Part 4
In old Egypt for Osiris, Putting on the green attire, With soft hymns and choric dancing They went forth to greet the fire Of the vernal sun, whose ardor His earth children could inspire; And the ivory flutes would lead them To the slake of their desire.
In remembrance of Adonis Did the Dorian maidens sing Linus songs of joy and sorrow For the coming back of spring,-- Sorrow for the wintry death Of each irrevocable thing, Joy for all the pangs of beauty The returning year could bring.
Now the priests and holy women With sweet incense, chant and prayer, Keep His death and resurrection Whose new love bade all men share Immortality of kindness, Living to make life more fair. Wakened to such wealth of being, Who would not arise and dare?
Seeing how each new fulfilment Issues at the call of need From infinitudes of purpose In the core of soul and seed, Who shall set the bounds of puissance Or the formulas of creed? Truth awaits the test of beauty, Good is proven in the deed.
Therefore, give thy spring renascence,-- Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,-- To make perfect and replenish All the sorry fault and dearth Of the life from whose enrichment Thine aspiring will had birth; Take thy part in the redemption Of thy kind from bonds of earth.
So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty, Even in this mortal clime Share the life that is eternal, Brother to the lords of time,-- Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,-- Builders of the world sublime. Yesterday was not earth's evening Every morning is our prime.
All that can be worth the rescue From oblivion and decay,-- Joy and loveliness and wisdom,-- In thyself, without dismay Thou shalt save and make enduring Through each word and act, to sway The hereafter to a likeness Of thyself in other clay.
Still remains the peradventure, Soul pursues an orbit here Like those unreturning comets, Sweeping on a vast career, By an infinite directrix, Focussed to a finite sphere,-- Nurtured in an earthly April, In what realm to reappear?
Easter Eve
If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows of Silvermine, Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began to shine; Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking in Ponus Street; You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of enough red meat!"
Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating on Wampanaw, Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard black ice I saw An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house to rights, Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare for the winter nights.
And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm as you please. But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden, who kept the keys? Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the lily roots, And then in the first warm days of April--out to the sun with the greening shoots?
By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails of air, The spring express--but who despatched it, equipped with speed and cunning care? Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant of the happy heart, As full of light as a theme of Mozart's--but where did he learn that more than art?
Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as the south wind brings the rain, Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back to his nest again. Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose of natural fact; Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures, that bids them act."
Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that of the beasts and birds, Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic, too vague for words. No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty is somewhere born; No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow as the growing corn.
Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days of earth. To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import and lovely worth. If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit of will and power, To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and the waiting hour,
It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me and sorrows scar, Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the evening star. The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the wind, my friend. Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare ill in the end?
Now is the Time of Year
Now is the time of year When all the flutes begin,-- The redwing bold and clear, The rainbird far and thin.
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.
She sounds her magic note By river-marge and hill, 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!
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.
Earth has put off her raiment 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.
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?
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 the 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!
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.
O Earth, with all thy transport, How comes it life should seem A shadow in the moonlight, A murmur in a dream?
The Flute of Spring
I know a shining meadow stream That winds beneath an Eastern hill, And all year long in sun or gloom Its murmuring voice is never still.
The summer dies more gently there, The April flowers are earlier,-- The first warm rain-wind from the Sound Sets all their eager hearts astir.
And there when lengthening twilights fall As softly as a wild bird's wing, Across the valley in the dusk I hear the silver flute of spring.
Spring Night
In the wondrous star-sown night, In the first sweet warmth of spring, I lie awake and listen To hear the glad earth sing.
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.
Bloodroot
When April winds arrive And the soft rains are here, Some morning by the roadside These Fairy 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.
They crowd across the meadow In innocence and mirth, As if there were no sorrow In all this wondrous earth.
So frail, so unregarded, And yet about them clings A sorcery of welcome,-- The joy of common things.
Perhaps their trail of beauty Across the pasture sod In jubilant procession Is where an angel trod.
