Chapter 2

I love daffodils. I love Narcissus when he bends his head. I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils Out of my rhyme of song. Do you know anything about the spring When it comes again? God knows about it while winter is lasting. Flowers bring him power in the spring, And birds bring it, and children. He is sometimes sad and alone Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy. I bring him songs When he is in his sadness, and weary. I tell him how I used to wander out To study stars and the moon he made, And flowers in the dark of the wood. I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten, And that snowdrops are up. What can I say to make him listen? "God," I say, "Don't you care! Nobody must be sad or sorry In the spring-time of flowers."

WATER

The world turns softly Not to spill its lakes and rivers. The water is held in its arms And the sky is held in the water. What is water, That pours silver, And can hold the sky?

SHADY BRONN

When the clouds come deep against the sky I sit alone in my room to think, To remember the fairy dreams I made, Listening to the rustling out of the trees. The stories in my fairy-tale book Come new to me every day. But at my farm on the hill-top I have the wind for a fairy, And the shapes of things: Shady Bronn is the name of my little farm: It is the name of a dream I have Where leaves move, And the wind rings them like little bells.

CHICKADEE

The chickadee in the appletree Talks all the time very gently. He makes me sleepy. I rock away to the sea-lights. Far off I hear him talking The way smooth bright pebbles Drop into water . . . Chick-a-dee-dee-dee . . .

THE CHAMPLAIN SANDMAN

The Sandman comes pattering across the Bay: His hair is silver, His footstep soft. The moon shines on his silver hair, On his quick feet. The Sandman comes searching across the Bay: He goes to all the houses he knows To put sand in little girls' eyes. That is why I go to my sleepy bed, And why the lake-gull leaves the moon alone. There are no wings to moonlight any more, Only the Sandman's hair.

ROSE-MOSS

Little Rose-moss beside the stone, Are you lonely in the garden? There are no friends of you, And the birds are gone. Shall I pick you?"

"Little girl up by the hollyhock, I am not lonely. I feel the sun burning, I hold light in my cup, I have all the rain I want, I think things to myself that you don't know, And I listen to the talk of crickets. I am not lonely, But you may pick me And take me to your mother."

ABOUT MY DREAMS

Now the flowers are all folded And the dark is going by. The evening is arising . . . It is time to rest. When I am sleeping I find my pillow full of dreams. They are all new dreams: No one told them to me Before I came through the cloud. They remember the sky, my little dreams, They have wings, they are quick, they are sweet. Help me tell my dreams To the other children, So that their bread may taste whiter, So that the milk they drink May make them think of meadows In the sky of stars. Help me give bread to the other children So that their dreams may come back: So they will remember what they knew Before they came through the cloud. Let me hold their little hands in the dark, The lonely children, The babies that have no mothers any more. Dear God, let me hold up my silver cup For them to drink, And tell them the sweetness Of my dreams.

SIX TO SEVEN YEARS OLD

AUTUMN SONG

I made a ring of leaves On the autumn grass: I was a fairy queen all day. Inside the ring, the wind wore sandals Not to make a noise of going. The caterpillars, like little snow men, Had wound themselves in their winter coats. The hands of the trees were bare And their fingers fluttered. I was a queen of yellow leaves and brown, And the redness of my fairy ring Kept me warm. For the wind blew near, Though he made no noise of going, And I hadn't a close-made wrap Like the caterpillars. Even a queen of fairies can be cold When summer has forgotten and gone! Keep me warm, red leaves; Don't let the frost tiptoe into my ring On the magic grass!

THE DREAM

When I slept, I thought I was upon the mountain-tops, And this is my dream. I saw the little people come out into the night, I saw their wings glittering under the stars. Crickets played all the tunes they knew. It was so comfortable with light . . . Stars, a rainbow, the moon! The fairies had shiny crowns On their bright hair. The bottoms of their little gowns were roses! It was musical in the moony light, And the fairy queen, Oh, it was all golden where she came With tiny pages on her trail. She walked slowly to her high throne, Slowly, slowly to music, And watched the dancing that went on All night long in star-glitter On the mountain-tops.

BUTTERFLY

Butterfly, I like the way you wear your wings. Show me their colors, For the light is going. Spread out their edges of gold, Before the Sandman puts me to sleep And evening murmurs by.

EVENING

Now it is dusky, And the hermit thrush and the black and white warbler Are singing and answering together. There is sweetness in the tree, And fireflies are counting the leaves. I like this country, I like the way it has, But I cannot forget my dream I had of the sea, The gulls swinging and calling, And the foamy towers of the waves.

