Part 2

Surely you will come near and speak, This calm of death from the day to sever! And so I shall draw down your cheek Close to my face—So close!—and know God's hand between our hands forever Will set no bar.

Before the dusk falls—even now I know your step along the gravel, And catch your quiet poise of brow, And wait so long till you turn the latch! Is the way so hard you had to travel? Is the land so far?

The dark has shut your eyes from mine, But in this hush of brooding weather A gleam on twilight's gathering line Has riven the barriers of dream: Soul of my soul, we are together As the angels are!

CARNATIONS IN WINTER

Your carmine flakes of bloom to-night The fire of wintry sunsets hold; Again in dreams you burn to light A far Canadian garden old.

The blue north summer over it Is bland with long ethereal days; The gleaming martins wheel and flit Where breaks your sun down orient ways.

There, when the gradual twilight falls, Through quietudes of dusk afar, Hermit antiphonal hermit calls From hills below the first pale star.

Then in your passionate love's foredoom Once more your spirit stirs the air, And you are lifted through the gloom To warm the coils of her dark hair.

A NORTHERN VIGIL

Here by the gray north sea, In the wintry heart of the wild, Comes the old dream of thee, Guendolen, mistress and child.

The heart of the forest grieves In the drift against my door; A voice is under the eaves, A footfall on the floor.

Threshold, mirror and hall, Vacant and strangely aware, Wait for their soul's recall With the dumb expectant air.

Here when the smouldering west Burns down into the sea, I take no heed of rest And keep the watch for thee.

I sit by the fire and hear The restless wind go by, On the long dirge and drear, Under the low bleak sky.

When day puts out to sea And night makes in for land, There is no lock for thee, Each door awaits thy hand!

When night goes over the hill And dawn comes down the dale, It's O for the wild sweet will That shall no more prevail!

When the zenith moon is round, And snow-wraiths gather and run, And there is set no bound To love beneath the sun,

O wayward will, come near The old mad willful way, The soft mouth at my ear With words too sweet to say!

Come, for the night is cold, The ghostly moonlight fills Hollow and rift and fold Of the eerie Ardise hills!

The windows of my room Are dark with bitter frost, The stillness aches with doom Of something loved and lost.

Outside, the great blue star Burns in the ghostland pale, Where giant Algebar Holds on the endless trail.

Come, for the years are long, And silence keeps the door, Where shapes with the shadows throng The firelit chamber floor.

Come, for thy kiss was warm, With the red embers' glare Across thy folding arm And dark tumultuous hair!

And though thy coming rouse The sleep-cry of no bird, The keepers of the house Shall tremble at thy word.

Come, for the soul is free! In all the vast dreamland There is no lock for thee, Each door awaits thy hand.

Ah, not in dreams at all, Fleering, perishing, dim, But thy old self, supple and tall, Mistress and child of whim!

The proud imperious guise, Impetuous and serene, The sad mysterious eyes, And dignity of mien!

Yea, wilt thou not return, When the late hill-winds veer, And the bright hill-flowers burn With the reviving year?

When April comes, and the sea Sparkles as if it smiled, Will they restore to me My dark Love, empress and child?

The curtains seem to part; A sound is on the stair, As if at the last ... I start; Only the wind is there.

Lo, now far on the hills The crimson fumes uncurled, Where the caldron mantles and spills Another dawn on the world!

THE EAVESDROPPER

In a still room at hush of dawn, My Love and I lay side by side And heard the roaming forest wind Stir in the paling autumn-tide.

I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad Because the round day was so fair; While memories of reluctant night Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.

Outside, a yellow maple tree, Shifting upon the silvery blue With small innumerable sound, Rustled to let the sunlight through.

The livelong day the elvish leaves Danced with their shadows on the floor; And the lost children of the wind Went straying homeward by our door.

And all the swarthy afternoon We watched the great deliberate sun Walk through the crimsoned hazy world, Counting his hilltops one by one.

Then as the purple twilight came And touched the vines along our eaves, Another Shadow stood without And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.

