Part 4

With the salt, cool wind in his wing, And the rush of tears that tingle and start, With a throb at the throat so he cannot sing, He nestles him into my lonely heart.

And he tells me of something I cannot name, Something the sea with the sea-wind sings, That somehow he and love are the same, That they float and fly with the same swift wings.

I cherish and cherish my timid guest, For oh, he has grown so dear to me That my heart would break if he left his nest, And dwelt in the strange land down by the sea.

A SONG.

’Tis autumn and down in the fields The buckwheat is browning still: Gather yourself in your cloak, The winter is over the hill.

There’s a cloud of black in the north, The aurora is smouldering behind, There are stars in the parting clouds, And a touch of frost in the wind.

Down in the icy dew The crickets are cheering shrill: “There is time for another song, Though winter is over the hill.”

Out of the great black cloud The aurora leaps and flies, Pushing its phosphor spikes In the deeps of the violet skies.

The moon is wrapped in a film, She looks wan and chill: Gather yourself in your cloak, The winter is over the hill.

SPRING SONG.

Sing me a song of the early spring, Of the yellow light where the clear air cools, Of the lithe willows bourgeoning In the amber pools.

Sing me a song of the spangled dells, Where hepaticas tremble in starry groups, Of the adder-tongue swinging its golden bells As the light wind swoops.

Sing me a song of the shallow lakes, Of the hollow fall of the nimble rill, Of the trolling rapture the robin wakes On the windy hill.

Sing me a song of the gleaming swift, Of the vivid Maryland-yellow-throat, Of the vesper sparrow’s silver drift From the rise remote.

Sing me a song of the crystal cage, Where the tender plants in the frames are set, Where kneels my love Armitage, Planting the pleasant mignonette.

Sing me a song of the glow afar, Of the misty air and the crocus light, Of the new moon following a silver star Through the early night.

SUMMER SONG.

Sing me a song of the summer time, Of the sorrel red and the ruby clover, Where the garrulous bobolinks lilt and chime Over and over.

Sing me a song of the strawberry-bent, Of the black-cap hiding the heap of stones, Of the milkweed drowsy with sultry scent, Where the bee drones.

Sing me a song of the spring head still, Of the dewy fern in the solitude, Of the hermit-thrush and the whippoorwill, Haunting the wood.

Sing me a song of the gleaming scythe, Of the scented hay and the buried wain, Of the mowers whistling bright and blithe, In the sunny rain.

Sing me a song of the quince and the gage, Of the apricot by the orchard wall, Where bends my love Armitage, Gathering the fruit of the windfall.

Sing me a song of the rustling, slow Sway of the wheat as the winds croon, Of the golden disc and the dreaming glow Of the harvest moon.

AUTUMN SONG.

Sing me a song of the autumn clear, With the mellow days and the ruddy eves; Sing me a song of the ending year, With the piled-up sheaves.

Sing me a song of the apple bowers, Of the great grapes the vine-field yields, Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers, And the rich hop-fields.

Sing me a song of the fallen mast, Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds, Of the purple beets left last In the garden beds.

Sing me a song of the toiling bees, Of the long flight and the honey won, Of the white hives under the apple-trees, In the hazy sun.

Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage, Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray, Where goes my love Armitage Pulling the summer savory.

Sing me a song of the red deep, The long glow the sun leaves, Of the swallows taking a last sleep In the barn eaves.

WINTER SONG.

Sing me a song of the dead world, Of the great frost deep and still, Of the sword of fire the wind hurled On the iron hill.

Sing me a song of the driving snow, Of the reeling cloud and the smoky drift, Where the sheeted wraiths like ghosts go Through the gloomy rift.

Sing me a song of the ringing blade, Of the snarl and shatter the light ice makes, Of the whoop and the swing of the snow-shoe raid Through the cedar brakes.

Sing me a song of the apple-loft, Of the corn and the nuts and the mounds of meal, Of the sweeping whir of the spindle soft, And the spinning-wheel.

Sing me a song of the open page, Where the ruddy gleams of the firelight dance, Where bends my love Armitage, Reading an old romance.

Sing me a song of the still nights, Of the large stars steady and high, The aurora darting its phosphor lights In the purple sky.

THE CANADIAN’S HOME-SONG.

There is rain upon the window, There is wind upon the tree; The rain is slowly sobbing, The wind is blowing free: It bears my weary heart To my own country.

I hear the white-throat calling, Hid in the hazel ring; Deep in the misty hollows I hear the sparrows sing; I see the bloodroot starting, All silvered with the spring.

I skirt the buried reed-beds, In the starry solitude; My snowshoes creak and whisper, I have my ready blood. I hear the lynx-cub yelling In the gaunt and shaggy wood.

I hear the wolf-tongued rapid Howl in the rocky break, Beyond the pines at the portage I hear the trapper wake His _En roulant ma boulé_, From the clear gloom of the lake.

Oh! take me back to the homestead, To the great rooms warm and low, Where the frost creeps on the casement, When the year comes in with snow. Give me, give me the old folk Of the dear long ago.

Oh, land of the dusky balsam, And the darling maple-tree, Where the cedar buds and berries, And the pine grows strong and free! My heart is weary and weary For my own country.

MADRIGAL.

Snow-drops now begin in snows, Crocuses to flush, Gentle scilla buds and blows Nurtured in the slush; All about, like tinkling bells, Falls the ice a-melting; Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,— Spring is here, And the wolf is out of his den, O; With a ren, O; and a fen, O; And a den, den, den, O; Sing, dilly dilly.

Slender moon is floating down Through a vat of wine, Bells knoll from the drowsy town, Din—din—dine; All about the red robins Whistle in the dusk; Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,— Spring is here, And the lambs are safe in their pen, O; With a ren, O; and a fen, O; And a den, den, den, O; Sing, dilly dilly.

Comrade virgins clad in green Quaff the nimble air; Each one, if her mate’s unseen, Is the fairest fair; Bran is hidden in the hedge Breathing on his reeds; Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,— Spring is here, And maidens beware of the men, O; With a ren, O; and a fen, O; And a den, den, den, O; Sing, dilly dilly.

WORDS AFTER MUSIC.

Where go all the melodies fair, They that flow and fade in air? Was their beauty all foredone? (Ah, no—no!) Pulse and cadence truth did tell, Vowed to music’s magic spell, Passionate and ineffable.

Where do all the roses go, They that die before the snow? Was their beauty all forsworn? (Ah, no—no!) Flush and odor vowed aright, When they promised rare delight, Perennial and exquisite.

Fragile flowers and melodies Claim a dual paradise, Beauty is not feof to death; (Ah, no—no!) Beauty lives in essence free, In the inner heart we see Beauty’s immortality.

THIS BOOK IS PRINTED DURING OCTOBER 1898 BY THE UNIVERSITY PRESS CAMBRIDGE MASSACHUSETTS

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Transcriber’s note:

On Page 55, it was not clear if the following line should end with a comma or a semi-colon:

Of the snarl and shatter the light ice makes,

On Page 20, it was not clear if _fail_ should read _fall_:

To fail below the hill.

The author’s choice of spelling and punctuation has been maintained.

Repeating titles in the front of the book have been reduced.