Part 5

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June Halts in the glowing noon! The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; The bannered hosts are still, While over forest crown and mountain head The azure tent is spread.

The song is hushed in every woodland throat; Moveless the lilies float; Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea Sighs only fitfully; The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; Peace on the world is laid.

It is the hour when Nature's caravan, That bears the pilgrim Man Across the desert of uncharted time To his far hope sublime, Rests in the green oasis of the year, As if the end drew near.

Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise For these fleet halcyon days?-- No courage to uplift thee from despair Born with the breath of prayer? Then turn thee to the lilied field once more! God stands in his tent door.

Children of Dream

The black ash grows in the swampy ground, The white ash in the dry; The thrush he holds to the woodland bound, The hawk to the open sky.

The trout he runs to the mountain brook, The swordfish keeps the sea; The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows. The clover calls the bee.

The locust sings in the August noon, The frog in the April night; The iris loves the meadow-land, The laurel loves the height.

And each will hold his tenure old Of earth and sun and stream, For all are creatures of desire And children of a dream.

Roadside Flowers

We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds,-- Lovers of idle hours, Breakers of ordered bounds.

If only the earth will feed us, If only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us, The stragglers left behind.

And lo, the Lord of the Garden, He makes his sun to rise, And his rain to fall with pardon On our dusty paradise.

On us he has laid the duty,-- The task of the wandering breed,-- To better the world with beauty, Wherever the way may lead.

Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason. The Lord of the Garden knows.

The Garden of Saint Rose

This is a holy refuge, The garden of Saint Rose, A fragrant altar to that peace The world no longer knows.

Below a solemn hillside, Within the folding shade Of overhanging beech and pine Its walls and walks are laid.

Cool through the heat of summer, Still as a sacred grove, It has the rapt unworldly air Of mystery and love.

All day before its outlook The mist-blue mountains loom, And in its trees at tranquil dusk The early stars will bloom.

Down its enchanted borders Glad ranks of color stand, Like hosts of silent seraphim Awaiting love's command.

Lovely in adoration They wait in patient line, Snow-white and purple and deep gold About the rose-gold shrine.

And there they guard the silence, While still from her recess Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down In mellow loveliness.

She seems to say, "O stranger, Behold how loving care That gives its life for beauty's sake, Makes everything more fair!

"Then praise the Lord of gardens For tree and flower and vine, And bless all gardeners who have wrought A resting place like mine!"

The World Voice

I heard the summer sea Murmuring to the shore Some endless story of a wrong The whole world must deplore.

I heard the mountain wind Conversing with the trees Of an old sorrow of the hills, Mysterious as the sea's.

And all that haunted day It seemed that I could hear The echo of an ancient speech Ring in my listening ear.

And then it came to me, That all that I had heard Was my own heart in the sea's voice And the wind's lonely word.

Songs of the Grass

I

ON THE DUNES.

Here all night on the dunes In the rocking wind we sleep, Watched by sentry stars, Lulled by the drone of the deep.

Till hark, in the chill of the dawn A field lark wakes and cries, And over the floor of the sea We watch the round sun rise.

The world is washed once more In a tide of purple and gold, And the heart of the land is filled With desires and dreams untold.

II

LORD OF MORNING.

Lord of morning, light of day, Sacred color-kindling sun, We salute thee in the way,-- Pilgrims robed in rose and dun.

For thou art a pilgrim too, Overlord of all our band. In thy fervor we renew Quests we do not understand.

At thy summons we arise, At thy touch put glory on. And with glad unanxious eyes Take the journey thou hast gone.

III

THE TRAVELLER.

Before the night-blue fades And the stars are quite gone, I lift my head At the noiseless tread Of the angel of dawn.

I hear no word, yet my heart Is beating apace; Then in glory all still On the eastern hill I behold his face.

All day through the world he goes, Making glad, setting free; Then his day's work done, On the galleon sun He sinks in the sea.

The Choristers

When earth was finished and fashioned well, There was never a musical note to tell How glad God was, save the voice of the rain And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain And the rivers among the hills. And so God made the marvellous birds For a choir of joy transcending words, That the world might hear and comprehend How rhythm and harmony can mend The spirits' hurts and ills.

