Part 3

I can hear the bob-white call Down beyond the pasture wall.

Musing in the scented heat, Where the bayberry is sweet,

I can see the shadows run Up the cliff-side in the sun.

Or I cross the bridge and reach The mossers' houses on the beach,

Where the bathers on the sand Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.

Thus I pass the gates of time And the boundaries of clime,

Change the ugly man-made street For God's country green and sweet.

Fag of body, irk of mind, In a moment left behind,

Once more I possess my soul With the poise and self-control

Beauty gives the free of heart Through the sorcery of art.

Threnody for a Poet

Not 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;

But here in the decent quiet 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.

Dust of the Street

This cosmic dust beneath our feet Rising to hurry down the street,

Borne by the wind and blown astray In its erratic, senseless way,

Is the same stuff as you and I-- With knowledge and desire put by.

Thousands of times since time began It has been used for making man,

Freighted like us with every sense Of spirit and intelligence,

To walk the world and know the fine Large consciousness of things divine.

These wandering atoms in their day Perhaps have passed this very way,

With eager step and flowerlike face, With lovely ardor, poise, and grace,

On what delightful errands bent, Passionate, generous, and intent,--

An angel still, though veiled and gloved, Made to love us and to be loved.

Friends, when the summons comes for me To turn my back (reluctantly)

On this delightful play, I claim Only one thing in friendship's name;

And you will not decline a task So slight, when it is all I ask:

Scatter my ashes in the street Where avenue and crossway meet.

I beg you of your charity, No granite and cement for me,

To needlessly perpetuate An unimportant name and date.

Others may wish to lay them down On some fair hillside far from town,

Where slim white birches wave and gleam Beside a shadowy woodland stream,

Or in luxurious beds of fern, But I would have my dust return

To the one place it loved the best In days when it was happiest.

To a Young Lady on Her Birthday

The marching years go by And brush your garment's hem. The bandits by and by Will bid you go with them.

Trust not that caravan! Old vagabonds are they; They'll rob you if they can, And make believe it's play.

Make the old robbers give Of all the spoils they bear,-- Their truth, to help you live,-- Their joy, to keep you fair.

Ask not for gauds nor gold, Nor fame that falsely rings; The foolish world grows old Caring for all these things.

Make all your sweet demands For happiness alone, And the years will fill your hands With treasures rarely known.

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!"

The Cry of the Hillborn

I am homesick for the mountains-- My heroic mother hills-- And the longing that is on me No solace ever stills.

I would climb to brooding summits With their old untarnished dreams, Cool my heart in forest shadows To the lull of falling streams;

Hear the innocence of aspens That babble in the breeze, And the fragrant sudden showers That patter on the trees.

I am lonely for my thrushes In their hermitage withdrawn, Toning the quiet transports Of twilight and of dawn.

I need the pure, strong mornings, When the soul of day is still, With the touch of frost that kindles The scarlet on the hill;

Lone trails and winding woodroads To outlooks wild and high, And the pale moon waiting sundown Where ledges cut the sky.

I dream of upland clearings Where cones of sumac burn, And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders Lie deep in beds of fern;

The gray and mottled beeches, The birches' satin sheen, The majesty of hemlocks Crowning the blue ravine.

My eyes dim for the skyline Where purple peaks aspire, And the forges of the sunset Flare up in golden fire.

There crests look down unheeding And see the great winds blow, Tossing the huddled tree-tops In gorges far below;

Where cloud-mists from the warm earth Roll up about their knees, And hang their filmy tatters Like prayers upon the trees.

I cry for night-blue shadows On plain and hill and dome,-- The spell of old enchantments, The sorcery of home.

A 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.

On either side the wooded slopes come down, Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there 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, Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, While 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.

Morning in the Hills

How quiet is the morning in the hills! The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds Trail through the canyon, and the mountain stream Sounds his sonorous music far below In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.

Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge, While in the hollows of the dark ravine See the red road emerge, then disappear Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.

My forest cabin half-way up the glen Is solitary, save for one wise thrush, The sound of falling water, and the wind Mysteriously conversing with the leaves.

Here I abide unvisited by doubt, Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair, The race of men and love and fleeting time, What life may be, or beauty, caught and held For a brief moment at eternal poise.

What impulse now shall quicken and make live This outward semblance and this inward self? One breath of being fills the bubble world, Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change.

Surely some God contrived so fair a thing In a vast leisure of uncounted days, And touched it with the breath of living joy, Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so.

A Wood-path

At evening and at morning By an enchanted way I walk the world in wonder, And have no word to say.

