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 APRIL AIRS 
 
 BLISS CARMAN
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
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 IE SUN 
 
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 iR NEW 
 
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 ND ANE 
 
 \LONG 
 
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 HAUNTING AIRS
 
 ORNING CLAD 
 
 READ, 
 
 'IND IN HER VOICE, 
 
 HE WORLD REJOICE. 
 
 IGHT ON HER BROW, 
 EIL OF SILVER SHOWERS, 
 NGLAND NOW 
 F WOODLAND FLOWERS,- 
 
 ONE; 
 
 HE MISTY SEA, 
 2EMS TO BLOW 
 F LONG AGO.
 
 APRIL AIRS
 
 By Bliss Carman and 
 Richard Hovey 
 
 Songs from Vagabondia 
 More Songs from Vagabondia 
 Last Songs from Vagabondia 
 
 Paper boards, per volume, $1.00 net; by 
 
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 By Bliss Carman 
 
 April Airs. Paper boards, $1.00 net; by 
 
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 Echoes from Vagabondia. Paper boards, Si. 00 
 
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 Low Tide on Grand Pre" and Ballads of Lost 
 Haven. Portrait frontispiece, Strathmore 
 Japan boards, Si. 50 net; by mail, $1.60 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
 
 APRIL AIRS 
 
 A Book of New England Lyrics 
 
 BLISS CARMAN 
 
 BOSTON 
 SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
 
 MCMXVI
 
 Copyright, 1916 
 
 By Small, Maynard and Company 
 
 (incorporated) 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 
 TO THE 
 
 ELIZABETHAN CLUB OF YALE UNIVERSITY 
 
 WITH SINCERE APPRECIATION 
 
 THESE VERSES ARE RESPECTFULLY 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 1 60 1 624
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE DESERTED PASTURE I 
 
 THE OLD GRAY WALL 2 
 
 BLOODROOT 3 
 
 EARTH VOICES 4 
 
 NOW IS THE TIME OF YEAR 7 
 
 NOW THE LILAC TREE 'S IN BUD 8 
 
 THE REDWING 9 
 
 AN APRIL MORNING 10 
 
 THE SOUL OF APRIL II 
 
 THE RAINBIRD 12 
 
 LAMENT *3 
 
 THRENODY FOR A POET 13 
 
 UNDER THE APRIL MOON 14 
 
 SPRING NIGHT IS 
 
 IN EARLY MAY 1 5 
 
 FIREFLIES J 6 
 
 THE GARDEN OF DREAMS 17 
 
 GARDEN SHADOWS 1 8 
 
 GARDEN MAGIC *9 
 
 A NEW ENGLAND JUNE 20 
 
 ROADSIDE FLOWERS 22 
 
 THE GARDEN OF SAINT ROSE 23 
 SONGS OF THE GRASS : 
 
 1. ON THE DUNES 25 
 
 2. LORD OF MORNING 25 
 
 3. THE TRAVELLER 26 
 THE WEED'S COUNSEL 26 
 LOCKERBIE STREET 29 
 A PORTRAIT 3 1 
 A REMEMBRANCE 32 
 OFF MONOMOY 33 
 THE WORLD VOICE 3§ 
 PHI BETA KAPPA POEM 36 
 
 vii
 
 IE DESERTED PASTURE. 
 LOVE the stony pasture 
 That no one else will have. 
 The old gray rocks so friendly seem, 
 So durable and brave. 
 
 I 
 
 In tranquil contemplation 
 It watches through the year, 
 Seeing the frosty stars arise, 
 The slender moons appear. 
 
 Its music is the rain-wind, 
 
 Its choristers the birds, 
 
 And there are secrets in its heart 
 
 Too wonderful for words. 
 
 It keeps the bright-eyed creatures 
 That play about its walls, 
 Though long ago its milking herds 
 Were banished from their stalls. 
 
 Only the children come there, 
 For buttercups in May, 
 Or nuts in autumn, where it lies 
 Dreaming the hours away. 
 
 Long since its strength was given 
 To making good increase, 
 And now its soul is turned again 
 To beauty and to peace. 
 
 There in the early springtime 
 The violets are blue, 
 And adder-tongues in coats of gold 
 Are garmented anew.
 
 The There bayberry and aster 
 
 Deserted 
 
 Pasture. Are crowded on its floors, 
 
 When marching summer halts to praise 
 The Lord of Out-of-doors. 
 
 And there October passes 
 In gorgeous livery, — 
 In purple ash, and crimson oak, 
 And golden tulip tree. 
 
 And when the winds of winter 
 Their bugle blasts begin, 
 The snowy hosts of heaven arrive 
 To pitch their tents therein. 
 
 THE OLD GRAY WALL. 
 
 ( IME out of mind I have stood 
 Fronting the frost and the sun, 
 That the dream of the world might endure, 
 And the goodly will be done. 
 
 T 
 
 Did the hand of the builder guess, 
 As he laid me stone by stone, 
 A heart in the granite lurked, 
 Patient and fond as his own? 
 
 Lovers have leaned on me 
 Under the summer moon, 
 And mowers laughed in my shade 
 In the harvest heat at noon.
 
 Children roving the fields ^ayikll. 
 
 With early flowers in spring, 
 
 Old men turning to look, 
 
 When they heard a bluebird sing, 
 
 And travellers along the road 
 From rising to setting sun, 
 Have seen, yet imagined not 
 The kindness they gazed upon. 
 
 Ah, when will ye understand, 
 Mortals, — nor deem it odd, — 
 Who rests on this old gray wall 
 Lays a hand on the shoulder of God ! 
 
 BLOODROOT. 
 
 WHEN April winds arrive 
 And the soft rains are here, 
 Some morning by the roadside 
 These gipsy folk appear. 
 
 We never see their coming, 
 However sharp our eyes; 
 Each year as if by magic 
 They take us by surprise. 
 
 Along the ragged woodside 
 And by the green spring-run, 
 Their small white heads are nodding 
 And twinkling in the sun. 
 
 3
 
 Bloodroot. They crowd across the meadow 
 In innocence and mirth, 
 As if there were no sorrow 
 In all the lovely earth. 
 
 So frail, so unregarded, — 
 And yet about them clings 
 That exquisite perfection, 
 The soul of common things ! 
 
 Think you the springing pastures 
 Their starry vigil kept, 
 To hear along the midnight 
 Some message, while we slept ? 
 
 How else should spring requicken 
 
 Such glory in the sod ? 
 
 I guess that trail of beauty 
 
 Is where the angel trod. 
 
 EARTH VOICES. 
 I 
 
 HEARD the spring wind whisper 
 Above the brushwood fire, 
 " The world is made forever 
 Of transport and desire. 
 
 I 
 
 " I am the breath of being, 
 The primal urge of things ; 
 I am the whirl of star dust, 
 I am the lift of wings.
 
 " I am the splendid impulse •f arth 
 
 That comes before the thought, oues ' 
 The joy and exaltation 
 Wherein the life is caught. 
 
 " Across the sleeping furrows 
 I call the buried seed, 
 And blade and bud and blossom 
 Awaken at my need. 
 
 " Within the dying ashes 
 I blow the sacred spark, 
 And make the hearts of lovers 
 To leap against the dark." 
 
 II 
 I heard the spring light whisper 
 Above the dancing stream, 
 " The world is made forever 
 In likeness of a dream. 
 
 " I am the law of planets, 
 I am the guide of man ; 
 The evening and the morning 
 Are fashioned to my plan. 
 
 " I tint the dawn with crimson, 
 I tinge the sea with blue; 
 My track is in the desert, 
 My trail is in the dew. 
 
 " I paint the hills with color, 
 And in my magic dome 
 I light the star of evening 
 To steer the traveller home.
 
 Earth « Within the house of being, 
 
 Voices - I feed the lamp of truth 
 
 With tales of ancient wisdom 
 And prophecies of youth." 
 
 Ill 
 
 I heard the spring rain murmur 
 Above the roadside flower, 
 " The world is made forever 
 In melody and power. 
 
 " I keep the rhythmic measure 
 That marks the steps of time, 
 And all my toil is fashioned 
 To symmetry and rhyme. 
 
 " I plow the untilled upland, 
 I ripe the seeding grass, 
 And fill the leafy forest 
 With music as I pass. 
 
 " I hew the raw rough granite 
 To loveliness of line, 
 And when my work is finished, 
 Behold, it is divine ! 
 
 " I am the master-builder 
 In whom the ages trust. 
 I lift the lost perfection 
 To blossom from the dust." 
 
 6
 
 J y Earth 
 
 . i Voices* 
 
 Then Earth to them made answer, 
 As with a slow refrain 
 Born of the blended voices 
 'Of wind and sun and rain, 
 
 "This is the law of being 
 That links the threefold chain : 
 The life we give to beauty 
 Returns to us again." 
 
 NOW IS THE TIME OF YEAR. 
 
 I" OW is the time of year 
 
 When all the flutes begin, — 
 The redwing bold and clear, 
 The rainbird far and thin. 
 
 N' 
 
 In all the waking lands 
 There 's not a wilding thing 
 But knows and understands 
 The burden of the spring. 
 
 Now every voice alive 
 
 By rocky wood and stream 
 
 Is lifted to revive 
 
 The ecstasy, the dream. 
 
 For Nature, never old, 
 But busy as of yore, 
 From sun and rain and mould 
 Is making spring once more. 
 
 7
 
 Nmvisthe she sounds her magic note 
 
 June of Year. By river . marge and h \\\, 
 
 And every woodland throat 
 Re-echoes with a thrill. 
 
 O mother of our days, 
 Hearing thy music call, 
 Teach us to know thy ways 
 And fear no more at all ! 
 
 NOW THE LILAC TREE'S IN BUD 
 'OW the lilac tree 's in bud, 
 
 N* 
 
 And the morning birds are loud. 
 
 Now a stirring in the blood 
 Moves the heart of every crowd. 
 
 Word has gone abroad somewhere 
 Of a great impending change. 
 There 's a message in the air 
 Of an import glad and strange. 
 