He filled their tiny bodies with fire, He taught them love for their chief desire, And gave them the magic of wings to be His celebrants over land and sea, Wherever man might dwell. And to each he apportioned a fragment of song-- Those broken melodies that belong To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn The healing of gladness and discern In beauty how all is well.

So music dwells in the glorious throats Forever, and the enchanted notes Fall with rapture upon our ears, Moving our hearts to joy and tears For things we cannot say. In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain His pure, serene, half-wistful strain; And when twilight falls the sleeping hills Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills In the blue dusk far away.

In the great white heart of the winter storm The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm, And his note is brave to rally the soul From doubt and panic to self-control And elation that knows no fear. The bluebird comes with the winds of March, Like a shred of sky on the naked larch; The redwing follows the April rain To whistle contentment back again With his sturdy call of cheer.

The orioles revel through orchard boughs In their coats of gold for spring's carouse; In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call, And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall Under the evening star. On the verge of June when peonies blow And joy comes back to the world we know, The bobolinks fill the fields of light With a tangle of music silver-bright To tell how glad they are.

The tiny warblers fill summer trees With their exquisite lesser litanies; The tanager in his scarlet coat In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat His canticle of the sun. The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky, And the sea-gull--each has a piercing cry, Like outposts set in the lonely vast To cry "all's well" as Time goes past And another hour is gone.

But of all the music in God's plan Of a mystical symphony for man, I shall remember best of all-- Whatever hereafter may befall Or pass and cease to be-- The hermit's hymn in the solitudes Of twilight through the mountain woods, And the field-larks crying about our doors On the soft sweet wind across the moors At morning by the sea.

The Weed's Counsel

_Said a traveller by the way Pausing, "What hast thou to say, Flower by the dusty road, That would ease a mortal's load?"_

Traveller, hearken unto me! I will tell thee how to see Beauties in the earth and sky Hidden from the careless eye. I will tell thee how to hear Nature's music wild and clear,-- Songs of midday and of dark Such as many never mark, Lyrics of creation sung Ever since the world was young.

And thereafter thou shalt know Neither weariness nor woe.

Thou shalt see the dawn unfold Artistries of rose and gold, And the sunbeams on the sea Dancing with the wind for glee. The red lilies of the moors Shall be torches on the floors, Where the field-lark lifts his cry To rejoice the passer-by, In a wide world rimmed with blue Lovely as when time was new.

And thereafter thou shalt fare Light of foot and free from care.

I will teach thee how to find Lost enchantments of the mind All about thee, never guessed By indifferent unrest. Thy distracted thought shall learn Patience from the roadside fern, And a sweet philosophy From the flowering locust tree,-- While thy heart shall not disdain The consolation of the rain.

Not an acre but shall give Of its strength to help thee live.

With the many-wintered sun Shall thy hardy course be run. And the bright new moon shall be A lamp to thy felicity. When green-mantled spring shall come Past thy door with flute and drum, And when over wood and swamp Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, No misgiving shalt thou know, Passing glad to rise and go.

So thy days shall be unrolled Like a wondrous cloth of gold.

When gray twilight with her star Makes a heaven that is not far, Touched with shadows and with dreams, Thou shalt hear the woodland streams Singing through the starry night Holy anthems of delight. So the ecstasy of earth Shall refresh thee as at birth, And thou shalt arise each morn Radiant with a soul reborn.

And this wisdom of a day None shall ever take away.

What the secret, what the clew The wayfarer must pursue? Only one thing he must have Who would share these transports brave. Love within his heart must dwell Like a bubbling roadside well, For a spring to quicken thought, Else my counsel comes to naught. For without that quickening trust We are less than roadside dust.

This, O traveller, is my creed,-- All the wisdom of the weed!

_Then the traveller set his pack Once more on his dusty back, And trudged on for many a mile Fronting fortune with a smile._

The Blue Heron

I see the great blue heron Rising among the reeds And floating down the wind, Like a gliding sail With the set of the stream.

I hear the two-horse mower Clacking among the hay, In the heat of a July noon, And the driver's voice As he turns his team.

