Chapter 2

The pale stalks eddy from knee to waist and rise to my sun-flecked face; Cool on my lips is the daisy foam and the spray of the Queen Anne's lace. With half-shut eyes and outstretched arms I swim through the scented heat. Oh, never were broad sea winds so warm, nor Southern seas so sweet?

There's Music in My Heart To-day

There's music in my heart to-day; The Master-hand is on the keys, Calling me up to the windy hills And down to the purple seas.

Let Time draw back when I hear that tune-- Old to the soul when the stars were new-- And swing the doors to the four great winds, That my feet may wander through.

North or South, and East or West; Over the rim with the bellied sails, From the mountain's feet to the empty plains, Or down the silent trails--

It matters not which door you choose; The same clear tune blows through them all, Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas And one to the rain-bird's call.

However you hide in the city's din And drown your ears with its siren songs, Some day steal in those thin, wild notes, And you leave the foolish throngs.

God grant that the day will find me not When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain-- So long as the plains are red with sun, And the woods are black with rain.

August on the River

The swooning heat of August Swims along the valley's bed. The tall reeds burn and blacken, While the gray elm droops its head, And the smoky sun above the hills is glaring hot and red.

Along the shrinking river, Where the salmon-nets hang brown, Piles the driftwood of the freshets, And the naked logs move down To the clanking chains and shrieking saws of the mills above the town.

Outside the booms of cedar, The fish-hawks drop at noon; When night comes trailing up the stars, We hear the ghostly loon; And watch the herons swing their flight against the crimson moon.

The Wind Tongues

I wandered in the woodlands where the red glades begin, And a wind in every tree-top was talking small and thin: "The dead hand of Winter is knocking at the door, And the white froth of flowers will float no more.

"The gray ranks of grasses are bared of their bees, Their voices sound like falling spume between the leaden seas; We hear beyond the alders where the long swamps lie The creak of broken rushes and the last snipe's cry."

And I marked the poignant sorrow in each high tree tongue, Conferring there above me where the blue moss hung; Till anguish grew from far away and broke in sullen roar, As when a smoking surf meets a rock-ribbed shore.

Musk-Rats

When the mists move down from the barren hill, To roll where the waters are black and chill, When the moonlight gleams on the lily-pads And even the winds are still.

The musk-rats slip from the clammy bank, Where the tangled reeds are long and dank, Where the dew lies white on the iris bed, And the rushes stand in rank.

Their black heads furrow the stagnant stream, While the water breaks in a silver gleam, Till it joins the reeds where the night lies hid And the purple herons dream.

Through the mist and the moon's mysterious light They hear the honking geese take flight, Threshing up from the arrow-heads As the lonely East grows white.

The Kill

Black and white the face of night, And roar the rapids to the moon; Dust of stars beyond the bars, And mirthless laughter of the loon.

Swirling blades through inky shades, And ghostly shadows slipping by; Clogging beds of arrowheads, And jagging spruce tops in the sky,

Rasping groans of birchen cones Re-answering from shore to shore; Through the hush the snapping brush-- Then silence, and the stars once more.

Mutters slow, appealing, low, The throaty pleading of the bark; Roar of might that rends the night-- His body bulking through the dark.

Then the white, cruel tongue of light Leaps stinging in his startled eyes; Red and black the night falls back, The rocking echo drifts and dies.

On the Marshes

Out on the marsh in the misty rain, The air is full of the harsh refrain; The long swamps echo the beat of wings; The birds are back in the reeds again.

Down from the north they wing their way. Out of the east they cross the bay. From north and east they're steering home To the inland ponds at the close of day.

Hid in the sea of reeds we lie, And watch the wild geese driving by; And listen to the plover's piping,-- The gray snipe's thin and lonely cry.

All day over the tangled mass, The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass. The smoke hangs white in the broken rice. The feathers drift in the water-grass.

The Scarlet Trails

Crimson and gold in the paling sky; The rampikes black where they tower on high,-- And we follow the trails in the early dawn Through the glades where the white frosts lie.