 Not an idler in the street, 
 But is better off to-day. 
 Not a traveller you meet, 
 But has something wise to say. 
 
 Now there 's not a road too long, 
 Not a day that is not good, 
 Not a mile but hears a song 
 Lifted from the misty wood. 
 
 8 '
 
 Down along the Silvermine Now the Lilac 
 
 That 's the blackbird's cheerful note ! 2ree s '" Bud 
 You can see him flash and shine 
 With the scarlet on his coat. 
 
 Now the winds are soft with rain, 
 And the twilight has a spell, 
 Who from gladness could refrain 
 Or with olden sorrows dwell ? 
 
 THE REDWING. 
 
 I HEAR you, Brother, I hear you, 
 Down in the alder swamp, 
 Springing your woodland whistle 
 To herald the April pomp ! 
 
 First of the moving vanguard, 
 In front of the spring you come, 
 Where flooded waters sparkle 
 And streams in the twilight hum. 
 
 You sound the note of the chorus 
 By meadow and woodland pond, 
 Till, one after one up-piping, 
 A myriad throats respond. 
 
 I see you, Brother, I see you, 
 With scarlet under your wing, 
 Flash through the ruddy maples, 
 Leading the pageant of spring.
 
 The Red- Earth has put off her raiment 
 wmg ' Wintry and worn and old, 
 
 For the robe of a fair young sibyl, 
 Dancing in green and gold. 
 
 I heed you, Brother. To-morrow 
 I, too, in the great employ, 
 Will shed my old coat of sorrow 
 For a brand-new garment of joy. 
 
 AN APRIL MORNING. 
 
 ONCE more in misted April 
 The world is growing green. 
 Along the winding river 
 The plumey willows lean. 
 
 Beyond the sweeping meadows 
 The looming mountains rise, 
 Like battlements of dreamland 
 Against the brooding skies. 
 
 In every wooded valley 
 The buds are breaking through, 
 As though the heart of all things 
 No languor ever knew. 
 
 The golden-wings and bluebirds 
 Call to their heavenly choirs. 
 The pines are blued and drifted 
 With smoke of brushwood fires. 
 
 10
 
 And in my sister's garden An April 
 
 Where little breezes run, Morning. 
 
 The golden daffodillies 
 
 Are blowing in the sun. 
 
 THE SOUL OF APRIL. 
 
 ^VER the wintry threshold 
 Who comes with joy to-day, 
 So frail, yet so enduring, 
 To triumph o'er dismay ? 
 
 a 
 
 Ah, quick her tears are springing, 
 And quickly they are dried, 
 For sorrow walks before her, 
 But gladness walks beside. 
 
 She comes with gusts of laughter, - 
 The music as of rills ; 
 With tenderness and sweetness, — 
 The wisdom of the hills. 
 
 Her hands are strong to comfort, 
 Her heart is quick to heed. 
 She knows the signs of sadness, 
 She knows the voice of need. 
 
 There is no living creature, 
 However poor or small, 
 But she will know its trouble, 
 And hasten to its call. 
 
 ii
 
 The Soul Oh, well they fare forever, 
 of April, gy mjghty dreams possessed, 
 
 Whose hearts have lain a moment 
 
 On that eternal breast. 
 
 THE RAINBIRD. 
 
 I HEAR a rainbird singing 
 Far off. How fine and clear 
 His plaintive voice comes ringing 
 With rapture to the ear ! 
 
 Over the misty wood-lots, 
 Across the first spring heat, 
 Comes the enchanted cadence, 
 So clear, so solemn-sweet. 
 
 How often I have hearkened 
 To that high pealing strain 
 Across wild cedar barrens, 
 Under the soft gray rain ! 
 
 How often I have wondered, 
 And longed in vain to know 
 The source of that enchantment, 
 That touch of human woe ! 
 
 O brother, who first taught thee 
 To haunt the teeming spring 
 With that sad mortal wisdom 
 Which only age can bring ? 
 
 12
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 WHEN you hear the white-throat pealing 
 From a tree-top far away, 
 And the hills are touched with purple 
 At the borders of the day ; 
 
 When the redwing sounds his whistle 
 At the coming on of spring, 
 And the joyous April pipers 
 Make the alder marshes ring; 
 
 When the wild new breath of being 
 Whispers to the world once more, 
 And before the shrine of beauty 
 Every spirit must adore ; 
 
 When long thoughts come back with twilight, 
 And a tender deepened mood 
 Shows the eyes of the beloved 
 Like hepaticas in the wood ; 
 
 Ah, remember, when to nothing 
 Save to love your heart gives heed, 
 And spring takes you to her bosom, — 
 So it was with Golden Weed ! 
 
 N' 
 
 IRENODY FOR A POET. 
 [OT in the ancient abbey, 
 Nor in the city ground, 
 Not in the lonely mountains, 
 Nor in the blue profound, 
 Lay him to rest when his time is come 
 And the smiling mortal lips are dumb ; 
 
 *3
 
 Threnody But here in the decent quiet 
 
 for a Poet. Under the whispering pines, 
 
 Where the dogwood breaks in blossom 
 And the peaceful sunlight shines, 
 Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold, 
 When spring comes back in her green and gold. 
 
 And when that mortal likeness 
 
 Has been dissolved by fire, 
 
 Say not above the ashes, 
 
 "Here ends a man's desire." 
 
 For every year when the bluebirds sing, 
 
 He shall be part of the lyric spring. 
 
 Then dreamful-hearted lovers 
 
 Shall hear in wind and rain 
 
 The cadence of his music, 
 
 The rhythm of his refrain, 
 
 For he was a blade of the April sod 
 
 That bowed and blew with the whisper of God. 
 
 UNDER THE APRIL MOON. 
 
 OH, well the world is dreaming 
 Under the April moon, 
 Her soul in love with beauty, 
 Her senses all a-swoon ! 
 
 Pure hangs the silver crescent 
 Above the twilight wood, 
 And pure the silver music 
 Wakes from the marshy flood. 
 
 14
 
 O Earth, with all thy transport, Under the 
 How comes it life should seem iiuim. 
 
 A shadow in the moonlight, 
 'A murmur in a dream ? 
 
 SPRING NIGHT. 
 
 N the wondrous star-sown night, 
 In the first sweet warmth of spring, 
 I lie awake and listen 
 To hear the glad earth sing. 
 
 r 
 
 I hear the brook in the wood 
 Murmuring, as it goes, 
 The song of the happy journey 
 Only the wise heart knows. 
 
 I hear the trilling note 
 Of the tree-frog under the hill, 
 And the clear and watery treble 
 Of his brother, silvery shrill. 
 
 And then I wander away 
 
 Through the mighty forest of Sleep, 
 
 To follow the fairy music 
 
 To the shore of an endless deep. 
 
 o 
 
 IN EARLY MAY. 
 
 MY dear, the world to-day 
 Is more lovely than a dream ! 
 Magic hints from far away 
 Haunt the woodland, and the stream 
 Murmurs in his rocky bed 
 Things that never can be said. 
 
 15
 
 In Early Starry dogwood is in flower, 
 ay% Gleaming through the mystic woods. 
 
 It is beauty's perfect hour 
 In the wild spring solitudes. 
 Now the orchards in full blow 
 Shed their petals white as snow. 
 
 All the air is honey-sweet 
 With the lilacs white and red, 
 Where the blossoming branches meet 
 In an arbor overhead. 
 And the laden cherry trees 
 Murmur with the hum of bees. 
 
 All the earth is fairy green, 
 And the sunlight filmy gold, 
 Full of ecstasies unseen, 
 Full of mysteries untold. 
 Who would not be out-of-door, 
 Now the spring is here once more ! 
 
 FIREFLIES. 
 
 THE fireflies across the dusk 
 Are flashing signals through the gloom 
 Courageous messengers of light 
 That dare immensities of doom. 
 
 About the seeding meadow-grass, 
 Like busy watchmen in the street, 
 They come and go, they turn and pass, 
 Lighting the way for Beauty's feet. 
 
 16
 
 Or up they float on viewless wings Fireflies. 
 To twinkle high among the trees, 
 And rival with soft glimmerings 
 The shining of the Pleiades. 
 
 The stars that wheel above the hill 
 Are not more wonderful to see, 
 Nor the great tasks that they fulfil 
 More needed in eternity. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF DREAMS. 
 
 MY heart is a garden of dreams 
 Where you walk when day is done, 
 Fair as the royal flowers, 
 Calm as the lingering sun. 
 
 Never a drouth comes there, 
 Nor any frost that mars, 
 Only the wind of love 
 Under the early stars, — 
 
 The living breath that moves 
 Whispering to and fro, 
 Like the voice of God in the dusk 
 Of the garden long ago. 
 
 17
 
 GARDEN SHADOWS. 
 
 WHEN the dawn winds whisper 
 To the standing corn, 
 And the rose of morning 
 From the dark is born, 
 All my shadowy garden 
 Seems to grow aware 
 Of a fragrant presence, 
 Half expected there. 
 
 In the golden shimmer 
 Of the burning noon, 
 When the birds are silent 
 And the poppies swoon, 
 Once more I behold her 
 Smile and turn her face, 
 With its infinite regard, 
 Its immortal grace. 
 
 When the twilight silvers 
 Every nodding flower, 
 And the new moon hallows 
 The first evening hour, 
 Is it not her footfall 
 Down the garden walks, 
 Where the drowsy blossoms 
 Slumber on their stalks ? 
 
 In the starry quiet, 
 When the soul is free, 
 And a vernal message 
 Stirs the lilac tree, 
 Surely I have felt her 
 Pass and brush my cheek, 
 With the eloquence of love 
 That does not need to speak ! 
 
 18
 
 GARDEN MAGIC. 
 
 WITHIN my stone-walled garden 
 (I see her standing now, 
 Uplifted in the twilight, 
 With glory on her brow !) 
 
 I love to walk at evening 
 And watch, when winds are low, 
 The new moon in the tree-tops, 
 Because she loved it so ! 
 
