was but your old grey nurse Crossing the granite sill." Said Quaking Leaf to Aspen Heart, " There was a ghostly sigh, And frosty hands were laid on us, As the lone fog went by." Said Aspen Heart to Quaking Leaf, " But who went by on the hill ? The white fogs were your playfellows, And your companions still." 99 AMONG THE ASPENS Said Quaking Leaf to Aspen Heart, " We shook, I know not why, Huddled together when we saw A passing soul go by." IV. THE (QUESTION. I wondered who Kept pace with me, as I wandered through The mountain gorges blue. I said to the aspen leaves, The timorous garrulous tribe of the forest folk, II Who people the wilderness, When the wind is away, And sparrow and jay Keep silence of noon on a summer day ? " AMONG THE ASPENS And the leaves replied, "You must question our brother the rain of the mountain-side." Then I said to the rain, The fleeing silvery multitudes of the rain, " Who people the wilderness, When the noon is still, And valley and hill Feel their pulses slow to the summer's will ? " And the rain replied, " You must ask our brother the fog on the outward tide." Then I said to the fog, The ancient taciturn companies of the sea-mist, " Who people the loneliness When your hordes emerge AMONG THE ASPENS On the grey sea verge, And the wind begins his wailing dirge ? " And the fog replied, " Inquire of that inquisitor at your side." Then I asked myself. But he knew, If report of sense be true, No more than you. v. A SENTRY. All summer my companion Was a white aspen-tree, Far up the sheer blue canyon, A glad door-ward for me. AMONG THE ASPENS There at the cabin entry, Where beauty went and came, Abode that quiet sentry, Who knew the winds by name. And when to that lone portal, All the clear starlight through, Came news of things immortal No mortal ever knew, That vigilant un weary Kept solitary post, And heard the woodpipes eery Of a fantastic host, Play down the wind in sadness, Play up the wind in glee, — The ancient lyric madness, The joy that is to be. AMONG THE ASPENS They passed ; the music ended ; And through those rustling leaves The morning sun descended, With peace about my eaves. 104 THE GREEN DANCERS. When the Green Dance of summer Goes up the mountain clove, There is another dancer Who follows it for love. To the sound of falling water, Processional and slow The children of the forest With waving branches go ; And to the wilding music Of winds that loiter by, By trail, ravine and stream-bed, Troop up against the sky. 105 THE GREEN DANCERS The bending yellow birches, The beeches cool and tall, Slim ash and flowering locust, My gipsy knows them all. And light of foot she follows, And light of heart gives heed, Where in the blue-green chasm The wraiths of mist are freed. For when the young winged maples Hang out their rosy pods, She knows it is a message From the primeval gods. When tanager and cherry Show scarlet in the sun, She slips her careworn habit To put their gladness on. 1 06 THE GREEN DANCERS And where the chestnuts flower Along the mountain-side, She, too, assumes the vesture And beauty of their pride. She hears the freshening music That ushers in their day, When from the hemlock shadows The silver thrushes play. When the blue moth at noonday Lies breathing with his wings, She knows what piercing woodnote Across the silence rings. And when the winds of twilight Flute up the ides of June, Where Kaaterskill goes plainward Under a virgin moon, 107 THE GREEN DANCERS My wild mysterious spirit For joy cannot be still, But with the woodland dancers Must worship as they will. From rocky ledge to summit Where lead the dark-tressed firs, Under the open starshine Their festival is hers. She sees the moonlit laurel Spread through the misty gloom (The soul of the wild forest Veiled in a mesh of bloom). Then to the lulling murmur Of leaves she, too, will rest, Curtained by northern streamers Upon some dark hill-crest. 108 THE GREEN DANCERS And still, in glad procession And solemn bright array, A dance of gold-green shadows About her sleep will play ; Her signal from the frontier, There is no bar nor toll Nor dearth of joy forever To stay the gipsy soul. 109 THE WIND AT THE DOOR. Often to my open door Comes a twilight visitor. When the mountain summer day From our valley takes his way, And the journeying shadows stride Over the green mountain-side, Down the clove among the trees Moves the ghostly wandering breeze. With the first stars on the crest And the pale light in the west, THE WIND AT THE DOOR He comes up the dark ravine Where no traveller is seen. Yet his coming makes a stir In the house of Ash and Fir : " Master, is't in our abode You will tarry on the road ? " " Nay, I like your roof-tree well, But with you I may not dwell." Birches whisper at their sill, As he passes up the hill : u Stranger, underneath our boughs There is ample room to house." " Friends, I have another quest Than your cool abiding rest." THE WIND AT THE DOOR And the fluttering Aspen knows Whose step by her doorway goes : " Honour, Lord, thy silver tree And the chamber laid for thee." " Nay, I must be faring on, For to-night I seek my own. " Breath of the red dust is he And a wayfarer like me ; " Here a moment and then lost On a trail confused and crossed. " And I gently would surprise Recognition in his eyes ; " Touch his hand and talk with him When the forest light is dim, THE WIND AT THE DOOR " Taking counsel with the lord Of the utterable word." Hark, did you hear some one try The west window furtively, And then move among the leaves In the shadow of the eaves ? The reed curtain at the door Rustled ; there's my visitor Who comes searching for his kin. " Enter, brother j I'm within." "3 AT THE YELLOW OF THE LEAF. The falling leaf is at the door ; The autumn wind is on the hill ; Footsteps I have heard before Loiter at my cabin sill. Full of crimson and of gold Is the morning in the leaves ; And a stillness pure and cold Hangs about the frosty eaves. The mysterious autumn haze Steals across the blue ravine, Like an Indian ghost that strays Through his olden lost demesne. 