The silence fell on my Love's lips; Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad With pondering some maze of dream, Though all the splendid year was glad.

Restless and vague as a gray wind Her heart had grown, she knew not why. But hurrying to the open door, Against the verge of western sky

I saw retreating on the hills, Looming and sinister and black, The stealthy figure swift and huge Of One who strode and looked not back.

IN APPLE TIME

The apple harvest days are here, The boding apple harvest days, And down the flaming valley ways, The foresters of time draw near.

Through leagues of bloom I went with Spring, To call you on the slopes of morn, Where in imperious song is borne The wild heart of the golden wing.

I roamed through alien summer lands, I sought your beauty near and far; To-day, where russet shadows are, I hold your face between my hands.

On runnels dark by slopes of fern, The hazy undern sleeps in sun. Remembrance and desire, undone, From old regret to dreams return.

The apple harvest time is here, The tender apple harvest time; A sheltering calm, unknown at prime, Settles upon the brooding year.

WANDERER

I

Wanderer, wanderer, whither away? What saith the morning unto thee? "Wanderer, wanderer, hither, come hither, Into the eld of the East with me!"

Saith the wide wind of the low red morning, Making in from the gray rough sea. "Wanderer, come, of the footfall weary, And heavy at heart as the sad-heart sea.

"For long ago, when the world was making, I walked through Eden with God for guide; And since that time in my heart forever His calm and wisdom and peace abide.

"I am thy spirit and thy familiar, Child of the teeming earth's unrest! Before God's joy upon gloom begot thee I had hungered and searched and ended the quest.

"I sit by the roadside wells of knowledge; I haunt the streams of the springs of thought; But because my voice is the voice of silence, The heart within thee regardeth not.

"Yet I await thee, assured, unimpatient, Till thy small tumult of striving be past. How long, O wanderer, wilt thou a-weary, Keep thee afar from my arms at the last?"

II

Wanderer, wanderer, whither away? What saith the high noon unto thee? "Wanderer, wanderer, hither, turn hither, Far to the burning South with me,"

Saith the soft wind on the high June headland, Sheering up from the summer sea, "While the implacable warder, Oblivion, Sleeps on the marge of a foamless sea!

"Come where the urge of desire availeth, And no fear follows the children of men; For a handful of dust is the only heirloom The morrow bequeaths to its morrow again.

"Touch and feel how the flesh is perfect Beyond the compass of dream to be! 'Bone of my bone,' said God to Adam; 'Core of my core,' say I to thee.

"Look and see how the form is goodly Beyond the reach of desire and art! For he who fashioned the world so easily Laughed in his sleeve as he walked apart.

"Therefore, O wanderer, cease from desiring; Take the wide province of seaway and sun! Here for the infinite quench of thy craving, Infinite yearning and bliss are one."

III

Wanderer, wanderer, whither away? What saith the evening unto thee? "Wanderer, wanderer, hither, haste hither, Into the glad-heart West with me!"

Saith the strong wind of the gold-green twilight, Gathering out of the autumn hills, "I am the word of the world's first dreamer Who woke when Freedom walked on the hills.

"And the secret triumph from daring to doing, From musing to marble, I will be, Till the last fine fleck of the world is finished, And Freedom shall walk alone by the sea.

"Who is thy heart's lord, who is thy hero? Bruce or Cæsar or Charlemagne, Hannibal, Olaf, Alaric, Roland? Dare as they dared and the deed's done again!

"Here where they come of the habit immortal, By the open road to the land of the Name, Splendor and homage and wealth await thee Of builded cities and bruited fame.

"Let loose the conquering toiler within thee; Know the large rapture of deeds begun! The joy of the hand that hews for beauty Is the dearest solace beneath the sun."

IV

Wanderer, wanderer, whither away? What saith the midnight unto thee? "Wanderer, wanderer, hither turn home, Back to thy North at last to me!"