 And there entranced I listen, 
 While flowers and winds confer, 
 And all their conversation 
 Is redolent of her. 
 
 I love the trees that guard it, 
 Upstanding and serene, 
 So noble, so undaunted, 
 Because that was her mien. 
 
 I love the brook that bounds it, 
 Because its silver voice 
 Is like her bubbling laughter 
 That made the world rejoice. 
 
 I love the golden jonquils, 
 Because she used to say, 
 If Soul could choose a color 
 It would be clothed as they. 
 
 I love the blue-gray iris, 
 Because her eyes were blue, 
 Sea-deep and heaven-tender 
 In meaning and in hue. 
 
 19
 
 Garden I love the small wild roses, 
 Magic. B ecause s he used to stand 
 Adoringly above them 
 And bless them with her hand. 
 
 These were her boon companions. 
 But more than all the rest 
 I love the April lilac, 
 Because she loved it best. 
 
 Soul of undying rapture ! 
 How love's enchantment clings, 
 With sorcery and fragrance, 
 About familiar things ! 
 
 NEW ENGLAND JUNE. 
 r THESE things I remember 
 ■L Of New England June, 
 Like a vivid day-dream 
 In the azure noon, 
 While one haunting figure 
 Strays through every scene, 
 Like the soul of beauty 
 Through her lost demesne. 
 
 Gardens full of roses 
 And peonies a-blow 
 In the dewy morning, 
 Row on stately row, 
 Spreading their gay patterns, 
 Crimson, pied and cream, 
 Like some gorgeous fresco 
 Or an Eastern dream. 
 
 20
 
 Nets of waving sunlight -j, A ''" ry 
 
 Falling through the trees ; June'. 1 " 
 
 Fields of gold-white daisies 
 Rippling in the breeze ; 
 Lazy lifting groundswells, 
 Breaking green as jade 
 On the lilac beaches, 
 Where the shore-birds wade. 
 
 Orchards full of blossom, 
 Where the bob-white calls 
 And the honeysuckle 
 Climbs the old gray walls; 
 Groves of silver birches, 
 Beds of roadside fern, 
 In the stone-fenced pasture 
 At the river's turn. 
 
 Out of every picture 
 Still she comes to 7ne 
 With the morning freshness 
 Of the summer sea, — 
 A glory in her bearing, 
 A sea-light in her eyes, 
 As if she could not forget 
 The spell of Paradise. 
 
 Thrushes in the deep woods, 
 With their golden themes, 
 Fluting like the choirs 
 At the birth of dreams. 
 Fireflies in the meadows 
 At the gate of Night, 
 With their fairy lanterns 
 Twinkling soft and bright. 
 
 21
 
 A New Ah, not in the roses, 
 
 ^u,^ Nor the azUre n ° 0n ' 
 
 Nor the thrushes' music, 
 Lies the soul of June. 
 It is something finer, 
 More unfading far, 
 Than the primrose evening 
 And the silver star ; 
 
 Something of the rapture 
 
 My beloved had, 
 
 When she made the morning 
 
 Radiant and glad, — 
 
 Something of her gracious 
 
 Ecstasy of mien, 
 
 That still haunts the twilight, 
 
 Loving though unseen. 
 
 When the ghostly moonlight 
 Walks my garden ground, 
 Like a leisurely patrol 
 On his nightly round, 
 These things I remember 
 Of the long ago, 
 While the slumbrous roses 
 Neither care nor know. 
 
 ROADSIDE FLOWERS. 
 
 WE are the roadside flowers, 
 Straying from garden grounds, 
 Lovers of idle hours, 
 Breakers of ordered bounds. 
 
 22
 
 If only the earth will feed us, Roadside 
 
 If only the wind be kind, Flowers. 
 
 We blossom for those who need us, 
 
 The stragglers left behind. 
 
 And lo, the Lord of the Garden, 
 He makes his sun to rise, 
 And his rain to fall like pardon 
 On our dusty paradise. 
 
 On us he has laid the duty, — 
 The task of the wandering breed, — 
 To better the world with beauty, 
 Wherever the way may lead. 
 
 Who shall inquire of the season, 
 Or question the wind where it blows ? 
 We blossom and ask no reason. 
 The Lord of the Garden knows. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF SAINT ROSE. 
 
 THIS is a holy refuge, 
 The garden of Saint Rose, 
 A fragrant altar to that peace 
 The world no longer knows. 
 
 Below a solemn hillside, 
 Within the folding shade 
 Of overhanging beech and pine 
 Its walls and walks are laid. 
 
 23
 
 The Gar- Cool through the heat of summer, 
 
 'saint Sti11 as a sacred grove, 
 Rose. It has the rapt unworldly air 
 
 Of mystery and love. 
 
 All day before its outlook 
 The mist-blue mountains loom, 
 And in its trees at tranquil dusk 
 The early stars will bloom. 
 
 Down its enchanted borders 
 Glad ranks of color stand, 
 Like hosts of silent seraphim 
 Awaiting love's command. 
 
 Lovely in adoration 
 They wait in patient line, 
 Snow-white and purple and deep gold 
 About the rose-gold shrine. 
 
 And there they guard the silence, 
 
 While still from her recess 
 
 Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down 
 
 In mellow loveliness. 
 
 She seems to say, " O stranger, 
 Behold how loving care 
 That gives its life for beauty's sake, 
 Makes everything more fair ! 
 
 "Then praise the Lord of gardens 
 
 For tree and flower and vine, 
 
 And bless all gardeners who have wrought 
 
 A resting place like mine ! " 
 
 24
 
 SONGS OF THE GRASS. 
 I 
 
 ON THE DUNES. 
 
 "ERE all night on the dunes 
 In the rocking wind we sleep, 
 Watched by the sentry stars, 
 Lulled by the drone of the deep. 
 
 H 1 
 
 Till hark, in the chill of the dawn 
 A field lark wakes and cries, 
 And over the floor of the sea 
 We watch the round sun rise. 
 
 The world is washed once more 
 In a tide of purple and gold, 
 And the heart of the land is filled 
 With desires and dreams untold. 
 
 II 
 
 LORD OF MORNING. 
 
 Lord of morning, light of day, 
 Sacred color-kindling sun, 
 We salute thee in the way, — 
 Pilgrims robed in rose and dun. 
 
 For thou art a pilgrim too, 
 Overlord of all our band. 
 In thy fervor we renew 
 Quests we do not understand. 
 
 At thy summons we arise, 
 At thy touch put glory on, 
 And with glad unanxious eyes 
 Take the journey thou hast gone. 
 
 25
 
 Songs of J J J 
 
 the Grass. THR TRAVELLER 
 
 Before the night-blue fades 
 
 And the stars are quite gone, 
 
 I lift my head 
 
 At the noiseless tread 
 
 Of the angel of dawn. 
 
 I hear no word, yet my heart 
 Is beating apace; 
 Then in glory all still 
 On the eastern hill 
 I behold his face. 
 
 All day through the world he goes, 
 Making glad, setting free; 
 Then his day's work done, 
 On the galleon sun 
 He sinks in the sea. 
 
 THE WEED'S COUNSEL. 
 
 CA/D a traveller by the way 
 ^ Pausing, " What hast thou to say, 
 Flower by the dusty road, 
 That would ease a mortars load?" 
 
 Traveller, hearken unto me ! 
 I will tell thee how to see 
 Beauties in the earth and sky 
 Hidden from the careless eye. 
 I will tell thee how to hear 
 Nature's music wild and clear, — 
 Songs of midday and of dark 
 Such as many never mark, 
 Lyrics of creation sung 
 Ever since the world was young. 
 
 26
 
 And thereafter thou shalt know The 
 Neither weariness nor woe. r^fJzf; 
 
 Counsel. 
 
 Thou shalt see the dawn unfold 
 Artistries of rose and gold, 
 And the sunbeams on the sea 
 Dancing with the wind for glee. 
 The red lilies of the moors 
 Shall be torches on the floors, 
 Where the field-lark lifts his cry 
 To rejoice the passer-by, 
 In a wide world rimmed with blue 
 Lovely as when time was new. 
 
 And thereafter thou shalt fare 
 Light of foot and free from care. 
 
 I will teach thee how to find 
 
 Lost enchantments of the mind 
 
 All about thee, never guessed 
 
 By indifferent unrest. 
 
 Thy distracted thought shall learn 
 
 Patience from the roadside fern, 
 
 And a sweet philosophy 
 
 From the flowering locust tree, — 
 
 While thy heart shall not disdain 
 
 The consolation of the rain. 
 
 Not an acre but shall give 
 
 Of its strength to help thee live. 
 
 With the many-wintered sun 
 Shall thy hardy course be run. 
 And the bright new moon shall be 
 A lamp to thy felicity. 
 
 27
 
 Tj* When green-mantled spring shall come 
 
 Counsel. P ast tn Y door w ' tn ^ ute anc * drum, 
 And when over wood and swamp 
 Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, 
 No misgiving shalt thou know, 
 Passing glad to rise and go. 
 
 So thy days shall be unrolled 
 Like a wondrous cloth of gold. 
 
 When gray twilight with her star 
 Makes a heaven that is not far, 
 Touched with shadows and with dreams, 
 Thou shalt hear the woodland streams 
 Singing through the starry night 
 Holy anthems of delight. 
 So the ecstasy of earth 
 Shall refresh thee as at birth, 
 And thou shalt arise each morn 
 Radiant with a soul reborn. 
 
 And this wisdom of a day 
 None shall ever take away. 
 
 What the secret, what the clew 
 
 The wayfarer must pursue ? 
 
 Only one thing he must have 
 
 Who would share these transports brave. 
 
 Love within his heart must dwell 
 
 Like a bubbling roadside well, 
 
 For a spring to quicken thought, 
 
 Else my counsel comes to naught. 
 
 For without that quickening trust 
 
 We are less than roadside dust. 
 
 28
 
 This, O traveller, is my creed, — V? a 
 All the wisdom of the weed ! Counsel. 
 
