Chapter 2

He clung upon the canyon's ledge And from its topmost ridge, Above its vast and awful deeps, He built himself a bridge.

A bauble in the light of day, New gilded by the sun, It seemed like some great, golden web By giant spider spun!

The homeless winds came rushing down-- Oh they were wild and free! And angry for their stolen plain And for their felled pine tree--

And angry--angry most of all For that brave bridge of gold! With deep-mouthed shout they hurtled down To tear it from its hold--

The girders shrieked, the cables strained And shuddered at the roar-- Yet, when the winds had passed, the bridge Held firmly as before!

Still fairy-like and frail it shone Against the sunset's glow-- But one, the builder of the bridge, Lay silent, far below!

The Prairie School

THE sweet west wind, the prairie school a break in the yellow wheat, The prairie trail that wanders by to the place where the four winds meet-- A trail with never an end at all to the children's eager feet.

The morning scents, the morning sun, a morning sky so blue The distance melts to meet it till both are lost to view In a little line of glory where the new day beckons through--

And out of the glow, the children: a whoop and a calling gay, A clink of lunch-pails swinging as they clash in mimic fray, A shout and a shouting echo from a world as young as they!

The prairie school! The well-tramped earth, so ugly and so dear, The piney steps where teacher stands, a saucy gopher near, A rough-cut pole where the flag flies up to a shrill voiced children's cheer.

So stands the outpost! Time and change will crowd its widening door, Big with the dreams we visioned and the hopes we battled for-- A legacy to those who come from those who come no more.

Calgary Station

DAZZLED by sun and drugged by space they wait, These homeless peoples, at our prairie gate; Dumb with the awe of those whom fate has hurled, Breathless, upon the threshold of a world!

From near-horizoned, little lands they come, From barren country-side and deathly slum, From bleakest wastes, from lands of aching drouth, From grape-hung valleys of the smiling South, From chains and prisons, ay, from horrid fear, (Mark you the furtive eye, the listening ear!) And all amazed and silent, scared and shy-- An alien group beneath an alien sky!

See--on that bench beside the busy door-- There sleeps a Roman born: upon the floor His wife, dark-haired and handsome, takes her rest, Their black-eyed baby tugging at her breast. Her hands lie still. Her brooding glances roam Above the pushing crowd to her far home, And slow she smiles to think how fine 'twill be When they (so rich!) return to Italy.

Yonder, with stolid face and tragic eye, Sits a lone Russian; as we pass him by He neither stirs nor looks; his inner gaze Sees not the future fair, but, troubled, strays To the dark land he left but can't forget, Whose bonds, though broken, hold him prisoner yet.

Here is a Pole--a worker; though so slim His muscle is of steel--no fear for him; He is the breed which conquers; he is nerved To fight and fight again. Too long he served, Man of a subject race! His fierce, blue eye Roams like a homing eagle o'er the sky, So limitless, so deep! for such as he Life has no higher bliss than to be free.

This little Englishman with jaunty air And tweed cap perched awry on close-trimmed hair-- He, with his faded wife and noisy band, Has come from Home to seek a promised land-- He feels himself aggrieved, for no one said That things would be so big and so--outspread! He thinks of London with a pang of grief; His wife is sobbing in her handkerchief. But all his children stare with eager eyes. This is their land. Already they surmise Their heritage, their chance to live and grow, Won for them by their fathers, long ago!

Another generation, and this Scot, Whose longing for the hills is ne'er forgot, Shall rear a son whose eye will never be Dim with a craving for that distant sea, Those barren rocks, that heather's purple glow-- The ache, the burn that only exiles know!

This Irishman, who, when he sees the Green, Turns that his shaking lips may not be seen, He, too, shall bear a son who, blythe and gay, Sings the old songs but in a cheerier way! Who has the love, without the anguish sharp, For Erin dreamingly by her golden harp!

All these and many others, patient, wait Before our ever-open prairie gate And, filing through with laughter or with tears, Take what their hands can glean of fruitful years. Here some find home who knew not home before; Here some seek peace and some wage glorious war. Here some who lived in night see morning dawn And some drop out and let the rest go on. And of them all the years take toll; they pass As shadows flit above the prairie grass.

