Part 2

Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls, Nose-deep in clover fodder’s meadowy scent, Forget the snows that whelm their pasture streams, The frost that bites the world beyond their walls. Warm housed, they dream of summer, well content In day-long contemplation of their dreams.

_MIDWINTER THAW_

How shrink the snows upon this upland field, Under the dove-grey dome of brooding noon! They shrink with soft, reluctant shocks, and soon In sad brown ranks the furrows lie revealed. From radiant cisterns of the frost unsealed Now wakes through all the air a watery rune-- The babble of a million brooks atune, In fairy conduits of blue ice concealed.

Noisy with crows, the wind-break on the hill Counts o’er its buds for summer. In the air Some shy foreteller prophesies with skill-- Some voyaging ghost of bird, some effluence rare; And the stall-wearied cattle dream their fill Of deep June pastures where the pools are fair.

_THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE_

I hear the low wind wash the softening snow, The low tide loiter down the shore. The night Full filled with April forecast, hath no light. The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow. Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow The thaw’s shy ministers; and hark! The height Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight Of strong hosts prophesying as they go!

High through the drenched and hollow night their wings Beat northward hard on winter’s trail. The sound Of their confused and solemn voices, borne Athwart the dark to their long Arctic morn, Comes with a sanction and an awe profound, A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things.

_IN THE WIDE AWE AND WISDOM OF THE NIGHT_

In the wide awe and wisdom of the night I saw the round world rolling on its way, Beyond significance of depth or height, Beyond the interchange of dark and day. I marked the march to which is set no pause, And that stupendous orbit, round whose rim The great sphere sweeps, obedient unto laws That utter the eternal thought of Him. I compassed time, outstripped the starry speed, And in my still soul apprehended space, Till, weighing laws which these but blindly heed, At last I came before Him face to face,-- And knew the Universe of no such span As the august infinitude of Man.

_THE HERRING WEIR_

Back to the green deeps of the outer bay The red and amber currents glide and cringe, Diminishing behind a luminous fringe Of cream-white surf and wandering wraiths of spray. Stealthily, in the old reluctant way, The red flats are uncovered, mile on mile, To glitter in the sun a golden while. Far down the flats, a phantom sharply gray, The herring weir emerges, quick with spoil. Slowly the tide forsakes it. Then draws near, Descending from the farm-house on the height, A cart, with gaping tubs. The oxen toil Sombrely o’er the level to the weir, And drag a long black trail across the light.

_BLOMIDON_

This is that black rock bastion, based in surge, Pregnant with agate and with amethyst, Whose foot the tides of storied Minas scourge, Whose top austere withdraws into its mist. This is that ancient cape of tears and storm, Whose towering front inviolable frowns O’er vales Evangeline and love keep warm-- Whose fame thy song, O tender singer, crowns. Yonder, across these reeling fields of foam, Came the sad threat of the avenging ships. What profit now to know if just the doom, Though harsh! The streaming eyes, the praying lips, The shadow of inextinguishable pain, The poet’s deathless music--these remain!

_THE NIGHT SKY_

O deep of Heaven, ’tis thou alone art boundless, ’Tis thou alone our balance shall not weigh, ’Tis thou alone our fathom-line finds soundless,-- Whose infinite our finite must obey! Through thy blue realms and down thy starry reaches Thought voyages forth beyond the furthest fire, And, homing from no sighted shoreline, teaches Thee measureless as is the soul’s desire. O deep of Heaven, no beam of Pleiad ranging Eternity may bridge thy gulf of spheres! The ceaseless hum that fills thy sleep unchanging Is rain of the innumerable years. Our worlds, our suns, our ages, these but stream Through thine abiding like a dateless dream.

_TIDES_

Through the still dusk how sighs the ebb-tide out Reluctant for the reed-beds! Down the sands It washes. Hark! Beyond the wan grey strand’s Low limits how the winding channels grieve, Aware the evasive waters soon will leave Them void amid the waste of desolate lands, Where shadowless to the sky the marsh expands, And the noon heats must scar them, and the drought.

Yet soon for them the solacing tide returns To quench their thirst of longing. Ah, not so Works the stern law our tides of life obey! Ebbing in the night watches swift away, Scarce known are fled for ever is the flow; And in parched channel still the shrunk stream mourns.

_THE DESERTED CITY_

There lies a little city leagues away. Its wharves the green sea washes all day long. Its busy, sun-bright wharves with sailors’ song And clamour of trade ring loud the live-long day. Into the happy harbour hastening, gay With press of snowy canvas, tall ships throng. The peopled streets to blithe-eyed Peace belong, Glad housed beneath these crowding roofs of grey.

’Twas long ago this city prospered so, For yesterday a woman died therein. Since when the wharves are idle fallen, I know, And in the streets is hushed the pleasant din; The thronging ships have been, the songs have been;-- Since yesterday it is so long ago.