 Then the traveller set his pack 
 Once more on his dusty back, 
 And trudged on for many a mile 
 Fronting fortune with a smile. 
 
 L° 
 
 LOCKERBIE STREET. 
 
 For the Birthday of James Whitcomb 
 Riley, October 7, 191 4. 
 OCKERBIE STREET is a little street, 
 
 j Just one block long ; 
 
 But the days go there with a magical air, 
 
 The whole year long. 
 
 The sun in his journey across the sky 
 
 Slows his car as he passes by; 
 
 The sighing wind and the grieving rain 
 
 Change their tune and cease to complain; 
 
 And the birds have a wonderful call that seems 
 
 Like a street-cry out of the land of dreams; 
 
 For there the real and the make-believe meet. 
 
 Time does not hurry in Lockerbie Street. 
 
 Lockerbie Street is a little street, 
 
 Only one block long; 
 
 But the moonlight there is strange and fair 
 
 All the year long, 
 
 As ever it was in old romance, 
 
 When fairies would sing and fauns would dance, 
 
 Proving this earth is subject still 
 
 To a blithesome wonder-working Will, 
 
 29
 
 Lockerbie Spreading beauty over the land, 
 
 Street. rJL . u u 1 j j \ j 
 
 1 hat every beholder may understand 
 How glory shines round the Mercy-seat. 
 That is the gospel of Lockerbie Street. 
 
 Lockerbie Street is a little street, 
 
 Only one block long, 
 
 A little apart, yet near the heart 
 
 Of the city's throng. 
 
 If you are a stranger looking to find 
 
 Respite and cheer for soul and mind, 
 
 And have lost your way, and would inquire 
 
 For a street that will lead to Heart's Desire, — 
 
 To a place where the spirit is never old, 
 
 And gladness and love are worth more than 
 
 gold, — 
 Ask the first boy or girl you meet ! 
 Everyone knows where is Lockerbie Street. 
 
 Lockerbie Street is a little street, 
 Only one block long ; 
 But never a street in all the world, 
 In story or song, 
 
 Is better beloved by old and young; 
 For there a poet has lived and sung, 
 Wise as an angel, glad as a bird, 
 Fearless and fond in every word, 
 Many a year. And if you would know 
 The secret of joy and the cure of woe, — 
 How to be gentle and brave and sweet, — 
 Ask your way to Lockerbie Street. 
 
 3°
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 A. M. M. 
 
 B 
 
 EHOLD her sitting in the sun 
 
 This lovely April morn, 
 As eager with the breath of life 
 As daffodils new-born ! 
 A priestess of the toiling earth, 
 Yet kindred to the spheres, 
 A touch of the eternal spring 
 Is over all her years. 
 
 No fashion frets her dignity, 
 Untrammeled, debonair ; 
 A fold of lace about her throat 
 Falls from her whitening hair. 
 A seraph visiting the earth 
 Might wear that fearless guise, 
 The heartening regard of such 
 All-comprehending eyes. 
 
 How comes she by preeminence, 
 Desired, beloved, revered ? 
 Heroic living gained those heights 
 Through ills she never feared. 
 A spirit kindly as the dew 
 And daring as a name, 
 With a distinguished, reckless wit 
 No eighty years could tame. 
 
 A mother of the Spartan strain, 
 
 She held self-rule and sway, 
 
 And single-handed braved the world 
 
 And bore the prize away. 
 
 No task too humble for her skill, 
 
 No worthy way too long; 
 
 She filled her work with ecstasy 
 
 And crowned it with a song. 
 
 3i
 
 a Por- The treasures she most dearly prized 
 Were of the rarest kind — 
 A gentle fortitude of soul 
 And honesty of mind. 
 To feed, to clothe, to teach, to cheer, 
 To guard and guide and save — 
 These were her fine accomplishments, 
 To these her best she gave. 
 
 With ringing word and instant cure 
 She draws from far and near 
 The gay, the witty, the forlorn, 
 Priest, artist, beggar, seer. 
 Unhesitant and sure they come, 
 Hearing the human call, 
 As of a mighty motherhood 
 That understands them all. 
 
 Ungrudging, without grief, she lives 
 Each charged potential hour, 
 Holding her loftiness of aim 
 With agelessness of power. 
 Immortal friendship, great with years! 
 She shames the faltering, 
 And heartens every struggling hope, 
 Like hyacinths in spring ! 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 HERE in lovely New England 
 When summer is come, a sea-turn 
 Flutters a page of remembrance 
 In the volume of long ago. 
 
 32
 
 Soft is the wind over Grand Pre', f r f n e c " ie "'' 
 Stirring the heads of the grasses, 
 Sweet is the breath of the orchards 
 White with their apple-blow. 
 
 There at their infinite business 
 Of measuring time forever, 
 Murmuring songs of the sea, 
 The great tides come and go. 
 
 Over the dikes and the uplands 
 Wander the great cloud shadows, 
 Strange as the passing of sorrow, 
 Beautiful, solemn, and slow. 
 
 For, spreading her old enchantment 
 Of tender ineffable wonder, 
 Summer is there in the Northland ! 
 How should my heart not know ? 
 
 OFF MONOMOY. 
 
 'AVE you sailed Nantucket Sound 
 By lightship, buoy, and bell, 
 And lain becalmed at noon 
 On an oily summer swell? 
 
 H 
 
 Lazily drooped the sail, 
 Moveless the pennant hung, 
 Sagging over the rail 
 Idle the main boom swung ; 
 
 33
 
 Off Mono- The sea, one mirror of shine 
 mcy ' A single breath would destroy, 
 
 Save for the far low line 
 Of treacherous Monomoy. 
 
 Yet eastward there toward Spain, 
 What castled cities rise 
 From the Atlantic plain, 
 To our enchanted eyes ! 
 
 Turret and spire and roof 
 Looming out of the sea, 
 Where the prosy chart gives proof 
 No cape nor isle can be ! 
 
 Can a vision shine so clear 
 Wherein no substance dwells? 
 One almost harks to hear 
 The sound of the city's bells. 
 
 And yet no pealing notes 
 Within those belfries be, 
 Save echoes from the throats 
 Of ship-bells lost at sea. 
 
 For none shall anchor there 
 Save those who long of yore, 
 When tide and wind were fair, 
 Sailed and came back no more. 
 
 And none shall climb the stairs 
 Within those ghostly towers, 
 Save those for whom sad prayers 
 Went up through fateful hours. 
 
 34
 
 O image of the world, Off Mono- 
 
 O mirage of the sea, moy - 
 Cloud-built and foam-impearled, 
 What sorcery fashioned thee ? 
 
 What architect of dream, 
 What painter of desire, 
 Conceived that fairy scheme 
 Touched with fantastic fire? 
 
 Even so our city of hope 
 We mortal dreamers rear 
 Upon the perilous slope 
 Above the deep of fear ; 
 
 Leaving half-known the good 
 Our kindly earth bestows, 
 For the feigned beatitude 
 Of a future no man knows. 
 
 Lord of the summer sea, 
 Whose tides are in thy hand, 
 Into immensity 
 The vision at thy command 
 
 Fades now, and leaves no sign, — 
 No light nor bell nor buoy, — 
 Only the faint low line 
 Of dangerous Monomoy. 
 
 35
 
 THE WORLD VOICE. 
 
 HEARD the summer sea 
 Murmuring to the shore 
 Some endless story of a wrong 
 The whole world must deplore. 
 
 I 
 
 I heard the mountain wind 
 Conversing with the trees 
 Of an old sorrow of the hills, 
 Mysterious as the sea's. 
 
 And all that haunted day 
 It seemed that I could hear 
 The echo of an ancient speech 
 Ring in my listening ear. 
 
 And then it came to me, 
 
 That all that I had heard 
 
 Was my own heart in the sea's voice 
 
 And the wind's lonely word. 
 
 PHI BETA KAPPA POEM. 
 
 HARVARD, I914 
 
 IR, friends, and scholars, we are here to serve 
 A high occasion. Our New England wears 
 
 S' 
 
 All her unrivalled beauty as of old ; 
 And June, with scent of bayberry and rose 
 And song of orioles — as she only comes 
 By Massachusetts Bay — is here once more, 
 Companioning our fete of fellowship. 
 
 36
 
 The open trails, South, West, and North, lead back ™fjf a 
 
 From populous cities or from lonely plains, /Ww* 
 
 Ranch, pulpit, office, factory, desk, or mill, 
 
 To this fair tribunal of ambitious youth, 
 
 The shadowy town beside the placid Charles, 
 
 Where Harvard waits us through the passing years, 
 
 Conserving and administering still 
 
 Her savor for the gladdening of the race. 
 
 Yearly, of all the sons she has sent forth, 
 
 And men her admiration would adopt, 
 
 She summons whom she will back to her side 
 
 As if to ask, " How fares my cause of trutli 
 
 In the great world beyond these studious walls?" 
 
 Here, from their store of life experience, 
 
 They must make answer as grace is given them, 
 
 And their plain creed, in verity, declare. 
 
 Among the many, there is sometimes called 
 
 One who, like Arnold's scholar gypsy poor, 
 
 Is but a seeker on the dusky way, 
 
 " Still waiting for the spark from heaven to fall." 
 
 He must bethink him first of other days, 
 And that old scholar of the seraphic smile, 
 As we recall him in this very place 
 With all the sweetest culture of his age, 
 His gentle courtesy and friendliness, 
 A chivalry of soul now strangely rare, 
 And. that ironic wit which made him, too, 
 The unflinching critic and most dreaded foe 
 Of all things mean, unlovely, and untrue. 
 What Mr. Norton said, with that slow smile, 
 Has put the fear of God in many a heart, 
 Even while his hand encouraged eager youth. 
 
 37
 
 Phi Beta From such enheartening who would not dare to 
 
 Kafpa 
 Poem. 
 