Down where the flaming maples meet; Where the leaves are blood before our feet We follow the lure of the twisting paths While the air tastes thin and sweet

Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew The long twin barrels are cold and blue; But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins, And our eyes and hands are true.

Where the sun drifts down from overhead (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed), Rush of wings through the forest aisle-- And the leaves are a brighter red.

Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh; Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die. There's blackened shell in the trampled fern When the white moon swims the sky.

At the Year's End

The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows. The last gray feather to southward goes. Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp, When the lonely north-wind blows.

The harrow and sickle are laid away. The barns are warm with the scent of hay; While Death stalks free in the silent world, Through the gloom of a winter's day.

In the creeping night the black winds cry. The daylight comes like a stifled sigh. The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke Crawls up to a grayer sky.

Winter Winds

Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds are laid on the back of the land, Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting the feet of the plain, Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe at the lift of the hand, And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore moan and sob in their pain.

Never a sail on that sharp straight line that marks the steel of the sky; Never a wing flees in from death to crouch in the rattling reeds; In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines the frozen spume drives high; And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold on the tattered weeds.

A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks of gold, With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists and the daisies topped with bees; And now the last of the year lies dead, the world walks bent, and old, And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps in from the iron seas.

Dead Days

The haws cling to the thorn, Shrivelled and red; The limbs long dead Clutch at a leaf long torn-- It taps all day on the spikes As the spume licks over the dikes.

The reeds creak in the dawn By the dead pond; Dry tongues respond From grasses yellow and drawn; And ever scourged by the wind, The alders clatter and grind.

Vines furred with the frost String from the wall: Their bones recall Summer leaves long lost, Cricket and fly and bee And their low melody.

No bird wails to the waste Of scentless snow, Where streaming low The steel-blue shadows haste; But through the hard night The dead moon takes flight

The Winter Harvest

Between the blackened curbs lie stacked the harvest of the skies, Long lines of frozen, grimy cocks befouled by city feet; On either side the racing throngs, the crowding cliffs, the cries, And ceaseless winds that eddy down to whip the iron street.

The wagons whine beneath their loads, the raw-boned horses strain; A hundred sullen shovels claw and heave the sodden mass-- There lifts no dust of scented moats, no cheery call of swain, Nor birds that pipe from border brush across the yellow grass.

No cow-bells honk from upland fields, no sunset thrushes call To swarthy, bare-limbed harvesters beyond the stubble roads; But flanges grind on frosted steel, the weary snow-picks fall, And twisted, toiling backs are bent to pile the bitter loads.

No shouting from the intervales, no singing from the hill, No scent of trodden tansy weeds among the golden grain----, Only the silent, cringing forms beneath the aching chill. Only the hungry eyes of want in haggard cheeks of pain.

Flowers of the Sky

The snow was four feet deep beyond my door. (I never knew the cold so cruel before.) The frost was white as death, and in the wood Shattered the aching aisles of solitude. Here lay the winter wrapped about with gloom; But overhead God's flowers were in bloom!

At dawn, above the ink-black trunks and night, A pale pink petal drifted with the light; And presently the gates of sun swung wide, And through them flowed a crimson, scented tide: Roses that bloomed and bloomed again and died, Staining the lonely hills on either side.

And scarce were God's fields swept of this warm glow, When purest gold fell softly to the snow-- Petals of gold from where there rolled on high A sea of tulips lapping all the sky. The blossoms clung so close I could not see One nook of empty blue where more could be.

Snow and the winds that eat into the bone, Here where the sun lies cold and waters moan. God's pastures still are bearing for His feet A million purple blooms all dewy sweet: Violets and asters, hyacinths and phlox, And streaming shafts of starry hollyhocks.

Late in the day when I crawled up the hills, Dogged by the cold that tortures ere it kills; I needs must stand and stare beyond the rim, And watch the garden once more laid for Him; Until the moon's great dripping calyx came, And all the myriad star-buds burst in flame.

Then bitter envy gnawed upon my heart. Flowers in Heaven, and I stand here apart! "O God," I cried, "take me from this place, Where I may feel the warm grass brush my face!" Then 'cross the snow a whisper caught my ear: "Peace, for the Spring--the Spring once more is here."