114 AT THE YELLOW OF THE LEAF Now the goldenrod invades Every clearing in the hills ; The dry glow of August fades, And the lonely cricket shrills. Yes, by every trace and sign The good roving days are here. Mountain peak and river line Float the scarlet of the year. Lovelier than ever now Is the world I love so well. Running water, waving bough, And the bright wind's magic spell Rouse the taint of migrant blood With the fever of the road, — Impulse older than the flood Lurking in its last abode. "5 AT THE YELLOW OF THE LEAF Did I once pursue your way, Little brothers of the air, Following the vernal ray ? Did I learn my roving there ? Was it on your long spring rides, Little brothers of the sea, In the dim and peopled tides, That I learned this vagrancy ? Now the yellow of the leaf Bids away by hill and plain, I shall say good-bye to grief, Wayfellow with joy again. The glamour of the open door Is on me, and I would be gone, — Speak with truth or speak no more, House with beauty or with none. 116 AT THE YELLOW OF THE LEAF Great and splendid, near and far, Lies the province of desire ; Love the only silver star Its discoverers require. I shall lack nor tent nor food, Nor companion in the way, For the kindly solitude Will provide for me to-day. Few enough have been my needs ; Fewer now they are to be ; Where the faintest follow leads, There is heart's content for me. Leave the bread upon the board ; Leave the book beside the chair j With the murmur of the ford, Light of spirit I shall fare. 117 AT THE YELLOW OF THE LEAF Leave the latch-string in the door, And the pile of logs to burn ; Others may be here before I have leisure to return. uS THE SILENT WAYFELLOW To-day when the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me ! Here where the old blue rocks Bask in the forest shine, Dappled with shade and lost In their reverie divine. How goodly and sage they are ! Priests of the taciturn smile Rebuking our babble and haste, Yet loving us all the while. "9 THE SILENT WAYFELLOW In the asters the wild gold bees Make a warm busy drone, Where our Mother at Autumn's door Sits warming her through to the bone. The filmy gossamer threads Are hung from the black fir bough, Changing from purple to green — The half-shut eye knows how. What is your afterthought When a red leaf rustles down, Or the chickadees from the hush Challenge a brief renown ? When silence falls again Asleep on hillside and crest, Resuming her ancient mood, Do you still say, " Life is best ? " 120 THE SILENT WAYFELLOW Was this reticence of yours By the terms of being imposed ? One would say that you dwelt With shutters always closed. We have been friends so long, And yet not a single word Of yourself, your kith or kin Or home, have I ever heard. Nightly we sup and part, Daily you come to my door ; Strange we should be such mates, Yet never have talked before. A cousin to downy-feather, And brother to shining-fin, Am I, of the breed of earth, And yet of an alien kin, THE SILENT WAYFELLOW Made from the dust of the road And a measure of silver rain, To follow you brave and glad, Unmindful of plaudit or pain. Dear to the mighty heart, Born of her finest mood, Great with the impulse of joy, With the rapture of life imbued, Radiant moments are yours, Glimmerings over the verge Of a country where one day Our forest trail shall emerge. When the road winds under a ledge, You keep the trudging pace, Till it mounts a shoulder of hill To the open sun and space. THE SILENT WAYFELLOW Ah, then you dance and go, Illumined spirit again, Child of the foreign tongue And the dark wilding strain ! In these October days Have you glimpses hid from me Of old-time splendid state In a kingdom by the sea ? Is it for that you smile, Indifferent to fate and fame, Enduring this nomad life Contented without a name ? Through the long winter dark, When slumber is at my sill, Will you leave me dreamfast there, For your journey over the hill ? 123 THE SILENT WAYFELLOW To-night when the forest trees Gleam in the frosty air, And over the roofs of men Stillness is everywhere, By the cold hunter's moon What trail will you take alone, Through the white realms of sleep To your native land unknown ? Here while the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me. 124 PICTOR IGNOTUS. He is a silent second self Who travels with me in the road ; I share his lean-to in the hills, He shares my modest town abode. Under the roof-tree of the world We keep the gipsy calendar, As the revolving seasons rise Above the tree-tops, star by star. We watch the arctic days burn down Upon the hearthstone of the sun, And on the frozen river floors The whispering snows awake and run. 125 PICTOR IGNOTUS Then in the still, portentous cold Of a blue twilight, deep and large, We see the northern bonfires lit Along the world's abysmal marge. He watches, with a love untired, The white sea-combers race to shore Below the