 & 
 
 speak — 
 
 Seeing no truth can be too small to serve, 
 And no word worthless that is born of love ? 
 Within the noisy workshop of the world, 
 Where still the strife is upward out of gloom, 
 Men doubt the value of high teaching — cry, 
 " What use is learning ? Man must have his will ! 
 The e"lan of life alone is paramount ! 
 Away with old traditions ! We are free ! " 
 So folly mocks at truth in Freedom's name. 
 Pale Anarchy leads on, with furious shriek, 
 Her envious horde of reckless malcontents 
 And mad destroyers of the Commonwealth, 
 While Privilege with indifference grows corrupt, 
 Till the Republic stands in jeopardy 
 From following false idols and ideals, 
 Though sane men cry for honesty once more, 
 Order and duty and self-sacrifice. 
 
 Our world and all it holds of good for us 
 Our fathers and unselfish mothers made, 
 With noble passion and enduring toil, 
 Strenuous, frugal, reverent, and elate, 
 Caring above all else to guard and save 
 The ampler life of the intelligence 
 And the fine honor of a scrupulous code — 
 Ideals of manhood touched with the divine. 
 
 For this they founded these great schools we 
 
 serve, 
 Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Dartmouth, Yale, 
 Amherst and Williams, trusting to our hands 
 The heritage of all they held most high, 
 Possessions of the spirit and the mind, 
 Investments in the provinces of joy. 
 
 38
 
 Vast provinces are these ! And fortunate they g%L£? a 
 Who at their will may go adventuring there, /w* 
 
 Exploring all the boundaries of Truth, 
 Learning the roads that run through Beauty's realm, 
 Sighting the pinnacles where Good meets God, 
 Encompassed by the eternal unknown sea ! 
 
 Even for a little to o'erlook those lands, 
 
 The kingdoms of Religion, Science, Art, 
 
 Is to be made forever happier 
 
 With blameless memories that shall bring content 
 
 And inspiration for all after days. 
 
 And fortunate they whom destiny allows 
 
 To rest within those provinces and serve 
 
 The dominion of ideals all their lives. 
 
 For whoso will, putting dull greed aside, 
 
 And holding fond allegiance to the best, 
 
 May dwell there and find fortitude and joy. 
 
 In the free fellowship of kindred minds, 
 One band of scholar gypsies I have known, 
 Whose purpose all unworldly was to find 
 An answer to the riddle of the Earth — 
 A key that should unlock the book of life 
 And secrets of its sorceries reveal. 
 
 This, they discovered, had long since been found 
 
 And laid aside forgotten and unused. 
 
 Our dark young poet who from Dartmouth came 
 
 Was told the secret by his gypsy bride, 
 
 Who had it from a master over seas, 
 
 And he it was first hinted to the band 
 
 The magic of that universal lore, 
 
 Before the great Mysteriarch summoned him. 
 
 It was the doctrine of the threefold life, 
 
 The beginning of the end of all their doubt. 
 
 39
 
 Phi Beta \ n that Victorian age it has become 
 r'oem. So mucri the fashion now to half despise, 
 Within the shadow of Cathedral walls 
 They had been schooled, and heard the mellow 
 
 chimes 
 For Lenten litanies and daily prayers, 
 With a mild, eloquent, beloved voice 
 Exhorting to all virtue and that peace 
 Surpassing understanding — casting there 
 That "last enchantment of the Middle Age," 
 The spell of Oxford and her ritual. 
 
 So duteous youth was trained, until there grew 
 Restive outreaching in men's thought to find 
 Some certitude beyond the dusk of faith. 
 They cried on mysticism to be gone, 
 Mazed in the shadowy princedom of the soul. 
 
 Then as old creeds fell round them into dust, 
 They reached through science to belief in law, 
 Made reason paramount in man, and guessed 
 At reigning mind within the universe. 
 Piecing the fragments of a fair design 
 With reverent patience and courageous skill, 
 They saw the world from chaos step by step, 
 Under far-seeing guidance and restraint, 
 Emerge to order and to symmetry, 
 As logical and sure as music's own. 
 
 With Spencer, Darwin, Tyndall, and the rest, 
 Our band saw roads of knowledge open wide 
 Through the uncharted province of the truth, 
 As on they fared through that unfolding world. 
 
 40
 
 Yet there they found no rest-house for the heart, %%*f a 
 
 No wells sufficient for the spirit's thirst, p l oet £. 
 
 No shade nor glory for the senses starved. . . . 
 
 Turning — they fled by moonlit trails to seek 
 
 The magic principality of Art, 
 
 Where loveliness, not learning, rules supreme. 
 
 They stood intoxicated with delight before 
 
 The poised unanxious splendor of the Greek; 
 
 They mused upon the Gothic minsters gray, 
 
 Where mystic spirit took on mighty form, 
 
 Until their prayers to lovely churches turned — 
 
 (Like a remembrance of the Middle Age 
 
 They rose where Ralph or Bertram dreamed in 
 
 stone) ; 
 Entranced they trod a painters' paradise, 
 Where color wasted by the Scituate shore 
 Between the changing marshes and the sea; 
 They heard the golden voice of poesie 
 Lulling the senses with its last caress 
 In Tennysonian accents pure and fine ; 
 And all their laurels were for Beauty's brow, 
 Though toiling Reason went ungarlanded. 
 
 Then poisonous weeds of artifice sprang up, 
 
 Defiling Nature at her sacred source ; 
 
 And there the questing World-soul could not stay, 
 
 Onward must journey with the changing time, 
 
 To come to this uncouth rebellious age, 
 
 Where not an ancient creed nor courtesy 
 
 Is underided, and each demagogue 
 
 Cries some new nostrum for the cure of ills. 
 
 To-day the unreasoning iconoclast 
 
 Would scoff at science and abolish art, 
 
 To let untutored impulse rule the world. 
 
 41
 
 Phi Beta Let learning perish, and the race returns 
 Poem. To that first anarchy from which we came, 
 When spirit moved upon the deep and laid 
 The primal chaos under cosmic law. 
 
 And even now, in all our wilful might, 
 The satiated being cannot bide, 
 But to that austere country turns again, 
 The little province of the saints of God, 
 Where lofty peaks rise upward to the stars 
 From the gray twilight of Gethsemane, 
 And spirit dares to climb with wounded feet 
 Where justice, peace, and loving kindness are. 
 What says the lore of human power we hold 
 Through all these striving and tumultuous days? 
 " Why not accept each several bloom of good, 
 Without discarding good already gained, 
 As one might weed a garden overgrown — 
 Save the new shoots, yet not destroy the old ? 
 Only the fool would root up his whole patch 
 Of fragrant flowers, to plant the newer seed." 
 
 Ah, softly, brothers ! Have we not the key, 
 
 Whose first fine luminous use Plotinus gave, 
 
 Teaching that ecstasy must lead the man ? 
 
 Three things, we see, men in this life require, 
 
 (As they are needed in the universe): 
 
 First of all spirit, energy, or love, 
 
 The soul and mainspring of created things ; 
 
 Next wisdom, knowledge, culture, discipline, 
 
 To guide impetuous spirit to its goal ; 
 
 And lastly strength, the sound apt instrument, 
 
 Adjusted and controlled to lawful needs. 
 
 42
 
 The next world-teacher must be one whose word p J li . , ? eta 
 Shall reaffirm the primacy of soul, pZm. 
 
 Hold scholarship in her high guiding place, 
 And recognize the body's equal right 
 To culture such as it has never known, 
 In power and beauty serving soul and mind- 
 Inheritors of this divine ideal, 
 With courage to be fine as well as strong, 
 Shall know what common manhood may become, 
 Regain the gladness of the sons of morn, 
 The radiance of immortality. 
 
 Out of heroic wanderings of the past, 
 And all the wayward gropings of our time, 
 Unswerved by doubt, unconquered by despair, 
 The messengers of such a hope must go ; 
 As one who hears far off before the dawn, 
 On some lone trail among the darkling hills, 
 The hermit thrushes in the paling dusk, 
 And at the omen lifts his eyes to see 
 Above him, with its silent shafts of light, 
 The sunrise kindling all the peaks with fire. 
 
 MOUNTAIN GATEWAY. 
 
 I KNOW a vale where I would go one day, 
 When June comes back and all the world 
 once more 
 Is glad with summer. Deep in shade it lies 
 A mighty cleft between the bosoming hills, 
 A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart. 
 
 43
 
 A Maun- On either side the wooded slopes come down, 
 tain Gate- Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there 
 way ' Through the deep forest laurel spreads and 
 
 gleams, 
 Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness. 
 Among the sunlit shadows I can see 
 That still perfection from the world withdrawn, 
 As if the wood-gods had arrested there 
 Immortal beauty in her breathless flight. 
 
 The road winds in from the broad river-lands, 
 Luring the happy traveller turn by turn 
 Up to the lofty mountains of the sky. 
 And as he marches with uplifted face, 
 Far overhead against the arching blue 
 Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, 
 Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. 
 
 And where the road runs in the valley's foot, 
 Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes 
 
 down, 
 Singing and dancing all its youth away 
 Among the boulders and the shallow runs, 
 Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks 
 
 hang 
 Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and 
 
 spray. 
 
 There light of heart and footfree, I would go 
 Up to my home among the lasting hills. 
 Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road, 
 Turn to the left and take the steeper trail 
 That climbs among the hemlocks, and at last 
 In my own cabin doorway sit me down, 
 
 44
 
 Companioned in that leafy solitude A Moun- 
 
 By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, ££«. 
 Whale evening passes to absolve the day 
 And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars. 
 
 And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, 
 Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, 
 The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn. 
 So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, 
 They well might be, in wisdom and in joy, 
 The seraphs singing at the birth of time 
 The unworn ritual of eternal things. 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 HERE we came when love was young. 
 Now that love is old, 
 Shall we leave the floor unswept 
 And the hearth acold? 
 
 Here the hill-wind in the dusk, 
 Wandering to and fro, 
 Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost 
 Of the long ago. 
 
 Here from every doorway looks 
 A remembered face, 
 Every sill and panel wears 
 A familiar grace. 
 
 Let the windows smile again 
 To the morning light, 
 And the door stand open wide 
 When the moon is bright. 
 