Daffodil's Return
What matter if the sun be lost? What matter though the sky be gray? There's joy enough about the house, For Daffodil comes home to-day.
There's news of swallows on the air, There's word of April on the way, They're calling flowers within the street, And Daffodil comes home to-day.
O who would care what fate may bring, Or what the years may take away! There's life enough within the hour, For Daffodil comes home to-day.
Now the Lilac Tree's in Bud
Now the lilac tree's in bud, 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.
Down along the Silvermine That's the blackbird's cheerful note! 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?
White Iris
White Iris was a princess In a kingdom long ago, Mysterious as moonlight And silent as the snow.
She drew the world in wonder And swayed it with desire, Ere Babylon was builded Or a stone laid in Tyre.
Yet here within my garden Her loveliness appears, Undimmed by any sorrow Of all the tragic years.
How kind that earth should treasure So beautiful a thing-- All mystical enchantment, To stir our hearts in spring!
The Tree of Heaven
Young foreign-born Ailanthus, Because he grew so fast, We scorned his easy daring And doubted it would last.
But lo, when autumn gathers And all the woods are old, He stands in green and salmon, A glory to behold!
Among the ancient monarchs His airy tent is spread. His robe of coronation Is tasseled rosy red.
With something strange and Eastern, His height and grace proclaim His lineage and title Is that celestial name.
This is the Tree of Heaven, Which seems to say to us, "Behold how rife is beauty, And how victorious!"
Peony
"_Pionia virtutem habet occultam._" Arnoldus Villanova--1235-1313.
_Arnoldus Villanova Six hundred years ago Said Peonies have magic, And I believe it so. There stands his learned dictum Which any boy may read, But he who learns the secret Will be made wise indeed._
_Astrologer and doctor In the science of his day, Have we so far outstripped him? What more is there to say? His medieval Latin Records the truth for us, Which I translate--virtutem Habet occultam--thus:_
She hath a deep-hid virtue No other flower hath. When summer comes rejoicing A-down my garden path, In opulence of color, In robe of satin sheen, She casts o'er all the hours Her sorcery serene.
A subtile, heartening fragrance Comes piercing the warm hush, And from the greening woodland I hear the first wild thrush. They move my heart to pity For all the vanished years, With ecstasy of longing And tenderness of tears.
By many names we call her,-- Pale exquisite Aurore, Luxuriant Gismonda Or sunny Couronne D'Or. What matter,--Grandiflora, A queen in some proud book, Or sweet familiar Piny With her old-fashioned look?
The crowding Apple blossoms Above the orchard wall; The Moonflower in August When eerie nights befall; Chrysanthemum in autumn, Whose pageantries appear With mystery and silence To deck the dying year;
And many a mystic flower Of the wildwood I have known, But Pionia Arnoldi Hath a transport all her own. For Peony, my Peony, Hath strength to make me whole,-- She gives her heart of beauty For the healing of my soul.
_Arnoldus Villanova, Though earth is growing old, As long as life has longing Your guess at truth will hold. Still works the hidden power After a thousand springs,-- The medicine for heartache That lurks in lovely things._
The Urban Pan
Once more the magic days are come With stronger sun and milder air; The shops are full of daffodils; There's golden leisure everywhere. I heard my Lou this morning shout: "Here comes the hurdy-gurdy man!" And through the open window caught The piping of the urban Pan.
I laid my wintry task aside, And took a day to follow joy: The trail of beauty and the call That lured me when I was a boy. I looked, and there looked up at me A smiling, swarthy, hairy man With kindling eye--and well I knew The piping of the urban Pan.
He caught my mood; his hat was off; I tossed the ungrudged silver down. The cunning vagrant, every year He casts his spell upon the town! And we must fling him, old and young, Our dimes or coppers, as we can; And every heart must leap to hear The piping of the urban Pan.