From every land they come to know but one-- The kindly earth that hides them from the sun-- But, in their places, children live, and they Turn with glad faces to a common day. Of every land, they too, but one land claim-- The land that gives them place and hope and name-- Canadians, they, and proud and glad to be A part of Canada's sure destiny! What if within their hearts deep memories hide Of lands their fathers grieved for, till they died? The bitterness is gone and in its stead New understanding and new hopes are bred, With wider vision which may show the world Its cannon dumb, its battle-flags close furled! --Dreams? We may dream indeed, with heart elate, While a new Nation clamors at our gate!

Vale*

LONE Voyager! Thy Ship of Dreams Spreads its free sail and slips away Into the distant visioning That lies behind the end of day.

The restless tide's impatient wave In from the broad Pacific rolls And sunset marks a mystic way To the far-shining Port of Souls.

We, watching on the darkening shore, Wave you farewell, and strain our eyes Till that bright speck which is your sail Is lost in the enfolding skies.

Brave Heart, Sweet Singer! Speed you well To those dim islands of the blest, Far--far--and ever farther, till The end of distance brings you rest!

* For Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake.)

The Way to Wait

O WHETHER by the lonesome road that lies across the lea Or whether by the hill that stoops, rock-shadowed, to the sea, Or by a sail that blows from far, my love returns to me!

No fear is hidden in my heart to make my face less fair, No tear is hidden in my eye to dim the brightness there-- I wear upon my cheek the rose a happy bride should wear.

For should he come not by the road, and come not by the hill And come not by the far seaway, yet come he surely will-- Close all the roads of all the world, love's road is open still!

My heart is light with singing (though they pity me my fate And drop their merry voices as they pass the garden gate) For love that finds a way to come, can find a way to wait!

The Passer-By

WE are as children in a field at play Beside a road whose way we do not know, Save that somewhere it meets the end of day.

Upon the road there is a Passer-By Who, pausing, beckons one of us--and lo! Quickly he goes, nor stays to tell us why.

One day I shall look up and see him there Beckoning me, and with the Passer-By I, too, shall take the road--I wonder where?

First Love

BY the pulse that beats in my throat By my heart like a bird I know who passed through the dusk Though he spoke no word!

I cannot move in my place, I am chained and still; I pray that the moon pause not By my window-sill.

I have hidden my face in my hair And my eyes are veiled-- Not even a star must know How my lips have paled--

Was ever a night so quick 'Neath a moon so round? I hear the earth as it turns-- And my heart's low sound!

Sad One, Must You Weep

"SAD one, must you weep alway? Youth's ill wedded with despair; Ringless hand and robe of grey Mock the charms which they declare."

Sad and sweetly answered she, "What are comely robes to me? I would wear a grass green dress, Dew pearls for my gems--no less Now can comfort me."

"Sweet, the shining of your hair (All forgotten and undone) Squanders 'neath the veil you wear Gold whose loss bereaves the sun."

Very sad and low said she, "What is shining hair to me? When from out the rain-wet mold Kingcups borrow of its gold Sweet and sweet 'twill be."

"Love, O Love! your hand is chill As a snowflake lost in spring, Wild it flutters--then lies still As a bird with prisoned wing!"

Sad and patient answered she, "As a bird I would be free; As the spring I would find birth In the sweet, forgetful earth-- Pray you, let it be!"

Joseph

NEVER in all her sweet and holy youth Seemed she so beautiful! The tired lines Etch her white face with look so wholly pure I tremble--dare I speak to her of aught?-- She is so wrapt in silence. Yet her lips Part on a word whose honey she doth taste And fears to lose by uttering too soon. I know the word; its meaning is plain writ In the wide eyes she turns upon the Child. I dare not speak. No word of mine could find Its way into a soul close sealed with God And busy with the thousand mysteries Revealed to every mother. The soft hair Veiling her placid brow is all unbound, Ungentle hands are mine but, trained by love, She might conceive them gentle--yet, I pause-- I'll not disturb her thought . . . . .

What meant those men, Far-famed and wise, who came to see the Child? Their gifts lie by forgotten, though the Babe Smiled on the shining treasure in his hands. (Those tiny hands like crumpled bits of gauze) Their sayings were mysterious to me. "A King!" they said. What King?

The mother smiled As one who knew; and it is true they knelt As to a King. The thing disturbs me much! I'll ask--but no . . . . .