THUNDER SHOWER

The dark cloud raged. Gone was the morning light. The big drops darted down: The storm stood tall on the rose-trees: And the bees that were getting honey Out of wet roses, The hiding bees would not come out of the flowers Into the rain.

RED CROSS SONG

When I heard the bees humming in the hive, They were so busy about their honey, I said to my mother, What can I give, What can I give to help the Red Cross? And Mother said to me: You can give honey too! Honey of smiles! Honey of love!

PURPLE ASTERS

It isn't alone the asters In my garden, It is the butterflies gleaming Like crowns of kings and queens! It isn't alone purple And blue on the edge of purple, It is what the sun does, And the air moving clearly, The petals moving and the wings, In my queer little garden!

SONG FOR A PLAY

Soldier drop that golden spear! Wait till the fires arise! Wait till the sky drops down and touches the spear, Crystal and mother-of-pearl! The sunlight droops forward Like wings. The birds sing songs of sun-drops. The sky leans down where the spear stands upward. . . I hear music . . . It is the end . . .

PEACOCK FEATHERS

On trees of fairyland Grow peacock feathers of daylight colors Like an Austrian fan. But there is a strange thing! I have heard that night gathers these feathers For her cloak; I have heard that the stars, the moon, Are the eyes of peacock feathers From fairy trees. It is a thing that may be, But I should not be sure of it, my dear, If I were you!

RED ROOSTER

Red rooster in your gray coop, O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, Yellow and black, You have a comb gay as a parade On your head: You have pearl trinkets On your feet: The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don't know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!

TREE-TOAD

Tree-toad is a small gray person With a silver voice. Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow That sings. Tree-toad is never seen Unless a star squeezes through the leaves, Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch. How would it be, I wonder, To sing patiently all night, Never thinking that people are asleep? Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees, The moon, the dew, the other little singers, Cricket . . . toad . . . leaf rustling . . . They would listen: It would be music like weather That gets into all the corners Of out-of-doors.

Every night I see little shadows I never saw before. Every night I hear little voices I never heard before. When night comes trailing her starry cloak, I start out for slumberland, With tree-toads calling along the roadside. Good-night, I say to one, Good-by, I say to another: I hope to find you on the way We have traveled before! I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!

SEVEN TO NINE YEARS OLD

THE LONESOME WAVE

There is an island In the middle of my heart, And all day comes lapping on the shore A long silver wave. It is the lonesome wave; I cannot see the other side of it. It will never go away Until it meets the glad gold wave Of happiness!

Wandering over the monstrous rocks, Looking into the caves, I see my island dark, all cold, Until the gold wave sweeps in From a sea deep blue, And flings itself on the beach. Oh, it is joy, then! No more whispers like sorrow, No more silvery lonesome lapping of the long wave . . .

RED-CAP MOSS

Have you seen red-cap moss In the woods? Have you looked under the trembling caps For faces? Have you seen wonder on those faces Because you are so big?

RAMBLER ROSE

Rambler Rose in great clusters, Looking at me, at my mother with me Under this apple-tree, Your faces watch us from outside the shade. The wind blows on you, The rain drops on you, The sun shines on you, You are brighter than before. You turn your faces to the wind And watch my mother and me, Thinking of things I cannot mention Outside of my mind. Rambler Rose in the shining wind, You smile at me, Smile at my mother!

GIFT

This is mint and here are three pinks I have brought you, Mother. They are wet with rain And shining with it. The pinks smell like more of them In a blue vase: The mint smells like summer In many gardens.

THE WHITE CLOUD

There are many clouds But not like the one I see, For mine floats like a swan in featheriness Over the River of the Broken Pine.

There are many clouds But not like the one that goes sailing Like a ship full of gold that shines, Like a ship leaning above blue water.

There are many clouds But not like the one I wait for, For mine will have a strangeness Whiter than anything your eyes remember.

MOON THOUGHT

The moon is thinking of the river Winding through the mountains far away, Because she has a river in her heart Full of the same silver.

THE OLD BRIDGE

The old bridge has a wrinkled face. He bends his back For us to go over. He moans and weeps But we do not hear. Sorrow stands in his face For the heavy weight and worry Of people passing. The trees drop their leaves into the water; The sky nods to him. The leaves float down like small ships On the blue surface Which is the sky. He is not always sad: He smiles to see the ships go down And the little children Playing on the river banks.