 45
 
 The Let the breeze of twilight blow 
 
 Homestead. Through the sjlent hall) 
 
 And the dreaming rafters hear 
 How the thrushes call. 
 
 Oh, be merciful and fond 
 To the house that gave 
 All its best to shelter love, 
 Built when love was brave! 
 
 Here we came when love was young. 
 Now that love is old, 
 Never let its day be lone, 
 Nor its heart acold ! 
 
 AT SUNRISE. 
 
 TOW the stars have faded 
 In the purple chill, 
 Lo, the sun is kindling 
 On the eastern hill. 
 
 N l 
 
 Tree by tree the forest 
 Takes the golden tinge, 
 As the shafts of glory 
 Pierce the summit's fringe. 
 
 Rock by rock the ledges 
 Take the rosy sheen, 
 As the tide of splendor 
 Floods the dark ravine. 
 
 46
 
 Like a shining angel At Sunrise. 
 
 At my cabin door, 
 
 Shod with hope and silence, 
 
 Day is come once more. 
 
 Then, as if in sorrow- 
 That you are not here, 
 All his magic beauties 
 Gray and disappear. 
 
 AT TWILIGHT. 
 
 NOW the fire is lighted 
 On the chimney stone, 
 Day goes down the valley, 
 I am left alone. 
 
 Now the misty purple 
 Floods the darkened vale, 
 And the stars come out 
 On the twilight trail. 
 
 The mountain river murmurs 
 In his rocky bed, 
 And the stealthy shadows 
 Fill the house with dread. 
 
 Then I hear your laughter 
 At the open door, — 
 Brightly burns the fire, 
 I need fear no more. 
 
 47
 
 NIGHT LYRIC. 
 
 ON the world's far edges 
 Faint and blue, 
 Where the rocky ledges 
 Stand in view, 
 
 Fades the rosy tender 
 Evening light ; 
 Then in starry splendor 
 Comes the night. 
 
 So a stormy lifetime 
 Comes to close, 
 Spirit's mortal strifetime 
 Finds repose. 
 
 Faith and toil and vision 
 Crowned at last, 
 Failure and derision 
 Overpast, — 
 
 All the daylight splendor 
 Far above, 
 
 Calm and sure and tender 
 Comes thy love. 
 
 WEATHER OF THE SOUL. 
 
 THERE is a world of being 
 We range from pole to pole, 
 Through seasons of the spirit 
 And weather of the soul. 
 
 48
 
 It has its new-born Aprils, ^Ttoul. ° f 
 
 With gladness in the air, 
 Its golden Junes of rapture, 
 Its winters of despair. 
 
 And in its tranquil autumns 
 We halt to re-enforce 
 Our tattered scarlet pennons 
 With valor and resource. 
 
 From undiscovered regions 
 Only the angels know, 
 Great winds of aspiration 
 Perpetually blow, 
 
 To free the sap of impulse 
 From torpor of distrust, 
 And into flowers of joyance 
 Quicken the sentient dust. 
 
 From nowhere of a sudden 
 Loom sudden clouds of fault, 
 With thunders of oppression 
 And lightnings of revolt. 
 
 With hush of apprehension 
 And quaking of the heart, 
 There breed the storms of anger, 
 And floods of sorrow start. 
 
 And there shall fall, — how gently ! — 
 To make them fertile yet, 
 The rain of absolution 
 On acres of regret. 
 
 49
 
 Weather of Till snows of mercy cover 
 
 the Soul. The dream tha( . sha u come tru6j 
 
 When time makes all things wondrous, 
 And life makes all things new. 
 
 WOODLAND RAIN. 
 
 SHINING, shining children 
 Of the summer rain, 
 Racing down the valley, 
 Sweeping o'er the plain ! 
 
 Rushing through the forest, 
 Pelting on the leaves, 
 Drenching down the meadow 
 With its standing sheaves ; 
 
 Robed in royal silver, 
 Girt with jewels gay, 
 With a gust of gladness 
 You pass upon your way. 
 
 Fresh, ah, fresh behind you, 
 Sunlit and impearled, 
 As it was in Eden, 
 Lies the lovely world ! 
 
 5°
 
 THE TENT OF NOON. 
 
 BEHOLD, now, where the pageant of high 
 June 
 Halts in the glowing noon ! 
 The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill ; 
 The bannered hosts are still, 
 While over forest crown and mountain head 
 The azure tent is spread. 
 
 The song is hushed in every woodland throat; 
 
 Moveless the lilies float; 
 
 Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea 
 
 Sighs only fitfully; 
 
 The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade ; 
 
 Peace on the world is laid. 
 
 It is the hour when Nature's caravan, 
 That bears the pilgrim Man 
 Across the desert of uncharted time 
 To his far hope sublime, 
 Rests in the green oasis of the year, 
 As if the end drew near. 
 
 Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise 
 
 For these fleet halcyon days ? — 
 
 No courage to uplift thee from despair 
 
 Born with the breath of prayer ? 
 
 Then turn thee to the lilied field once more ! 
 
 God stands in his tent door. 
 
 5*
 
 SUMMER STORM. 
 
 'HE hilltop trees are bowing 
 Under the coming of storm. 
 The low gray clouds are trailing 
 Like squadrons that sweep and form, 
 With their ammunition of rain. 
 
 T 
 
 Then the trumpeter wind gives signal 
 To unlimber the viewless guns; 
 The cattle huddle together; 
 Indoors the farmer runs; 
 And the first shot lashes the pane. 
 
 They charge through the quiet orchard ; 
 One pear tree is snapped like a wand ; 
 As they sweep from the shattered hillside, 
 Ruffling the blackened pond, 
 Ere the sun takes the field again. 
 
 DANCE OF THE SUNBEAMS. 
 
 WHEN morning is high o'er the hilltops, 
 On river and stream and lake, 
 Wherever a young breeze whispers, 
 The sun-clad dancers wake. 
 
 One after one up-springing, 
 They flash from their dim retreat. 
 Merry as running laughter 
 Is the news of their twinkling feet. 
 
 5 2
 
 Over the floors of azure fhTsi^ 
 
 Wherever the wind-flaws run, beams'!' 
 Sparkling, leaping, and racing, 
 Their antics scatter the sun. 
 
 As long as water ripples 
 And weather is clear and glad, 
 Day after day they are dancing, 
 Never a moment sad. 
 
 But when through the field of heaven 
 The wings of storm take flight, 
 At a touch of the flying shadows 
 They falter and slip from sight. 
 
 Until at the gray day's ending, 
 As the squadrons of cloud retire, 
 They pass in the triumph of sunset 
 With banners of crimson fire. 
 
 THE CAMPFIRE OF THE SUN. 
 O, now, the journeying sun, 
 Another day's march done, 
 Kindles his campfire at the edge of night ! 
 And in the twilight pale 
 Above his crimson trail, 
 The stars move out their cordons still and bright. 
 
 L° 
 
 Now in the darkening hush 
 
 A solitary thrush 
 
 Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep ; 
 
 While brooding on her best, 
 
 The wandering soul has rest, 
 
 And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep. 
 
 53
 
 MOONRISE. 
 
 AT the end of the road through the wood 
 I see the great moon rise. 
 The fields are flooded with shine, 
 And my soul with surmise. 
 
 What if that mystic orb 
 With her shadowy beams, 
 Should be the revealer at last 
 Of my darkest dreams ! 
 
 What if this tender fire 
 In my heart's deep hold 
 Should be wiser than all the lore 
 Of the sages of old ! 
 
 THE QUEEN OF NIGHT. 
 
 MORTAL, mortal, have you seen 
 In the scented summer night, 
 Great Astarte, clad in green 
 With a veil of mystic light, 
 Passing on her silent way, 
 Pale and lovelier than day? 
 
 Mortal, mortal, have you heard, 
 On an odorous summer eve, 
 Rumors of an unknown word 
 Bidding sorrow not to grieve, — 
 Echoes of a silver voice 
 Bidding every heart rejoice? 
 
 54
 
 Mortal, when the slim new moon T Hp i u f l 1 n 
 Hangs above the western hill, 
 When the year comes round to June 
 And the leafy world is still, 
 Then, enraptured, you shall hear 
 Secrets for a poet's ear. 
 
 Mortal, mortal, come with me, 
 When the moon is rising large, 
 Through the wood or from the sea, 
 Or by some lone river marge. 
 There, entranced, you shall behold 
 Beauty's self, that grows not old. 
 
 SUMMER STREAMS. 
 
 LL day long beneath the sun 
 
 Shining through the fields they run, 
 
 A 1 
 
 Singing in a cadence known 
 
 To the seraphs round the throne. 
 
 And the traveller drawing near 
 Through the meadow, halts to hear 
 
 Anthems of a natural joy 
 No disaster can destroy. 
 
 All night long from set of sun 
 Through the starry woods they run, 
 
 Singing through the purple dark 
 Songs to make a traveller hark. 
 
 55
 
 Summer All night long, when winds are low, 
 streams. Underneath my window go 
 
 The immortal happy streams, 
 Making music through my dreams. 
 
 THE GOD OF THE WOOD. 
 
 ERE all the forces of the wood 
 As one converge, 
 To make the soul of solitude 
 Where all things merge. 
 
 H ] 
 
 The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, 
 The visiting moon, 
 
 The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, 
 Each with its boon. 
 
 Here power attains perfection still 
 In mighty ease, 
 
 That the great earth may have her will 
 Of joy and peace. 
 
 And so through me, the mortal born 
 Of plasmic clay, 
 
 Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, 
 And glad, have sway. 
 
 Eternal passions, ardors fine, 
 And monstrous fears, 
 Rule and rebel, serene, malign, 
 Or loosed in tears ; 
 
 56
 
 Until at last they shall evolve The God of 
 
 From griefs and joys the Wood ' 
 
 Some steady light, some firm resolve, 
 Some Godlike poise. 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 I SAID to Life, " How comes it, 
 With all this wealth in store, 
 Of beauty, joy, and knowledge, 
 Thy cry is still for more ? 
 