_DARK_

Now, for the night is hushed and blind with rain, My soul desires communion, Dear, with thee. But hour by hour my spirit gets not free,-- Hour by still hour my longing strives in vain. The thick dark hems me, even to the restless brain. The wind’s confusion vague encumbers me. Even passionate memory, grown too faint to see Thy features, stirs not in her straitening chain.

And thou, dost thou too feel this strange divorce Of will from power? The spell of night and wind, Baffling desire and dream, dost thou too find? Not distance parts us, Dear; but this dim force, Intangible, holds us helpless, hushed with pain, Dumb with the dark, blind with the gusts of rain!

_RAIN_

Sharp drives the rain, sharp drives the endless rain. The rain-winds wake and wander, lift and blow. The slow smoke-wreaths of vapour to and fro, Wave and unweave and gather and build again. Over the far gray reaches of the plain,-- Grey miles on miles my passionate thought must go,-- I strain my sight, grown dim with gazing so, Pressing my face against the streaming pane.

How the rain beats! Ah God! If love had power To voice its utmost yearning, even tho’ Through time and bitter distance, not in vain, Surely her heart would hear me at this hour, Look through the years, and see! But would she know The white face pressed against the streaming pane?

_MIST_

Its hand compassionate guards our restless sight Against how many a harshness, many an ill! Tender as sleep, its shadowy palms distil Weird vapours that ensnare our eyes with light. Rash eyes, kept ignorant in their own despite, It lets not see the unsightliness they will, But paints each scanty fairness fairer still, And still deludes us to our own delight.

It fades, regathers, never quite dissolves. And, ah! that life, ah! that the heart and brain Might keep their mist and glamour, not to know So soon the disenchantment and the pain! But one by one our dear illusions go, Stript and cast forth as time’s slow wheel revolves.

_MOONLIGHT_

The fifers of these amethystine fields, Whose far fine sound the night makes musical, Now while thou wak’st and longing would’st recall Joys that no rapture of remembrance yields, Voice to thy soul, lone-sitting deep within The still recesses of thine ecstasy, My love and my desire, that fain would fly With this far-silvering moon and fold thee in.

But not for us the touch, the clasp, the kiss, And for our restlessness no rest. In vain These aching lips, these hungering hearts that strain Toward the denied fruition of our bliss, Had love not learned of longing to devise Out of desire and dream our paradise.

O SOLITARY OF THE AUSTERE SKY

O solitary of the austere sky, Pale presence of the unextinguished star, That from thy station where the spheres wheel by, And quietudes of infinite patience are, Watchest this wet, grey-visaged world emerge,-- Cold pinnacle on pinnacle, and deep On deep of ancient wood and wandering surge,-- Out of the silence and the mists of sleep;

How small am I in thine august regard! Invisible,--and yet I know my worth! When comes the hour to break this ’prisoning shard, And reunite with Him that breathed me forth, Then shall this atom of the Eternal Soul Encompass thee in its benign control!

_AUTOCHTHON_

I

I am the spirit astir To swell the grain When fruitful suns confer With labouring rain; I am the life that thrills In branch and bloom; I am the patience of abiding hills, The promise masked in doom.

II

When the sombre lands are wrung, And storms are out, And giant woods give tongue, I am the shout; And when the earth would sleep, Wrapped in her snows, I am the infinite gleam of eyes that keep The post of her repose.

III

I am the hush of calm, I am the speed, The flood-tide’s triumphing psalm, The marsh-pool’s heed; I work in the rocking roar Where cataracts fall; I flash in the prismy fire that dances o’er The dew’s ephemeral ball.

IV

I am the voice of wind And wave and tree, Of stern desires and blind, Of strength to be; I am the cry by night At point of dawn, The summoning bugle from the unseen height, In cloud and doubt withdrawn.

V

I am the strife that shapes The stature of man, The pang no hero escapes, The blessing, the ban; I am the hammer that moulds The iron of our race, The omen of God in our blood that a people beholds, The foreknowledge veiled in our face.

_THE TIDE ON TANTRAMAR_

I

Tantramar! Tantramar! I see thy cool green plains afar. Thy dykes where grey sea-grasses are, Mine eyes behold them yet.

But not the gladness breathed of old Thy bordering, blue hill-hollows hold; Thy wind-blown leagues of green unrolled, Thy flats the red floods fret,

Thy steady-streaming winds--no more These work the rapture wrought of yore, When all thy wide bright strength outbore My soul from fleshly bar.

A darkness as of drifted rain Is over tide, and dyke, and plain. The shadow-pall of human pain Is fallen on Tantramar.

II

A little garden gay with phlox, Blue corn-flowers, yellow hollyhocks, Red poppies, pink and purple stocks, Looks over Tantramar.