The breathless shepherds, too; Plain men, blank-eyed with awe, in broken speech Stumbling some strange, glad tale of midnight sky A-shine with angel wings! And at their word Again the mother smiled, as one who sees No wonder but what well might happen since A child is born to her. Are mothers so? And are they prone to dream the careless earth And distant heaven wait upon their joy? I'll speak to her . . . . .

What is that in her look Which answers me--yet leaves me wondering still, With wonder so like rapture that I seem Caught up a breathless second into Heaven? She turns deep eyes upon me, and she smiles, Always she smiles! Ah, Mary! could I know The source of that glad smile--what would I know? I dare not dream, save that the mystery Is not yet given . . . one day I may know!

A Christmas Child

SHE came to me at Christmas time and made me mother, and it seemed There was a Christ indeed and He had given me the joy I'd dreamed.

She nestled to me, and I kept her near and warm, surprised to find The arms that held my babe so close were opened wider to her kind.

I hid her safe within my heart. "My heart" I said, "is all for you," But lo! She left the door ajar and all the world came flocking through.

She needed me. I learned to know the royal joy that service brings, She was so helpless that I grew to love all little helpless things.

She trusted me, and I who ne'er had trusted, save in self, grew cold With panic lest this precious life should know no stronger, surer hold.

She lay and smiled and in her eyes I watched my narrow world grow broad, Within her tiny, crumpled hand I touched the mighty hand of God!

Spring in Nazareth

"THE Spring is come!" a shepherd saith; Sing, sweet Mary, "The Spring is come to Nazareth And swift the Summer hurrieth." Sing low, the barley and the corn!

Across the field a path is set-- Sing, sweet Mary, Green shadow in a golden net-- The tears of night have left it wet. Sing low, the barley and the corn!

The Babe forsakes His mother's knee, Haste, sweet Mary-- See how He runneth merrily, One foot upon the path hath He-- Green, green, the barley and the corn!

The mother calls with mother-fear-- Hush, sweet Mary! Another sound is in His ear, A sound he cannot choose but hear-- Hush, hush, the barley and the corn!

Far and still far--through years yet dim List, sweet Mary! From o'er the waking earth's green rim Another Springtime calleth Him! Bend low, the barley and the corn!

Call low, call high, and call again, Ah, poor Mary! Know, by thy heart's prophetic pain, That one day thou shalt call in vain-- Moan, moan, the barley and the corn!

O mother! make thine arms a shield, Sing, sweet Mary! While love still holds what love must yield Hide well the path across the field!-- Sing low, the barley and the corn!

. . . . .

"The Spring is come!" a shepherd saith; Rest thee, Mary-- The passing years are but a breath And Spring still comes to Nazareth-- Green, green, the barley and the corn!

Inheritance

THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said, "I will be great!" And through a long, long life he bravely knocked At Fame's closed gate.

A son he left who, like his sire, strove High place to win;-- Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace That he had been.

He also left a son, who, without care Or planning how, Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame Upon his brow.

"Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!" The people cried; Not knowing that to make him what he was Two men had died.

Song of the Sleeper

SLEEPER rest quietly Deep underground! Lord of your kingdom Of murmurous sound. Hear the grass growing Sweet for the mowing; Hear the stars sing As they travel around-- Grass blade and star dust, You, I, and all of us, One with the cause of us, Deep underground!

Murmur not, sleeper! Yours is the key To all things that were and To all things that be-- While the lark's trilling, While the grain's filling, Laugh with the wind At Life's Riddle-me-ree! How you were born of it? Why was the thorn of it? Where the new morn of it? Yours is the Key!

Sleep deeper, brother! Sleep and forget Red lips that trembled Eyes that were wet-- Though love be weeping, Turn to your sleeping, Life has no giving That death need regret. Here at the end of all Hear the Beginning call, Life's but death's seneschal-- Sleep and forget!

The Tyrant

ONE comes with foot insistent to my door, Calling my name; Nor voice nor footstep have I heard before, Yet clear the calling sounds and o'er and o'er-- It seems the sunlight burns along the floor With paler flame!

"'Tis vain to call with morning on the wing, With noon so near, With Life a dancer in the masque of Spring And Youth new wedded with a golden ring-- When falls the night and birds have ceased to sing My heart may hear!