The music swells and fades again, And I in dreams am far away, Where a bright river sparkles down To meet a blue Aegean bay. There, in the springtime of the world, Are dancing fauns, and in their van, Is one who pipes a deathless tune-- The earth-born and the urban Pan.
And so he follows down the block, A troop of children in his train, The light-foot dancers of the street Enamored of the reedy strain. I hear their laughter rise and ring Above the noise of truck and van, As down the mellow wind fades out The piping of the urban Pan.
The Sailing of the Fleets
Now the spring is in the town, Now the wind is in the tree, And the wintered keels go down To the calling of the sea.
Out from mooring, dock, and slip, Through the harbor buoys they glide, Drawing seaward till they dip To the swirling of the tide.
One by one and two by two, Down the channel turns they go, Steering for the open blue Where the salty great airs blow;
Craft of many a build and trim, Every stitch of sail unfurled, Till they hang upon the rim Of the azure ocean world.
Who has ever, man or boy, Seen the sea all flecked with gold, And not longed to go with joy Forth upon adventures bold?
Who could bear to stay indoor, Now the wind is in the street, For the creaking of the oar And the tugging of the sheet!
Now the spring is in the town, Who would not a rover be, When the wintered keels go down To the calling of the sea?
'Tis May now in New England
'Tis May now in New England And through the open door I see the creamy breakers, I hear the hollow roar.
Back to the golden marshes Comes summer at full tide, But not the golden comrade Who was the summer's pride.
In Early May
O 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.
Starry dogwood is in flower, 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.
Or up they float on viewless wings 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 fulfill More needed in eternity.
The Path to Sankoty
It winds along the headlands Above the open sea-- The lonely moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty.
The crooning sea spreads sailless And gray to the world's rim, Where hang the reeking fog-banks Primordial and dim.
There fret the ceaseless currents, And the eternal tide Chafes over hidden shallows Where the white horses ride.
The wistful fragrant moorlands Whose smile bids panic cease, Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed In grave and lonely peace.
Across their flowering bosom, From the far end of day Blow clean the great soft moor-winds All sweet with rose and bay.
A world as large and simple As first emerged for man, Cleared for the human drama, Before the play began.
O well the soul must treasure The calm that sets it free-- The vast and tender skyline, The sea-turn's wizardry,
Solace of swaying grasses, The friendship of sweet-fern-- And in the world's confusion Remembering, must yearn
To tread the moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty, Hearing the field-larks shrilling Beside the sailless sea.
Off Monomoy
Have you sailed Nantucket Sound By lightship, buoy, and bell, And lain becalmed at noon On an oily summer swell?
Lazily drooped the sail, Moveless the pennant hung, Sagging over the rail Idle the main boom swung;
The sea, one mirror of shine 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.
O image of the world, O mirage of the sea, 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.
In St. Germain Street
Through the street of St. Germain March the tattered hosts of rain,
While the wind with vagrant fife Whips their chilly ranks to life.
From the window I can see Their ghostly banners blowing free,
As they pass to where the ships Crowd about the wharves and slips.
There at day's end they embark To invade the realms of dark,
And the sun comes out again In the street of St. Germain.
Pan in the Catskills
They say that he is dead, and now no more The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, When the long summer heat is on the land. But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, And therefore am incredulous of death, Of pain and sorrow and mortality.
In these blue canyons, deep with hemlock shade, In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, I have been rapt away from time and care By the enchantment of a golden strain As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, Filling the listener with a mute surmise.
At evening and at morning I have gone Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, And heard the haunting music of the wood Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy And all the ardors of creation old.
And then within my pagan heart awoke Remembrance of far-off and fabled years In the untarnished sunrise of the world, When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard A slow mysterious piping wild and keen Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!"
A New England June
_These things I remember 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.
Nets of waving sunlight Falling through the trees; 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 me 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.
Ah, not in the roses, Nor the azure noon, 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._
The Tent of Noon