 " Count all the years of striving 
 To make thy burden less, — 
 The things designed and fashioned 
 To gladden thy success ! 
 
 " The treasures sought and gathered 
 Thy lightest whim to please, — 
 The loot of all the ages, 
 The spoil of all the seas ! 
 
 "Is there no end of labor, 
 No limit to thy need? 
 Must man go bowed forever 
 In bondage to thy greed ? " 
 
 With tears of pride and passion 
 She answered, "God above! 
 I only wait the asking, 
 To spend it all for love ! " 
 
 57
 
 THE GIVERS OF LIFE. 
 
 i. 
 
 WHO called us forth out of darkness and 
 gave us the gift of life, 
 Who set our hands to the toiling, our feet in the 
 field of strife ? 
 
 Darkly they mused, predestined to knowledge of 
 
 viewless things, 
 Sowing the seed of wisdom, guarding the living 
 
 springs. 
 
 Little they reckoned privation, hunger or hard- 
 ship or cold, 
 
 If only the life might prosper, and the joy that 
 grows not old. 
 
 With sorceries subtler than music, with knowl- 
 edge older than speech, 
 
 Gentle as wind in the wheat-field, strong as the 
 tide on the beach, 
 
 Out of their beauty and longing, out of their 
 
 raptures and tears, 
 In patience and pride they bore us, to war with 
 
 the warring years. 
 
 2. 
 
 Who looked on the world before them, and sum- 
 moned and chose our sires, 
 
 Subduing the wayward impulse to the will of 
 their deep desires? 
 
 53
 
 Sovereigns of ultimate issues under the greater The Givers 
 laws, of Life. 
 
 Theirs was the mystic mission of the eternal 
 cause ; 
 
 Confident, tender, courageous, leaving the low 
 
 for the higher, 
 Lifting the feet of the nations out of the dust 
 
 and the mire ; 
 
 Luring civilization on to the fair and new, 
 Given God's bidding to follow, having God's 
 business to do. 
 
 3- 
 
 Who strengthened our souls with courage, and 
 taught us the ways of Earth ? 
 
 Who gave us our patterns of beauty, our stand- 
 ards of flawless worth ? 
 
 Mothers, unmilitant, lovely, moulding our man- 
 hood then, 
 
 Walked in their woman's glory, swaying the 
 might of men. 
 
 They schooled us to service and honor, modest 
 
 and clean and fair, — 
 The code of their worth of living, taught with the 
 
 sanction of prayer. 
 
 They were our sharers of sorrow, they were our 
 
 makers of joy, 
 Lighting the lamp of manhood in tne heart of 
 
 the lonely boy. 
 
 59
 
 The Givers Haloed with love and with wonder, in sheltered 
 
 of Life. ways they tr()d) 
 
 Seers of sublime divination, keeping the truce of 
 God. 
 
 4- 
 Who called us from youth and dreaming, and 
 
 set ambition alight, 
 And made us fit for the contest, — men, by their 
 
 tender rite ? 
 
 Sweethearts above our merit, charming our 
 
 strength and skill 
 To be the pride of their loving, to be the means 
 
 of their will. 
 
 If we be the builders of beauty, if we be the 
 
 masters of art, 
 Theirs were the gleaming ideals, theirs the uplift 
 
 of the heart. 
 
 Truly they measure the lightness of trappings 
 
 and ease and fame, 
 For the teeming desire of their yearning is ever 
 
 and ever the same : 
 
 To crown their lovers with gladness, to clothe 
 
 their sons with delight, 
 And see the men of their making lords in the 
 
 best man's right. 
 
 Lavish of joy and labor, broken only by wrong, 
 These are the guardians of being, spirited, sen- 
 tient and strong. 
 
 60
 
 Theirs is the starry vision, theirs the inspiriting The Givers 
 
 i of Life. 
 
 hope, J ' 
 
 Since Wight, the brooding enchantress, promised 
 
 that day should ope. 
 
 5- 
 
 Lo, we have built and invented, reasoned, dis- 
 covered and planned, 
 
 To rear us a palace of splendor, and make us a 
 heaven by hand. 
 
 We are shaken with dark misgiving, as king- 
 doms rise and fall; 
 
 But the women who went to found them are 
 never counted at all. 
 
 Versed in the soul's traditions, skilled in humanity's 
 
 lore, 
 They wait for their crown of rapture, and weep for 
 
 the sins of war. 
 
 And behold they turn from our triumphs, as it 
 was in the first of days, 
 
 For a little heaven of ardor and a little hearten- 
 ing of praise. 
 
 These are the rulers of kingdoms beyond the 
 
 domains of state, 
 Martyrs of all men's folly, over-rulers of fate. 
 
 These we will love and honor, these we will 
 
 serve and defend, 
 Fulfilling the pride of nature, till nature shall 
 
 have an end. 
 
 61
 
 6. 
 The Givers This is the code unwritten, this is the creed we 
 o/Life - hold, 
 
 Guarding the little and lonely, gladdening the 
 helpless and old, — 
 
 Apart from the brunt of the battle our wondrous 
 
 women shall bide, 
 For the sake of a tranquil wisdom and the need 
 
 of a spirit's guide. 
 
 Come they into assembly, or keep they another 
 
 door, 
 Our makers of life shall lighten the days as the 
 
 years of yore. 
 
 The lure of their laughter shall lead us, the lilt 
 
 of their words shall sway. 
 Though life and death should defeat us, their 
 
 solace shall be our stay. 
 
 Veiled in mysterious beauty, vested in magical 
 
 grace, 
 They have walked with angels at twilight and 
 
 looked upon glory's face. 
 
 Life we will give for their safety, care for their 
 
 fruitful ease, 
 Though we break at the toiling benches or go 
 
 down in the smoky seas. 
 
 This is the gospel appointed to govern a world 
 of men, 
 
 Till love has died, and the echoes have whis- 
 pered the last Amen. 
 
 62
 
 IN THE DAY OF BATTLE. 
 "N the day of battle, 
 In the night of dread, 
 Let one hymn be lifted, 
 Let one prayer be said. 
 
 r 
 
 Not for pride of conquest, 
 Not for vengeance wrought, 
 Nor for peace and safety 
 With dishonor bought ! 
 
 Praise for faith in freedom, 
 Our fighting fathers' stay, 
 Born of dreams and daring, 
 Bred above dismay. 
 
 Prayer for cloudles-s vision, 
 And the valiant hand, 
 That the right may triumph 
 To the last demand. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 THE sleeping tarn is dark 
 Below the wooded hill. 
 Save for its homing sounds, 
 The twilit world grows still. 
 
 And I am left to muse 
 In grave-eyed mystery, 
 And watch the stars come out 
 As sandalled dusk goes by.
 
 Peace. And now the light is gone, 
 The drowsy murmurs cease, 
 And through the still unknown 
 I wonder whence comes peace. 
 
 Then softly falls the word 
 Of one beyond a name, 
 " Peace only comes to him 
 Who guards his life from shame, • 
 
 " Who gives his heart to love, 
 And holding truth for guide, 
 Girds him with fearless strength, 
 That freedom may abide." 
 
 TREES. 
 
 IN the Garden of Eden, planted by God, 
 There were goodly trees in the springing 
 sod, — 
 
 Trees of beauty and height and grace, 
 To stand in splendor before His face. 
 
 Apple and hickory, ash and pear, 
 Oak and beech and the tulip rare, 
 
 The trembling aspen, the noble pine, 
 The sweeping elm by the river line ; 
 
 Trees for the birds to build and sing, 
 And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; 
 
 64
 
 Trees to turn at the frosty call Trees. 
 
 And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall ; 
 
 Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, 
 Trees for the cunning builder's trade ; 
 
 Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, 
 The keel and the mast of the daring sail ; 
 
 He made them of every grain and girth 
 For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. 
 
 Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes 
 From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, 
 
 On the crown of a hill, for all to see, 
 God planted a scarlet maple tree. 
 
 IN OCTOBER. 
 
 'OW come the rosy dogwoods, 
 The golden tulip-tree, 
 And the scarlet yellow maple, 
 To make a day for me. 
 
 N' 
 
 The ash-trees on the ridges, 
 The alders in the swamp, 
 Put on their red and purple 
 To join the autumn pomp. 
 
 The woodbine hangs her crimson 
 Along the pasture wall, 
 And all the bannered sumacs 
 Have heard the frosty call. 
 
 65
 
 in October. Who then so dead to valor 
 As not to raise a cheer, 
 When all the woods are marching 
 In triumph of the year? 
 
 FIRESIDE VISION. 
 
 ONCE I walked the world enchanted 
 Through the scented woods of spring, 
 Hand in hand with Love, in rapture 
 Just to hear a bluebird sing. 
 
 Now the lonely winds of autumn 
 Moan about my gusty eaves, 
 As I sit beside the fire 
 Listening to the flying leaves. 
 
 As the dying embers settle 
 And the twilight falls apace, 
 Through the gloom I see a vision 
 Full of ardor, full of grace. 
 
 When the Architect of Beauty 
 Breathed the lyric soul in man, 
 Lo, the being that he fashioned 
 Was of such a mould and plan ! 
 
 Bravely through the deepening shadows 
 Moves that figure half divine, 
 With its tenderness of bearing, 
 With its dignity of line. 
 
 66
 
 Eyes more wonderful than evening a Fireside 
 With the new moon on the hill, Vision. 
 
 Mouth with traces of God's humor 
 In its corners lurking still. 
 
 Ah, she smiles, in recollection ; 
 Lays a hand upon my brow ; 
 Rests this head upon Love's bosom ! 
 Surely it is April now ! 
 
 THE BLUE HERON. 
 
 I SEE the great blue heron 
 Rising among the reeds 
 And floating down the wind, 
 Like a gliding sail 
 With the set of the stream. 
 
 I hear the two-horse mower 
 Clacking among the hay, 
 In the heat of a July noon, 
 And the driver's voice 
 As he turns his team. 
 