It is the path we traversed One twilight, thou and I; Thy beauty all a rapture, My spirit all a cry.

The red leaves fall upon it, The moon and mist and rain, But not the magic footfall That made its meaning plain.

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.

It has its new-born Aprils, 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.

Till snows of mercy cover The dream that shall come true, When time makes all things wondrous, And life makes all things new.

Here and Now

Where is Heaven? Is it not Just a friendly garden plot, Walled with stone and roofed with sun, Where the days pass one by one, Not too fast and not too slow, Looking backward as they go At the beauties left behind To transport the pensive mind!

Is it not a greening ground With a river for its bound, And a wood-thrush to prolong Fragrant twilights with his song, When the peonies in June Wait the rising of the moon, And the music of the stream Voices its immortal dream!

There each morning will renew The miracle of light and dew, And the soul may joy to praise The Lord of roses and of days; There the caravan of noon Halts to hear the cricket's tune, Fifing there for all who pass The anthem of the summer grass!

Does not Heaven begin that day When the eager heart can say, Surely God is in this place, I have seen Him face to face In the loveliness of flowers, In the service of the showers, And His voice has talked to me In the sunlit apple tree.

I can feel Him in my heart, When the tears of knowledge start For another's joy or woe, Where the lonely soul must go. Yea, I learned His very look, When we walked beside the brook, And you smiled and touched my hand. God is love... I understand.

The Angel of Joy

There is no grief for me Nor sadness any more; For since I first knew thee Great Joy has kept my door.

That angel of the calm All-comprehending smile, No menace can dismay, No falsity beguile.

Out of the house of life Before him fled away Languor, regret, and strife And sorrow on that day.

Grim fear, unmanly doubt, And impotent despair Went at his bidding forth Among the things that were,--

Leaving a place all clean, Resounding of the sea And decked with forest green, To be a home for thee.

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.

Let the breeze of twilight blow Through the silent 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!

"The Starry Midnight Whispers"

The starry midnight whispers, As I muse before the fire On the ashes of ambition And the embers of desire,

"Life has no other logic, And time no other creed, Than: 'I for joy will follow. Where thou for love dost lead!'"

A Lyric

Oh, once I could not understand The sob within the throat of spring,-- The shrilling of the frogs, nor why The birds so passionately sing.

That was before your beauty came And stooped to teach my soul desire, When on these mortal lips you laid The magic and immortal fire.

I wondered why the sea should seem So gray, so lonely, and so old; The sigh of level-driving snows In winter so forlornly cold.

I wondered what it was could give The scarlet autumn pomps their pride. And paint with colors not of earth The glory of the mountainside.

I could not tell why youth should dream And worship at the evening star, And yet must go with eager feet Where danger and where splendor are.

I could not guess why men at times, Beholding beauty, should go mad With joy or sorrow or despair Or some unknown delight they had.

I wondered what they had received From Time's inexorable hand So full of loveliness and doom. But now, ah, now I understand!

"April now in Morning Clad"

April now in morning clad Like a gleaming oread, With the south wind in her voice, Comes to bid the world rejoice.

With the sunlight on her brow, Through her veil of silver showers, April o'er New England now Trails her robe of woodland flowers,--

Violet and anemone; While along the misty sea, Pipe at lip, she seems to blow Haunting airs of long ago.

Nike

What do men give thanks for? I give thanks for one, Lovelier than morning, Dearer than the sun.

Such a head the victors Must have praised and known, With that breast and bearing, Nike's very own--

As superb, untrammeled, Rhythmed and poised and free As the strong pure sea-wind Walking on the sea;

Such a hand as Beauty Uses with full heart, Seeking for her freedom In new shapes of art;

Soft as rain in April, Quiet as the days Of the purple asters And the autumn haze;

With a soul more subtle Than the light of stars, Frailer than a moth's wing To the touch that mars;

Wise with all the silence Of the waiting hills, When the gracious twilight Wakes in them and thrills;

With a voice more tender Than the early moon Hears among the thrushes In the woods of June;

Delicate as grasses When they lift and stir-- One sweet lyric woman-- I give thanks for her.

The Enchanted Traveller

We travelled empty-handed With hearts all fear above, For we ate the bread of friendship, We drank the wine of love.

Through many a wondrous autumn, Through many a magic spring, We hailed the scarlet banners, We heard the blue-bird sing.

We looked on life and nature With the eager eyes of youth, And all we asked or cared for Was beauty, joy, and truth.