I see the meadow lilies Flecked with their darker tan, The elms, and the great white clouds; And all the world Is a passing dream.

Woodland Rain

Shining, shining children Of the summer rain, Racing down the valley, Sweeping o'er the plain!

Rushing through the forest, Pelting on the leaves, Drenching down the meadow With its standing sheaves;

Robed in royal silver, Girt with jewels gay, With a gust of gladness You pass upon your way.

Fresh, ah, fresh behind you, Sunlit and impearled, As it was in Eden, Lies the lovely world!

Summer Storm

The hilltop trees are bowing Under the coming of storm. The low, gray clouds are trailing Like squadrons that sweep and form, With their ammunition of rain.

Then the trumpeter wind gives signal To unlimber the viewless guns; The cattle huddle together; Indoors the farmer runs; And the first shot lashes the pane.

They charge through the quiet orchard; One pear tree is snapped like a wand; As they sweep from the shattered hillside, Ruffling the blackened pond, Ere the sun takes the field again.

Dance of the Sunbeams

When morning is high o'er the hilltops, On river and stream and lake, Wherever a young breeze whispers, The sun-clad dancers wake.

One after one up-springing, They flash from their dim retreat. Merry as running laughter Is the news of their twinkling feet.

Over the floors of azure Wherever the wind-flaws run, Sparkling, leaping, and racing, Their antics scatter the sun.

As long as water ripples And weather is clear and glad, Day after day they are dancing, Never a moment sad.

But when through the field of heaven The wings of storm take flight, At a touch of the flying shadows They falter and slip from sight.

Until at the gray day's ending, As the squadrons of cloud retire, They pass in the triumph of sunset With banners of crimson fire.

The Campfire of the Sun

Lo, now, the journeying sun, Another day's march done, Kindles his campfire at the edge of night! And in the twilight pale Above his crimson trail, The stars move out their cordons still and bright.

Now in the darkening hush A solitary thrush Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep; While brooding on her best, The wandering soul has rest, And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep.

Summer Streams

All day long beneath the sun Shining through the fields they run,

Singing in a cadence known To the seraphs round the throne.

And the traveller drawing near Through the meadow, halts to hear

Anthems of a natural joy No disaster can destroy.

All night long from set of sun Through the starry woods they run,

Singing through the purple dark Songs to make a traveller hark.

All night long, when winds are low, Underneath my window go

The immortal happy streams, Making music through my dreams.

The God of the Wood

Here all the forces of the wood As one converge, To make the soul of solitude Where all things merge.

The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, The visiting moon, The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, Each with its boon.

Here power attains perfection still In mighty ease, That the great earth may have her will Of joy and peace.

And so through me, the mortal born Of plasmic clay, Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, And glad, have sway.

Eternal passions, ardors fine, And monstrous fears, Rule and rebel, serene, malign, Or loosed in tears;

Until at last they shall evolve From griefs and joys Some steady light, some firm resolve, Some Godlike poise.

At Sunrise

Now the stars have faded In the purple chill, Lo, the sun is kindling On the eastern hill.

Tree by tree the forest Takes the golden tinge, As the shafts of glory Pierce the summit's fringe.

Rock by rock the ledges Take the rosy sheen, As the tide of splendor Floods the dark ravine.

Like a shining angel At my cabin door, Shod with hope and silence, Day is come once more.

Then, as if in sorrow That you are not here, All his magic beauties Gray and disappear.

At Twilight

Now the fire is lighted On the chimney stone, Day goes down the valley, I am left alone.

Now the misty purple Floods the darkened vale, And the stars come out On the twilight trail.

The mountain river murmurs In his rocky bed, And the stealthy shadows Fill the house with dread.

Then I hear your laughter At the open door,-- Brightly burns the fire, I need fear no more.

Moonrise

At the end of the road through the wood I see the great moon rise. The fields are flooded with shine, And my soul with surmise.

What if that mystic orb With her shadowy beams, Should be the revealer at last Of my darkest dreams!

What if this tender fire In my heart's deep hold Should be wiser than all the lore Of the sages of old!

The Queen of Night

Mortal, mortal, have you seen In the scented summer night, Great Astarte, clad in green With a veil of mystic light, Passing on her silent way, Pale and lovelier than day?