FERNS

Small ferns up-coming through the mossy green, Up-curling and springing, See trees circling round them, And the straight brook like a lily-stem: Hear the water laughing At the stern old pine-tree Who keeps sighing to himself all day long What's the use! What's the use!

LAND OF NOD

I wander mountain to mountain, From sea to sea, I wander into a country Where everyone is asleep. There in the Land of Nod I never think of home, For home is there, With sleeping doves and silvery girls, Sleeping boys and drowsy roses. There I find people whose eyes are heavy, And trees with folded wings.

SUN FLOWERS

Sun-flowers, stop growing! If you touch the sky where those clouds are passing Like tufts of dandelion gone to seed, The sky will put you out! You know it is blue like the sea . . . Maybe it is wet, too! Your gold faces will be gone forever If you brush against that blue Ever so softly!

HOLLAND SONG

For a Dutch picture

When light comes creeping through the That shine with mist, When winds blow soft, Windmills wake and whirl. In Holland, in Holland, Everything is cheerful Across the sea: White nets are beside the water Where ships sail by. The mountains begin to get blue, The Dutch girls begin to sing, The windmills begin to whirl. Then night comes The mountains turn dark gray And faint away into night. Not a bird chirps his song. All is drowsy, All is strange, With the moon and stars shining round the world: The wind stops, The windmills stop In Holland . . .

FOUNTAIN-TALK

Said the fountain to its clear bed, "You might flow faster! I am sprinkling my best, every day, But ice is holding you fast. Can't you get out? Can't you lift yourself with sun? I am tired waiting for slow cold water To fling about the air: Can't you wake yourself up?" But the fountain-basin murmured softly "Sleep . . . sleep . . . Sleep . . . sleep . . . You with your talking and talking! Hush . . . hush . . . I hear the bird-sandman!"

POPLARS

The poplars bow forward and back; They are like a fan waving very softly. They tremble, For they love the wind in their feathery branches. They love to look down at the shallows, At the mermaids On the sandy shore; They love to look into morning's face Cool in the water.

THE TOWER AND THE FALCON

There was a tower, once, In a London street. It was the highest, widest, thickest tower, The proudest, roundest, finest tower Of all towers. English men passed it by: They could not see it all Because it went above tree-tops and clouds.

It was lonely up there where the trees stopped Until one day A blue falcon came flying. He cried: "Tower! Do you know you are the highest, finest, roundest, The tallest, proudest, greatest, Of all the towers In all the world?"

He went away. That night the tower made a new song About himself.

THOUGHTS

My thoughts keep going far away Into another country under a different sky: My thoughts are sea-foam and sand; They are apple-petals fluttering.

POEM-SKETCH IN THREE PARTS

(Made for the picture on the jacket of the Norwegian book, The Great Hunger, by Johan Bojer)

I

THE ROLLING IN OF THE WAVE

It was night when the sky was dark blue And the water came in with a wavy look Like a spider's web. The point of the slope came down to the water's edge; It was green with a fairy ring of forget-me-not and fern. The white foam licked the side of the slope As it came up and bent backward; It curled up like a beautiful cinder-tree Bending in the wind.

II

THE COMING OF THE GREAT BIRD

A boy was watching the water As it came lapping the edge of fern. Little ships passed him As the moon came leaning across dark blue rays of light. The spruce trees saw the white ships sailing away, And the moon bending up the blue sky Where stars were twinkling like fairy lamps; The boy was looking toward foreign lands As the ships passed, Their white sails glittering in the moonlight. He was thinking how he wished to see Foreign lands, strange people, When suddenly a bird came flying! It swooped down upon the slope And spoke to him: "Do you want to go across the deep blue sea? Get on my back; I will take you." "Oh," cried the little boy, "who sent you? Who knew my thoughts of foreign lands?"

III

THE ISLAND

They flew as the night-wind flowed, very softly, They heard sweet singing that the water sang, They came to a place where the sea was shallow And saw treasure hidden there. There was one poplar tree On the lonely island, Swaying for sadness. The clouds went over their heads Like a fleet of drifting ships. And there they sank down out of the air Into the dream.

THE DEW-LIGHT

The Dew-man comes over the mountains wide, Over the deserts of sand, With his bag of clear drops And his brush of feathers. He scatters brightness. The white bunnies beg him for dew. He sprinkles their fur, They shake themselves. All the time he is singing The unknown world is beautiful!

He polishes flowers, Humming "Oh, beautiful!" He sings in the soft light That grows out of the dew, Out of the misty dew-light that leans over him He makes his song . . . It is beautiful, the unknown world!