Pale yellow drops the road before The hospitable cottage-door,-- A yellow, upland road, and o’er The green marsh seeks the low red shore And winding dykes afar.

Beyond the marsh, and miles away, The great tides of the tumbling bay Swing glittering in the golden day, Swing foaming to and fro; And nearer, in a nest of green, A little turbid port is seen, Where pitch-black fishing-boats careen, Left when the tide runs low.

The little port is safe and fit. About its wharf the plover flit, The grey net-reels loom over it, With grass about their feet.

In wave and storm it hath no part, This harbour in the marshes’ heart; Behind its dykes, at peace, apart It hears the surges beat.

The garden hollyhocks are tall; They tower above the garden wall, And see, far down, the port, and all The creeks, and marshes wide;

But Margery, Margery, ’Tis something further thou wouldst see! Bid all thy blooms keep watch with thee Across the outmost tide.

Bid them keep wide their starry eyes To warn thee should a white sail rise, Slow climbing up, from alien skies, The azure round of sea.

He sails beneath a stormy star; The waves are wild, the Isles afar; Summer is ripe on Tantramar, And yet returns not he.

Long, long thine eyes have watched in vain, Waited in fear, and wept again. Is it no more than lover’s pain That makes thy heart so wild?

At dreams within the cottage door The old man’s eyes are lingering o’er The little port,--the far-off shore,-- His dear and only child.

And at her spinning-wheel within The mother’s hands forget to spin. With loving voice she calls thee in,-- Her dear and only child.

To leave the home-dear hearts to ache Was not for thee, though thine should break. For their dear sake, for their dear sake, Thou wouldst not go with him.

But always wise, and strong, and free, Is given to which of us to be?-- A gathering shadow, Margery, Makes all thy daylight dim!

Yet surely soon will break the day For which thine anxious waitings pray,-- His sails, athwart the yellow bay, Shall cleave the sky’s blue rim.

III

To-night the wind roars in from sea; The crow clings in the straining tree; Curlew and crane and bittern flee The dykes of Tantramar.

To-night athwart an inky sky A narrowing sun dropped angrily, Scoring the gloom with dreadful dye, A bitter and flaming scar.

But ere night falls, across the tide A close-reefed barque has been descried, And word goes round the country-side-- ‘The “Belle” is in the bay!’

And ere the loud night closes down Upon that light’s terrific frown, Along the dyke, with blowing gown, She takes her eager way.

Just where his boat will haste to land, On the open wharf she takes her stand. Her pale hair blows from out its band. She does not heed the storm.

Her blinding joy of heart they know Who so have fared, and waited so. She heeds not what the winds that blow; She does not feel the storm.

But fiercer roars the gale. The night With cloud grows black, with foam gleams white The creek boils to its utmost height. The port is seething full.

The gale shouts in the outer waves Amid a world of gaping graves; Against the dyke each great surge raves, Blind battering like a bull.

The dyke! The dyke! The brute sea shakes The sheltering wall. It breaks,--it breaks! The sharp salt whips her face, and wakes The dreamer from her dream.

The great flood lifts. It thunders in. The broad marsh foams, and sinks. The din Of waves is where her world has been;-- Is this--is this the dream?

---- One moment in that surging hell The old wharf shook, then cringed and fell. ---- Then came a lonely hulk, the ‘Belle,’ And drove athwart the waste.

* * * * *

They know no light, nor any star, Those ruined plains of Tantramar. And where the maid and lover are They know nor fear nor haste.

IV

After the flood on Tantramar The fisher-folk flocked in from far. They stopped the breach; they healed the scar. Once more the marsh grew green.

But at the marsh’s inmost edge, Where a tall fringe of flag and sedge Catches a climbing hawthorn hedge, A lonely hulk is seen.

It lies forgotten of all tides, The grass grows round its bleaching sides, An endless inland peace abides About its mouldering age.

But in the cot-door on the height An old man sits with fading sight, And memories of one cruel night Are all his heritage.

And at her spinning-wheel within The mother’s hands forget to spin,-- So weary all her days have been Since Margery went away.

---- Tantramar! Tantramar! Until that sorrow fades afar, Thy plains where birds and blossoms are Laugh not their ancient way!

_THE VALLEY OF THE WINDING WATER_

The valley of the winding water Wears the same light it wore of old, Still o’er the purple peaks the portals Of distance and desire unfold.

Still break the fields of opening June To emerald in their ancient way. The sapphire of the summer heaven Is infinite, as yesterday.

My eyes are on the greening earth, The exultant bobolinks wild awing; And yet, of all this kindly gladness, My heart beholds not anything.

For in a still room far away, With mourners round her silent head, Blind to the quenchless tears, the anguish-- I see, to-day, a woman dead.