Saith the great forest wind and lonely, Out of the stars and the wintry hills. "Weary, bethink thee of rest, and remember Thy waiting auroral Ardise hills!

"Was it not I, when thy mother bore thee In the sweet, solemn April night, Took thee safe in my arms to fondle, Filled thy dream with the old delight?

"Told thee tales of more marvelous summers Of the far away and the long ago, Made thee my own nurse-child forever In the tender dear dark land of the snow?

"Have I not rocked thee, have I not lulled thee, Crooned thee in forest, and cradled in foam, Then with a smile from the hearthstone of childhood Bade thee farewell when thy heart bade thee roam?

"Ah, my wide-wanderer, thou blessed vagrant, Dear will thy footfall be nearing my door. How the glad tears will give vent at thy coming, Wayward or sad-heart to wander no more!"

V

Morning and midday I wander, and evening, April and harvest and golden fall; Seaway or hillward, taut sheet or saddle-bow, Only the night wind brings solace at all.

Then when the tide of all being and beauty Ebbs to the utmost before the first dawn, Comes the still voice of the morrow revealing Inscrutable valorous hope—and is gone.

Therefore is joy more than sorrow, foreseeing The lust of the mind and the lure of the eye And the pride of the hand have their hour of triumph, But the dream of the heart will endure by-and-by.

AFOOT

There's a garden in the South Where the early violets come, Where they strew the floor of April With their purple, bloom by bloom.

There the tender peach-trees blow, Pink against the red brick wall, And the hand of twilight hushes The rain-children's least footfall,

Till at midnight I can hear The dark Mother croon and lean Close above me. And her whisper Bids the vagabonds convene.

Then the glad and wayward heart Dreams a dream it must obey; And the wanderer within me Stirs a foot and will not stay.

I would journey far and wide Through the provinces of spring, Where the gorgeous white azaleas Hear the sultry yorlin sing.

I would wander all the hills Where my fellow-vagrants wend, Following the trails of shadows To the country where they end.

Well I know the gypsy kin, Roving foot and restless hand, And the eyes in dark elusion Dreaming down the summer land.

On the frontier of desire I will drink the last regret, And then forth beyond the morrow Where I may but half forget.

So another year shall pass, Till some noon the gardener Sun Wanders forth to lay his finger On the peach-buds one by one.

And the Mother there once more Will rewhisper her dark word, That my brothers all may wonder, Hearing then as once I heard.

There will come the whitethroat's cry, That far lonely silver strain, Piercing, like a sweet desire, The seclusion of the rain.

And though I be far away, When the early violets come Smiling at the door with April, Say, "The vagabonds are home!"

WAYFARING

Across the harbor's tangled yards We watch the flaring sunset fail; Then the forever questing stars File down along the vanished trail,

To no discovered country, where They will forgather when the hands Of the strong Fates shall take away Their burdens and unloose their bands.

Westward and lone the hill-road gray Mounts to the skyline sheer and wan, Where many a weary dream puts forth To strike the trail where they are gone.

The sleepless guide to that outland Is the great Mother of us all, Whose molded dust and dew we are With the blown flowers by the wall.

Girt with the twilight she is grave, The strong companion, wise and free; She leads beyond the dales of time, The earldom of the calling sea—

Beyond these dull green miles of dike, And gleaming breakers on the bar— To the white kingdom of her lord, The nameless Word, whose breath we are.

And all the world is but a scheme Of busy children in the street, A play they follow and forget On summer evenings, pale with heat.

The dusty courtyard flags and walls Are like a prison gate of stone, To every spirit for whose breath The long sweet hill-winds once have blown.

But waiting in the fields for them I see the ancient Mother stand, With the old courage of her smile, The patience of her sunbrown hand.

They heed her not, until there comes A breath of sleep upon their eyes, A drift of dust upon their face; Then in the closing dusk they rise,

And turn them to the empty doors; But she within whose hands alone The days are gathered up as fruit, Doth habit not in brick and stone.