We found no other wisdom, We learned no other way, Than the gladness of the morning, The glory of the day.

So all our earthly treasure Shall go with us, my dears, Aboard the Shadow Liner, Across the sea of years.

Spring's Saraband

Over the hills of April With soft winds hand in hand, Impassionate and dreamy-eyed, Spring leads her saraband. Her garments float and gather And swirl along the plain, Her headgear is the golden sun, Her cloak the silver rain.

With color and with music, With perfumes and with pomp, By meadowland and upland, Through pasture, wood, and swamp, With promise and enchantment Leading her mystic mime, She comes to lure the world anew With joy as old as time.

Quick lifts the marshy chorus To transport, trill on trill; There's not a rod of stony ground Unanswering on the hill. The brooks and little rivers Dance down their wild ravines, And children in the city squares Keep time, to tambourines.

The bluebird in the orchard Is lyrical for her, The blackbird with his meadow pipe Sets all the wood astir, The hooded white spring-beauties Are curtsying in the breeze, The blue hepaticas are out Under the chestnut trees.

The maple buds make glamor, Viburnum waves its bloom, The daffodils and tulips Are risen from the tomb. The lances of Narcissus Have pierced the wintry mold; The commonplace seems paradise Through veils of greening gold.

O heart, hear thou the summons, Put every grief away, When all the motley masques of earth Are glad upon a day. Alack, that any mortal Should less than gladness bring Into the choral joy that sounds The saraband of spring!

Triumphalis

Soul, art thou sad again With the old sadness? Thou shalt be glad again With a new gladness, When April sun and rain Mount to the teeming brain With the earth madness.

When from the mould again, Spurning disaster, Spring shoots unfold again, Follow thou faster Out of the drear domain Of dark, defeat, and pain, Praising the Master.

Hope for thy guide again, Ample and splendid; Love at thy side again, All doubting ended; (Ah, by the dragon slain, For nothing small or vain Michael contended!)

Thou shalt take heart again, No more despairing; Play thy great part again, Loving and caring. Hark, how the gold refrain Runs through the iron strain, Splendidly daring!

Thou shalt grow strong again, Confident, tender,-- Battle with wrong again, Be truth's defender,-- Of the immortal train, Born to attempt, attain, Never surrender!

"Now the Lengthening Twilights Hold"

Now the lengthening twilights hold Tints of lavender and gold, And the marshy places ring With the pipers of the spring.

Now the solitary star Lays a path on meadow streams, And I know it is not far To the open door of dreams.

Lord of April, in my hour May the dogwood be in flower, And my angel through the dome Of spring twilight lead me home.

The Soul of April

Over the wintry threshold Who comes with joy to-day, So frail, yet so enduring, To triumph o'er dismay?

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.

Oh, well they fare forever, By mighty dreams possessed, Whose hearts have lain a moment On that eternal breast.

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.

And in my sister's garden Where little breezes run, The golden daffodillies Are blowing in the sun.

Earth Voices

I

I heard the spring wind whisper Above the brushwood fire, "The world is made forever Of transport and desire.

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 That comes before the thought, 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.

"Within the house of being, I feed the lamp of truth With tales of ancient wisdom And prophecies of youth."

III

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."

IV

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."

Resurgam

Lo, now comes the April pageant And the Easter of the year. Now the tulip lifts her chalice, And the hyacinth his spear; All the daffodils and jonquils With their hearts of gold are here. Child of the immortal vision, What hast thou to do with fear?

When the summons wakes the impulse, And the blood beats in the vein, Let no grief thy dream encumber, No regret thy thought detain. Through the scented bloom-hung valleys, Over tillage, wood and plain, Comes the soothing south wind laden With the sweet impartial rain.

All along the roofs and pavements Pass the volleying silver showers, To unfold the hearts of humans And the frail unanxious flowers. Breeding fast in sunlit places, Teeming life puts forth her powers, And the migrant wings come northward On the trail of golden hours.

Over intervale and upland Sounds the robin's interlude From his tree-top spire at evening Where no unbeliefs intrude. Every follower of beauty Finds in the spring solitude Sanctuary and persuasion Where the mysteries still brood.

Now the bluebird in the orchard, A warm sighing at the door, And the soft haze on the hillside, Lure the houseling to explore The perennial enchanted Lovely world and all its lore; While the early tender twilight Breathes of those who come no more.

By full brimming river margins Where the scents of brush fires blow, Through the faint green mist of springtime, Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go, Touched with such immortal madness Not a thing they care to know More than those who caught life's secret Countless centuries ago.