 I see the meadow lilies 
 
 Flecked with their darker tan, 
 
 The elms, and the great white clouds; 
 
 And all the world 
 
 Is a passing dream. 
 
 67
 
 WINTER PIECE. 
 
 OVER the rim of a lacquered bowl, 
 Where a cold blue water-color stands, 
 I see the wintry breakers roll 
 And heave their froth up the freezing sands. 
 
 Here in immunity safe and dull, 
 
 Soul treads her circuit of trivial things. 
 
 There soul's brother, a shining gull, 
 
 Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings. 
 
 THE GHOST-YARD OF THE GOLDENROD. 
 
 WHEN the first silent frost has trod 
 The ghost-yard of the goldenrod, 
 
 And laid the blight of his cold hand 
 Upon the warm autumnal land, 
 
 And all things wait the subtle change 
 That men call death, is it not strange 
 
 That I — without a care or need, 
 Who only am an idle weed — 
 
 Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, 
 The coming of the final cold ! 
 
 68
 
 BEFORE THE SNOW. 
 
 NOW soon, ah, very soon, I know 
 The trumpets of the north will blow, 
 And the great winds will come to bring 
 The pale wild riders of the snow. 
 
 Darkening the sun with level flight, 
 At arrowy speed, they will alight, 
 Unnumbered as the desert sands, 
 To bivouac on the edge of night. 
 
 Then I, within their somber ring, 
 Shall hear a voice that seems to sing, 
 Deep, deep within my tranquil heart, 
 The valiant prophecy of spring. 
 
 WINTER TWILIGHT. 
 
 ALONG the wintry skyline, 
 Crowning the rocky crest, 
 Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees 
 Against the saffron west, — 
 Its gray and purple network 
 Of branching tracery 
 Outspread upon the lucent air, 
 Like weed within the sea. 
 
 The scarlet robe of autumn 
 
 Renounced and put away, 
 
 The mystic Earth is fairer still, — 
 
 A Puritan in gray. 
 
 The spirit of the'winter, 
 
 How tender, how austere ! 
 
 Yet all the ardor of the spring 
 
 And summer's dream are here. 
 
 69
 
 Winter Fear not, timid lover, 
 Twilight. The touch Qf £rost and rjme , 
 
 This is the virtue that sustained 
 The roses in their prime. 
 The anthem of the northwind 
 Shall hallow thy despair, 
 The benediction of the snow 
 Be answer to thy prayer. 
 
 And now the star of evening 
 That is the pilgrim's sign, 
 Is lighted in the primrose dusk, — 
 A lamp before a shrine. 
 Peace fills the mighty minster, 
 Tranquil and gray and old, 
 And all the chancel of the west 
 Is bright with paling gold. 
 
 A little wind goes sifting 
 
 Along the meadow floor, — 
 
 Like steps of lovely penitents 
 
 Who sighingly adore. 
 
 Then falls the twilight curtain, 
 
 And fades the eerie light, 
 
 And frost and silence turn the keys 
 
 In the great doors of night. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS EVE CHORAL. 
 TJALLELUJA! 
 
 What sound is this across the dark 
 While all the earth is sleeping? Hark / 
 Halleluja ! Halleluja .' Halleluja ! 
 
 70
 
 Why are thy tender eyes so bright, m^Eve 
 
 Mary, Mary? choral. 
 
 Oir" the prophetic deep of night 
 
 Joseph, Joseph, 
 
 I see the borders of the light, 
 
 And in the day that is to be 
 
 An aureoled man-child I see, 
 
 Great love's son, Joseph. 
 
 Halleluja / 
 
 He hears not, but she hears afar, 
 The Minstrel Angel of the star. 
 Halleluja ! Halleluja / Halleluja / 
 
 Why is thy gentle smile so deep, 
 
 Mary, Mary? 
 
 It is the secret I must keep, 
 
 Joseph, Joseph, — 
 
 The joy that will not let me sleep, 
 
 The glory of the coming days, 
 
 When all the world shall turn to praise 
 
 God's goodness, Joseph. 
 
 Halleluja ! 
 
 Clear as the bird that brings the morn 
 She hears the heavenly music borne. 
 Hallehija ! Halleluja / Halleluja ! 
 
 Why is thy radiant face so calm, 
 
 Mary, Mary? 
 
 His strength is like a royal palm, 
 
 Joseph, Joseph; 
 
 His beauty like the victor's psalm, 
 
 He moves like morning o'er the lands 
 
 And there is healing in his hands 
 
 For sorrow, Joseph. 
 
 7 1
 
 a Christ- Halleluja / 
 
 'ctoralf Tender as deiu-fall on the earth 
 
 She hears the choral of love 's birth. 
 
 Halleluja / Halleluja ! Halleluja / 
 
 What is the message come to thee, 
 
 Mary, Mary? 
 
 I hear like wind within the tree, 
 
 Joseph, Joseph, 
 
 Or like a far-off melody 
 
 His deathless voice proclaiming peace, 
 
 And bidding ruthless wrong to cease, 
 
 For love's sake, Joseph. 
 
 Halleluja / 
 
 Moving as rain-wind in the spring 
 She hears the angel chorus ring. 
 Halleluja 1 Halleluja ! Halleluja .> 
 
 Why are thy patient hands so still, 
 
 Mary, Mary? 
 
 I see the shadow on the hill, 
 
 Joseph, Joseph, 
 
 And wonder if it is God's will 
 
 That courage, service, and glad youth 
 
 Shall perish in the cause of truth 
 
 Forever, Joseph. 
 
 Halleluja / 
 
 Her heart in that celestial chime 
 Has heard the harmony of time. 
 Halleluja I Halleluja ! Halleluja / 
 
 72
 
 Why is thy voice so strange and far, A Christ- 
 en -\ix i mas Eve 
 
 Mary, Mary ? ChoraL 
 
 ,1 see the glory of the star, 
 Joseph, Joseph, 
 
 And in its light all things that are 
 Made glad and wise beyond the sway 
 Of death and darkness and dismay, 
 In God's time, Joseph. 
 
 Halleluja / 
 
 To every heart in love V is given 
 To hear the ecstasy of heaven. 
 Halleluja ! Halleluja / Halleluja I 
 
 r 
 
 THE SENDING OF THE MAGI. 
 
 "N a far Eastern country 
 It happened long of yore, 
 Where a lone and level sunrise 
 Flushes the desert floor, 
 That three kings sat together 
 And a spearman kept the door. 
 
 Gaspar, whose wealth was counted 
 By city and caravan ; 
 With Melchior, the seer 
 Who read the starry plan ; 
 And Balthasar, the blameless, 
 Who loved his fellow man. 
 
 There while they talked, a sudden 
 Strange rushing sound arose, 
 And as with startled faces 
 They thought upon their foes, 
 Three figures stood before them 
 In imperial repose. 
 
 73
 
 The Send- One in flame-gold and one in blue 
 Z Magi. And one in scarlet clear, 
 With the almighty portent 
 Of sunrise they drew near ! 
 And the kings made obeisance 
 With hand on breast, in fear. 
 
 " Arise," said they, " we bring you 
 Good tidings of great peace ! 
 To-day a power is wakened 
 Whose working must increase, 
 Till fear and greed and malice 
 And violence shall cease." 
 
 The messengers were Michael, 
 By whom all things are wrought 
 To shape and hue ; and Gabriel 
 Who is the lord of thought; 
 And Rafael without whose love 
 All toil must come to nought. 
 
 Then Rafael said to Balthasar, 
 " In a country west from here 
 A lord is born in lowliness, 
 In love without a peer. 
 Take grievances and gifts to him 
 And prove his kingship clear ! 
 
 " By this sign ye shall know him ; 
 Within his mother's arm 
 Among the sweet-breathed cattle 
 He slumbers without harm, 
 While wicked hearts are troubled 
 And tyrants take alarm." 
 
 74
 
 And Gabriel said to Melchior, l^ %f 
 
 " My comrade, I will send Magi. 
 
 -My star to go before you, 
 That ye may comprehend 
 Where leads your mystic learning 
 In a humaner trend." 
 
 And Michael said to Gaspar, 
 " Thou royal builder, go 
 With tribute of thy riches ! 
 Though time shall overthrow 
 Thy kingdom, no undoing 
 His gentle might shall know." 
 
 Then while the kings' hearts greatened 
 
 And all the chamber shone, 
 
 As when the hills at sundown 
 
 Take a new glory on 
 
 And the air thrills with purple, 
 
 Their visitors were gone. 
 
 Then straightway up rose Gaspar, 
 
 Melchior and Balthasar, 
 
 And passed out through the murmur 
 
 Of palace and bazar, 
 
 To make without misgiving 
 
 The journey of the Star. 
 
 75
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 ABOVE the weary waiting world, 
 . Asleep in chill despair, 
 There breaks a sound of joyous bells 
 Upon the frosted air. 
 And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo, 
 A star is dancing on the snow. 
 
 What makes the yellow star to dance 
 
 Upon the brink of night ? 
 
 What makes the breaking dawn to glow 
 
 So magically bright, — 
 
 And all the earth to be renewed 
 
 With infinite beatitude ? 
 
 The singing bells, the throbbing star, 
 
 The sunbeams on the snow, 
 
 And the awakening heart that leaps 
 
 New ecstasy to know, — 
 
 They all are dancing in the morn 
 
 Because a little child is born. 
 
 N< 
 
 WINTER STREAMS. 
 
 TOW the little rivers go 
 
 Muffled safely under snow, 
 
 And the winding meadow streams 
 Murmur in their wintry dreams, 
 
 While a tinkling music wells 
 Faintly from their icy bells, 
 
 Telling how their hearts are bold 
 Though the very sun be cold. 
 
 76
 
 Ah, but wait until the rain Winter 
 
 Comes a-sighing once again, 
 
 Sweeping softly from the Sound 
 Over ridge and meadow ground ! 
 
 Then the little streams will hear 
 April calling far and near, — 
 
 Slip their snowy bands and run 
 Sparkling in the welcome sun. 
 
 77
 
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