mossers' purple huts, When April goes from door to door. He haunts the mountain trails that wind To sudden outlooks from grey crags, When marches up the blue ravine September with her crimson flags. The wonder of an ancient awe Takes hold upon him when he sees In the cold autumn dusk arise Orion and the Pleiades ; 126 PICTOR IGNOTUS Or when along the southern rim Of the mysterious summer night He marks, above the sleeping world, Antares with his scarlet light. The creamy shadow -fretted streets Of some small Caribbean town, Where through the soft wash of the trades The brassy tropic moon looks down ; The palm-trees whispering to the blue That surfs along the coral key ; The brilliant shining droves that fleet Through the bright gardens of the sea. The crimson-boled Floridian pines Glaring in sunset, where they stand Lifting their sparse, monotonous lines Out of the pink and purple sand ; 127 PICTOR IGNOTUS The racing Fundy tides that brim The level dikes ; the orchards there ; And the slow cattle moving through That marvellous Acadian air; The city of the flowery squares, With the Potomac by her door ; The monument that takes the light Of evening by the river shore ; The city of the Gothic arch, That overlooks a wide green plain From her grey churches, and beholds The silver ribbon of the Seine ; The Indian in his birch canoe, The flower-seller in Cheapside ; Wherever in the wide round world The Likeness and the Word abide ; 128 PICTOR IGNOTUS He scans and ioves the human book, With that reserved and tranquil eye That watched among the autumn hills The golden leisured pomp go by. What wonder, since with lavish hand Kind earth has given him her all Of love and beauty, he should be A smiling, thriftless prodigal ! 129 EPHEMERON. Ah, brother, it is bitter cold in here This time of year ! December is a sorry month indeed For your frail August breed. I find you numb this morning on the pane, Searching in vain A little warmth to thaw those airy vans, Arrested in their plans. I breathe on you ; and lo, with lurking might Those members slight Revive and stir; the little human breath Dissolves their frosty death, 130 EPHEMERON You trim those quick antennae as of old, Forget the cold, And spread those stiffened sails once more to dare The elemental air. Does that thin deep, unmarinered and blue, Come back to you, Dreaming of ports whose bearing you have lost, Where cruised no pirate frost ? Ah, shipmate, there'll be two of us some night, In ghostly plight, In cheerless latitudes beyond renown, When the long frost shuts down. What if that day, in unexpected guise, Strong, kind, and wise, Above me should the great Befriender bow, As I above you now, — EPHEMERON Reset the ruined time-lock of the heart, And bid it start, And every frost-bound joint and valve restore To supple play once more ! 132 THE HERETIC. One day as I sat and suffered A long discourse upon sin, At the door of my heart I listened, And heard this speech within. One whisper of the Holy Ghost Outweighs for me a thousand tomes ; And I must heed that private word, Not Plato's, Swedenborg's, nor Rome's. The voice of beauty and of power Which came to the beloved John, In age upon his lonely isle, That voice I will obey, or none. nz THE HERETIC Let not tradition fill my ears With prate of evil and of good, Nor superstition cloak my sight Of beauty with a bigot's hood. Give me the freedom of the earth, The leisure of the light and air, That this enduring soul some part Of their serenity may share ! The word that lifts the purple shaft Of crocus and of hyacinth Is more to me than platitudes Rethundering from groin and plinth. And at the first clear, careless strain Poured from a woodbird's silver throat, I have forgotten all the lore The preacher bade me get by rote. i34 THE HERETIC Beyond the shadow of the porch I hear the wind among the trees, The river babbling in the clove, And that great sound that is the sea's. Let me have brook and flower and bird For counsellors, that I may learn The very accent of their tongue, And its least syllable discern. For I, my brother, so would live That I may keep the elder law Of beauty and of certitude, Of daring love and blameless awe. Be others worthy to receive The naked messages of God ; I am content to find their trace Among the people of the sod. i35 THE HERETIC The gold-voiced dwellers of the wood Flute up the morning as I pass ; And in the dusk I lay me down With star-eyed children of the grass. I harken for the winds of spring, And haunt the marge of swamp and stream, Till in the April night I hear The revelation of the dream. I listen when the orioles Come up the earth with early June, And the old apple-orchards spread Their odorous glories to the moon. So I would keep my natural days, By sunlit sea, by moonlit hill, With the dark beauty of the earth Enchanted and enraptured still. 136 AFTER SCHOOL. When all my lessons have been learned, And the last year at school is done, I shall put up my books and games ; " Good-by, my fellows, every one ! " The dusty road will not seem long, Nor twilight lonely, nor forlorn The everlasting whippoorwills That lead me back where I was born. And there beside the open door, In a large country dim and cool, Her waiting smile shall hear at last, " Mother, I am come home from school." i37 r yof '7 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. Series 9482 in iiim i! 1 1 1 inn || mi | 3 1205 02042 2299 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIj^TY A A 001 433 399 1