"'Tis vain to pause. Pass, friend, upon your way! I may not heed; Too swift the hours; too sweet, too brief the day: Only one life, one spring, one perfect May-- I crush each moment, with its sweets to stay Life's joyous greed!

"Call not again! The wind is roaming by Across the heath-- The Wind's a tell-tale and will bear your sigh To dim the smiling gladness of the sky Or kill the spring's first violets that lie In purple sheath--

"If you must call, call low! My heart grows still, Still as my breath, Still as your smile, O Ancient One! A chill Strikes through the sun upon the window-sill-- I know you now--I follow where you will, O tyrant Death!"

The Gifts

I GIVE you Life, O child, a garden fair; I give you Love, a rose that blossoms there-- I give a day to pluck it and to wear!

I give you Death, O child--a boon more great-- That, when your Rose has withered and 'tis late, You may pass out and, smiling, close the gate!

The Town Between

A WALL impregnable surrounds The Town wherein I dwell; No man may scale it and it has Two gates that guard it well.

One opened long ago, and I A vagrant soul, slipped through, Bewildered and forgetting all The wider world I knew.

I love the Town, the narrow ways, The common, yellow sun, The handclasp and the jesting and The work that must be done!

I shun the other gate that stands Beyond the crowded mart-- I need but glance that way to feel Cold fingers on my heart!

It stands alone and somberly Within a shaded place, And every man who turns that way Has quiet on his face.

And every man must rise and leave His pleasant homely door To vanish through this silent gate And enter in no more--

Yet--once--I saw its opening throw A brighter light about And glimpsed strange glory on the brow Of someone passing out!

I wonder if Outside may be One fair and great demesne Where both gates open, careless of The Town that lies between?

On the Mountain

THE top of the world and an empty morning, Mist sweeping in from the dim Outside, The door of day just a little bit open-- The wind's great laugh as he flings it wide!

O wind, here's one who would travel with you To the far bourne you alone may know-- There would I seek what some one is hiding, There would I find where my longings go!

To some deep calm would I drift and nestle Close to the heart of the Great Surprise. O strong wind, do you laugh to see us? We are so little and oh, so wise!

The Prophet

HE trod upon the heights; the rarer air Which common people seek, yet cannot bear, Fed his high soul and kindled in his eye The fire of one who cries "I prophesy!"

"Look up!" he said. They looked but could not see. "Help us!" they cried. He strove, but uselessly-- The very clouds which veiled the heaven they sought Hid from his eyes the hearts of them he taught!

Give Me a Day

GIVE me a day, beloved, that I may set A jewel in my heart--I'll brave regret, If, on the morrow, you shall say "forget"!

One golden day when dawn shall blush to noon And noon incline to dark, and, oversoon, My joy lie buried 'neath a rounded moon.

Only a day--it's worth you scarce could tell From other days; but in my life 'twill dwell An oasis with palm trees and a well!

Little Brown Bird

O LITTLE brown bird in the rain, In the sweet rain of spring, How you carry the youth of the world In the bend of your wing! For you the long day is for song And the night is for sleep-- With never a sunrise too soon Or a midnight too deep!

For you every pool is the sky, Breaking clouds chasing through,-- A heaven so instant and near That you bathe in its blue!-- And yours is the freedom to rise To some song-haunted star Or sink on soft wing to the wood Where your brown nestlings are.

So busy, so strong and so glad, So care-free and young, So tingling with life to be lived And with songs to be sung, O little brown bird!--with your heart That's the heart of the Spring-- How you carry the hope of the world In the bend of your wing!

The Watcher

THE long road and the low shore, a sail against the sky, The ache in my heart's core, and hope so hard to die-- Ah me, but the day's long--and all the sails go by!

The long road and the dark shore, pools with stars aflame, The ache in my heart's core, the hope I dare not name-- Ah, me, but the night's long--and every night the same!

Possession

A YOUTH sat down on a wayside stone, A pack on his back and a staff at his knee. He whistled a tune which he called his own, "It's a fine new tune, that tune!" said he.

In his pack he carried a crust of bread, And he drank from his hands at a brook hard by; "Spring water is wonderful cool," he said, "And wonderful soft is the summer sky!"