But where the wild shy things abide, Along the woodside and the wheat, Is her abiding, deep withdrawn; And there, the footing of her feet.

There is no common fame of her Upon the corners, yet some word Of her most secret heritage Her lovers from her lips have heard.

Her daisies sprang where Chaucer went; Her darkling nightingales with spring Possessed the soul of Keats for song; And Shelley heard her skylark sing;

With reverent clear uplifted heart Wordsworth beheld her daffodils; And he became too great for haste, Who watched the warm green Cumner hills.

She gave the apples of her eyes For the delight of him who knew, With all the wisdom of a child, "A bank whereon the wild thyme grew."

Still the old secret shifts, and waits The last interpreter; it fills The autumn song no ear hath heard Upon the dreaming Ardise hills.

The poplars babble over it When waking winds of dawn go by; It fills her rivers like a voice, And leads her wanderers till they die.

She knows the morning ways whereon The windflowers and the wind confer; Surely there is not any fear Upon the farthest trail with her!

And yet, what ails the fir-dark slopes, That all night long the whippoorwills Cry their insatiable cry Across the sleeping Ardise hills?

Is it that no fair mortal thing, Blown leaf, nor song, nor friend can stray Beyond the bourne and bring one word Back the irremeable way?

The noise is hushed within the street; The summer twilight gathers down; The elms are still; the moonlit spires Track their long shadows through the town.

With looming willows and gray dusk The open hillward road is pale, And the great stars are white and few Above the lonely Ardise trail.

And with no haste nor any fear, We are as children going home Along the marshes where the wind Sleeps in the cradle of the foam.

THE END OF THE TRAIL

Once more the hunters of the dusk Are forth to search the moorlands wide, Among the autumn-colored hills, And wander by the shifting tide.

All day along the haze-hung verge They scour upon a fleeing trace, Between the red sun and the sea, Where haunts the vision of your face.

The plane at Martock lies and drinks The long Septembral gaze of blue; The royal leisure of the hills Hath wayward reveries of you.

Far rovers of the ancient dream Have all their will of musing hours: Your eyes were gray-deep as the sea, Your hands lay open in the flowers!

From mining Rawdon to Pereau, For all the gold they delve and share, The goblins of the Ardise hills Can horde no treasure like your hair.

The swirling tide, the lonely gulls, The sweet low wood-winds that rejoice— No sound nor echo of the sea But hath tradition of your voice.

The crimson leaves, the yellow fruit, The basking woodlands mile on mile— No gleam in all the russet hills But wears the solace of your smile.

A thousand cattle rove and feed On the great marshes in the sun, And wonder at the restless sea; But I am glad the year is done,

Because I am a wanderer Upon the roads of endless quest, Between the hill-wind and the hills, Along the margin men call rest.

Because there lies upon my lips A whisper of the wind at morn, A murmur of the rolling sea Cradling the land where I was born;

Because its sleepless tides and storms Are in my heart for memory And music, and its gray-green hills Run white to bear me company;

Because in that sad time of year, With April twilight on the earth And journeying rain upon the sea, With the shy windflowers was my birth;

Because I was a tiny boy Among the thrushes of the wood, And all the rivers in the hills Were playmates of my solitude;

Because the holy winter night Was for my chamber, deep among The dark pine forests by the sea, With woven red auroras hung,

Silent with frost and floored with snow, With what dream folk to people it And bring their stories from the hills, When all the splendid stars were lit;

Therefore I house me not with kin, But journey as the sun goes forth, By stream and wood and marsh and sea, Through dying summers of the North;

Until, some hazy autumn day, With yellow evening in the skies And rime upon the tawny hills, The far blue signal smoke shall rise,

To tell my scouting foresters Have heard the clarions of rest Bugling, along the outer sea, The end of failure and of quest.

Then all the piping Nixie folk, Where lonesome meadow winds are low, Through all the valleys in the hills Their river reeds shall blow and blow,

To lead me like a joy, as when The shining April flowers return, Back to a footpath by the sea With scarlet hip and ruined fern.