Mortal, mortal, have you heard, On an odorous summer eve, Rumors of an unknown word Bidding sorrow not to grieve,-- Echoes of a silver voice Bidding every heart rejoice?

Mortal, when the slim new moon Hangs above the western hill, When the year comes round to June And the leafy world is still, Then, enraptured, you shall hear Secrets for a poet's ear.

Mortal, mortal, come with me, When the moon is rising large, Through the wood or from the sea, Or by some lone river marge. There, entranced, you shall behold Beauty's self, that grows not old.

Night Lyric

In the world's far edges Faint and blue, Where the rocky ledges Stand in view,

Fades the rosy, tender Evening light; Then in starry splendor Comes the night.

So a stormy lifetime Comes to close, Spirit's mortal strifetime Finds repose.

Faith and toil and vision Crowned at last, Failure and derision Overpast,--

All the daylight splendor Far above, Calm and sure and tender Comes thy love.

The Heart of Night

When all the stars are sown Across the night-blue space, With the immense unknown, In silence face to face.

We stand in speechless awe While Beauty marches by, And wonder at the Law Which wears such majesty.

How small a thing is man In all that world-sown vast, That he should hope or plan Or dream his dream could last!

O doubter of the light, Confused by fear and wrong, Lean on the heart of night And let love make thee strong!

The Good that is the True Is clothed with Beauty still. Lo, in their tent of blue, The stars above the hill!

Peace

The sleeping tarn is dark Below the wooded hill. Save for its homing sounds, The twilit world grows still.

And I am left to muse In grave-eyed mystery, And watch the stars come out As sandalled dusk goes by.

And now the light is gone, The drowsy murmurs cease, And through the still unknown I wonder whence comes peace.

Then softly falls the word Of one beyond a name, "Peace only comes to him Who guards his life from shame,--

"Who gives his heart to love, And holding truth for guide, Girds him with fearless strength, That freedom may abide."

The Old Gray Wall

Time out of mind I have stood Fronting the frost and the sun, That the dream of the world might endure, And the goodly will be done.

Did the hand of the builder guess, As he laid me stone by stone, A heart in the granite lurked, Patient and fond as his own?

Lovers have leaned on me Under the summer moon, And mowers laughed in my shade In the harvest heat at noon.

Children roving the fields With early flowers in spring, Old men turning to look, When they heard a bluebird sing,

Have seen me a thousand times Standing here in the sun, Yet never a moment dreamed Whose likeness they gazed upon.

Ah, when will ye understand, Mortals who strive and plod,-- Who rests on this old gray wall Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!

Te Deum

If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all things laid, The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade, When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush of its glory now, That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and the head to bow.

I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, too,-- The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from line and hue; I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth of ours, Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with all her powers.

See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside of hardwood trees, A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries. A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion and dun, Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue of the sun!

The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves are Etruscan gold, And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for a signal bold; The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring is brought to pass.

Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and softer picture lies, As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream of paradise,-- Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and luring the mind With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap are left behind.

So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and endless joy, Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine employ, Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear, Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides--our privilege here.

Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is here and now, Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by somewhere, somehow? I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for a journey hence Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made for spirit and sense.

"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit filled from a blighted flower? Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy beatified hour? Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our command, Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of heaven at hand."

So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to feed my soul. With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for a further dole? In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain of truth, Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor of dreamful youth.

The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun shall lend me poise. I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth and all her joys. Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my veins like wine; While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge with the life divine.

In October

Now come the rosy dogwoods, The golden tulip-tree, And the scarlet yellow maple, To make a day for me.

The ash-trees on the ridges, The alders in the swamp, Put on their red and purple To join the autumn pomp.

The woodbine hangs her crimson Along the pasture wall, And all the bannered sumacs Have heard the frosty call.

Who then so dead to valor As not to raise a cheer, When all the woods are marching In triumph of the year?

By Still Waters

"_He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul._"

"My tent stands in a garden Of aster and goldenrod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of God,-- An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world's great shield, A border of boundless glamor For the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its grassy footpath The white-tailed rabbits run. The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls from the hillside Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters-- Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad? Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?