_MARSYAS_

A little grey hill-glade, close-turfed, withdrawn Beyond resort or heed of trafficking feet, Ringed round with slim trunks of the mountain ash. Through the slim trunks and scarlet bunches flash-- Beneath the clear chill glitterings of the dawn dawn-- Far off, the crests, where down the rosy shore The Pontic surges beat. The plains lie dim below. The thin airs wash The circuit of the autumn-coloured hills, And this high glade, whereon The satyr pipes, who soon shall pipe no more. He sits against the beech-tree’s mighty bole,-- He leans, and with persuasive breathing fills The happy shadows of the slant-set lawn. The goat-feet fold beneath a gnarlèd root; And sweet, and sweet the note that steals and thrills From slender stops of that shy flute. Then to the goat-feet comes the wide-eyed fawn Hearkening; the rabbits fringe the glade, and lay Their long ears to the sound; In the pale boughs the partridge gather round, And quaint hern from the sea-green river reeds; The wild ram halts upon a rocky horn O’erhanging; and, unmindful of his prey, The leopard steals with narrowed lids to lay His spotted length along the ground. The thin airs wash, the thin clouds wander by, And those hushed listeners move not. All the morn He pipes, soft-swaying, and with half-shut eye, In rapt content of utterance,-- nor heeds The young God standing in his branchy place, The languor on his lips, and in his face, Divinely inaccessible, the scorn.

_THE FORTRESS_

While raves the midnight storm, And roars the rain upon the windy roof, Heart held to heart and all the world aloof, We laugh secure and warm.

This chamber of our bliss Might seem a fortress by a haunted main, Which shouting hosts embattled charge in vain, Powerless to mar our kiss.

O life, O storm of years, Our walls are built against your shattering siege; Our dwelling is with Love, our sovereign liege, And fenced from change and tears.

_SEVERANCE_

The tide falls, and the night falls, And the wind blows in from the sea, And the bell on the bar it calls and calls, And the wild hawk cries from his tree.

The late crane calls to his fellows gone In long flight over the sea, And my heart with the crane flies on and on, Seeking its rest and thee

O Love, the tide returns to the strand, And the crane flies back oversea, But he brings not my heart from his far-off land, For he brings not thee to me.

_EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORE_

He who but yesterday would roam Careless as clouds and currents range, In homeless wandering most at home, Inhabiter of change;

Who wooed the west to win the east, And named the stars of North and South, And felt the zest of Freedom’s feast Familiar in his mouth;

Who found a faith in stranger-speech, And fellowship in foreign hands, And had within his eager reach The relish of all lands--

How circumscribed a plot of earth Keeps now his restless footsteps still, Whose wish was wide as ocean’s girth, Whose will the water’s will!

_THE SILVER THAW_

There came a day of showers Upon the shrinking snow; The south wind sighed of flowers, The softening skies hung low. Midwinter for a space Foreshadowing April’s face, The white world caught the fancy, And would not let it go.

In reawakened courses The brooks rejoiced the land; We dreamed the Spring’s shy forces Were gathering close at hand. The dripping buds were stirred, As if the sap had heard The long-desired persuasion Of April’s soft command.

But antic Time had cheated With hope’s elusive gleam; The phantom Spring, defeated, Fled down the ways of dream. And in the night the reign Of winter came again, With frost upon the forest And stillness on the stream.

When morn in rose and crocus Came up the bitter sky, Celestial beams awoke us To wondering ecstasy. The wizard Winter’s spell Had wrought so passing well, That earth was bathed in glory, As if God’s smile were nigh.

The silvered saplings, bending, Flashed in a rain of gems; The statelier trees, attending, Blazed in their diadems. White fire and amethyst All common things had kissed, And chrysolites and sapphires Adorned the bramble-stems.

In crystalline confusion All beauty came to birth; It was a kind illusion To comfort waiting earth-- To bid the buds forget The Spring so distant yet, And hearts no more remember The iron season’s dearth.

_THE LILY OF THE VALLEY_

Did Winter, letting fall in vain regret A tear among the tender leaves of May, Embalm the tribute, lest she might forget, In this elect, imperishable way?

Or did the virgin Spring sweet vigil keep In the white radiance of the midnight hour, And whisper to the unwondering ear of Sleep Some shy desire that turned into a flower?

_THE NIGHT-HAWK_

When frogs make merry the pools of May, And sweet, oh sweet, Through the twilight dim Is the vesper hymn Their myriad mellow pipes repeat As the rose-dusk dies away. Then hark, the night-hawk! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o’er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower.

In the high pale heaven he flits and calls; Then swift, oh swift, On sounding wing That hums like a string, To the quiet glades where the gnat-clouds drift And the night-moths flicker, he falls. Then hark, the night-hawk! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o’er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower.

_THE HERMIT-THRUSH_