YELLOW SUMMER-THROAT

Yellow summer-throat sat singing In a bending spray of willow tree. Thin fine green-y lines on his throat, The ruffled outside of his throat, Trembled when he sang. He kept saying the same thing; The willow did not mind.

I knew what he said, I knew, But how can I tell you?

I have to watch the willow bend in the wind.

PEGASUS

Come dear Pegasus, I said, Let me ride on your back; I have often seen your shadow in the glittering creek; Pegasus, beautiful Pegasus, Let me sit on your back!

He was away, But I was on his back, So I went with him. We had a castle in a mountain cloud. So quickly was he away, I had no time to look or speak! That was the last I saw of father or mother. We went far from the shining creek, Farther than I know how to tell you: It was good-by.

VENICE BRIDGE

For a painting

Away back in an old city I saw a bridge. That bridge belonged to Venice. It was to the rainbow clear It traveled, Over an old canal. You had to pass a cloudy gate To reach the color . . . Bridges do sometimes begin on the earth And end in the sky.

NIGHT GOES RUSHING BY

Night goes hurrying over Like sweeping clouds; The birds are nested; their song is silent. The wind says oo--oo--oo--through the trees For their lullaby. The moon shines down on the sleeping birds.

My cottage roof is like a sheet of silk Spun like a cobweb. My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest; When the moon shines I see no leaves.

I am alone and very quiet Hoping the moon may say something Before long.

DANDELION

O little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight!

IF I COULD TELL YOU THE WAY

Down through the forest to the river I wander. There are swans flying, Swans on the water, Duck, wild birds. Fairies live here; They know no sorrow. Birds, winds, They are the only people. If I could tell you the way to this place, You would sell your house and your land For silver or a little gold, You would sail up the river, Tie your boat to the Black Stone, Build a leaf-hut, make a twig-fire, Gather mushrooms, drink spring-water, Live alone and sing to yourself For a year and a year and a year!

ROSE-PETAL

Petal with rosy cheeks, Petal with thoughts of your own, Petal of my crimson-white flower out of June, Little petal of my heart!

POEMS

See the fur coats go by! The morning is like the inside of a snow-apple. I will curl myself cushion-shape On the window-seat; I will read poems by snow-light. If I cannot understand them so, I will turn them upside down And read them by the red candles Of garden brambles.

SEAGARDE

I will return to you O stillest and dearest, To see the pearl of light That flashes in your golden hair; To hear you sing your songs of starlight And tell your stories of the wonderful land Of stars and fleecy sky; To say to you that Seagarde will soon be here, Seagarde the fairy With her seagulls of hope!

EASTER

On Easter morn Up the faint cloudy sky I hear the Easter bell, Ding dong . . . ding dong . . . Easter morning scatters lilies On every doorstep; Easter morning says a glad thing Over and over. Poor people, beggars, old women Are hearing the Easter bell . . . Ding dong . . . ding dong . . .

BLUEBIRD

Oh bluebird with light red breast, And your blue back like a feathered sky, You have to go down south Before biting winter comes And my flower-beds are covered with fluff out of the clouds. Before you go, Sing me one more song Of tree-tops down south, Of darkies singing their babies to sleep, Of sand and glittering stones Where rivers pass; Then . . . good-by!

GEOGRAPHY

I can tell balsam trees By their grayish bluish silverish look of smoke. Pine trees fringe out. Hemlocks look like Christmas. The spruce tree is feathered and rough Like the legs of the red chickens in our poultry yard. I can study my geography from chickens Named for Plymouth Rock and Rhode Island, And from trees out of Canada. No; I shall leave the chickens out. I shall make a new geography of my own. I shall have a hillside of spruce and hemlock Like a separate country, And I shall mark a walk of spires on my map, A secret road of balsam trees With blue buds. Trees Fat smell like a wind out of fairy-land Where little people live Who need no geography But trees.

MARCH THOUGHT

I am waiting for the flowers To come back: I am alone, But I can wait for the birds.

MORNING

There is a brook I must hear Before I go to sleep. There is a birch tree I must visit Every night of clearness. I have to do some dreaming, I have to listen a great deal, Before light comes back By a silver arrow of cloud, And I rub my eyes and say It must be morning on this hill!

SONG

A scarlet bird went sailing away through the wood . . .

It was only a mist of dream That floated by.

Bare boughs of my apple-tree, Beautiful gray arms stretched out to me, Swaying to and fro like angels' wings . . .

It was only a mist of dream That floated by.

SNOWFLAKE SONG