He looked to the hill which his steps had passed, He looked to the slope where a brooklet purled, He looked to the distance blue and vast And "Ah," cried he, "what a fine, wide world!"

The youth passed on down the winding track That led to the beckoning distance dim, And though he carried but staff and pack, The world and its giving belonged to him.

To Arcady

"TELL me, Singer, of the way Winding down to Arcady? Of the world's roads I am weary-- You, with song so brave and cheery, Happy troubadour must be On the way to Arcady?"

Pausing on a muted note, Song forsook the Singer's throat, "Friend," sighed he, "you come too late, Once I could the way relate, Once--but long ago; Ah me, Far away is Arcady!"

"Tell me, Poet, of the way Winding down to Arcady? Haunting is your verse and airy With the grace and gleam of faery-- Dweller you must surely be In the land of Arcady?"

Slow the Poet raised his eyes, Sad were they as winter skies, "Once, I sojourned there," he said; Then, no more--but with bent head Whispered low, "Ask not of me That lost road to Arcady!"

Tell me, Lover, of the way Winding down to Arcady? Some sweet bourne your haste confesses-- Know you paths no other guesses? Does your gaze, so far away, See the road to Arcady?

In the Lover's eyes there gleamed Radiance of all things dreamed-- "Nay, detain me not," he cried "I am hasting to my bride; What have roads to do with me, Love's at home in Arcady!"

The Fields of Even

O STILLER than the fields that lie Beneath the morning heaven, And sweeter than day's gardens are The purple fields of even!

The vapor rises, silver-eyed, Leaving the dew-wet clover, With groping, mist-white hands outspread To greet the sky, her lover.

Ripples the brook, a thread of sound Close-woven through the quiet, Blending the jarring tones that day Would stir to noisy riot.

And all the glory seems so near A common man may win it-- When every earth-bound lakelet holds A million stars within it.

A common man, who in the day Lifts not his eyes above him, Roaming the fields of even through May find a God to love him!

I Love My Love

I LOVE my love for she is like a garden in the dawn, Pale, yet pink-flushed, with softly waking eyes, And primrose hair that brightens to gold skies, And petalled lips for dew to linger on.

I love my love for she is like the mirror of the moon, (A sweet, small moon but newly come to birth) So full of heaven is she, so close to earth, So versed in holy spell and magic rune.

I love my love. O words that be too feeble and too few! I love my love!--as April on the hill Brings back earth's morning with each daffodil, So she within my heart makes all things new.

Spring Awoke To-Day

SPRING awoke to-day! Somewhere--far away-- Spring awoke to-day From the depth of dream.

Through the air bestirred Pulse of winging bird, Through the air bestirred Laugh of hidden stream.

On the world's cold lips Fell warm finger-tips; On the world's cold lips Woke the glow and gleam!

Spring awoke to-day! Somewhere--far away-- Spring awoke to-day From the depth of dream!

In Town

SOMEWHERE there's a willow budding In a hollow by the river, Where the autumn leaves lie sodden, Turning all the pool to brown; There's a thrush who's building early, With his feathers all a-shiver, And the maple sap is rising-- But I'm glad that I'm in town.

Somewhere out there in the country There's a brook that's overflowing, And a quaker pussy-willow Sews grey velvet on her gown; Rushes whisper to each other That marsh marigolds are showing, And those saucy crocus fellows-- But I'm glad that I'm in town.

Long ago, when we were younger, How those little things enthralled us; King-birds nesting in the hedges, Baby field-mice soft as down, Muskrats in the sun-warmed shallows-- Strange how all these voices called us!-- Hark, was that a robin singing? When's the next train out of town?

Summer's Passing

A SINGLE branch of flaming red, A branch of tawny yellow And every branch in gorgeousness A rival of its fellow; Some russet brown and faded green With golden shadows in between And mist-hid sun to mellow.

An instinct as of music near-- A breath the wind is bringing, Broken and sweet, as from a host Of swift and solemn winging-- A mystery born of light and sound Wrapping our tranced progress round-- A sighing and a singing!

Thus in a certain lovely pomp We leave the Summer lying-- These are her funeral banners, this The pageantry of dying! The music that we almost hear Is wafted from her passing bier-- The singing and the sighing!

The Doom of Ys