Chapter 1
Produced by Patricia Peters, Tonya Allen, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
SONGS OUT OF DOORS
BY
HENRY VAN DYKE
1923
CONTENTS
I
OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS
The Veery The Song-Sparrow The Maryland Yellow-Throat The Whip-Poor-Will Wings of a Dove The Hermit Thrush Sea-Gulls of Manhattan The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet The Angler's Reveille A November Daisy The Lily of Yorrow
II
OF SKIES AND SEASONS
If All the Skies The After-Echo Dulciora Matins The Parting and the Coming Guest When Tulips Bloom Spring in the North Spring in the South How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim The First Bird o' Spring A Bunch of Trout-Flies A Noon-Song Turn o' the Tide Sierra Madre School Indian Summer Light between the Trees The Fall of the Leaves Three Alpine Sonnets A Snow-Song Roslin and Hawthornden The Heavenly Hills of Holland Flood-Tide of Flowers Salute to the Trees
III
OF THE UNFAILING LIGHT
The Grand Canyon God of the Open Air
IV
WAYFARING PSALMS IN PALESTINE
The Distant Road The Welcome Tent The Great Cities The Friendly Trees The Pathway of Rivers The Glory of Ruins The Tribe of the Helpers The Good Teacher The Camp-Fires of My Friend
I
OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS
THE VEERY
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; I longed to hear a simpler strain,--the woodnotes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; I only know one song more sweet,--the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.
1895.
THE SONG-SPARROW
There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle-joyful song I heard. Now see if you can tell, my dear, What bird it is that, every year, Sings _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his heart with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade; and every day Repeats his small, contented lay; As if to say, we need not fear The season's change, if love is here With _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
He does not wear a Joseph's-coat Of many colours, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well-dressed throng Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing, to hear His _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear, Because he'd bless me, every year, With _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
1895.
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
When May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"
1895.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
Do you remember, father,-- It seems so long ago,-- The day we fished together Along the Pocono? At dusk I waited for you, Beside the lumber-mill, And there I heard a hidden bird That chanted, "whip-poor-will," "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
The place was all deserted; The mill-wheel hung at rest; The lonely star of evening Was throbbing in the west; The veil of night was falling; The winds were folded still; And everywhere the trembling air Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!" "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
You seemed so long in coming, I felt so much alone; The wide, dark world was round me, And life was all unknown; The hand of sorrow touched me, And made my senses thrill With all the pain that haunts the strain Of mournful whip-poor-will. "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
What knew I then of trouble? An idle little lad, I had not learned the lessons That make men wise and sad. I dreamed of grief and parting, And something seemed to fill My heart with tears, while in my ears Resounded "whip-poor-will." "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
'Twas but a cloud of sadness, That lightly passed away; But I have learned the meaning Of sorrow, since that day. For nevermore at twilight, Beside the silent mill, I'll wait for you, in the falling dew, And hear the whip-poor-will. "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
But if you still remember In that fair land of light, The pains and fears that touch us Along this edge of night, I think all earthly grieving, And all our mortal ill, To you must seem like a sad boy's dream Who hears the whip-poor-will. "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" A passing thrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
1894.
WINGS OF A DOVE
I
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying Far down the pathway of the west, I saw a lonely dove in silence flying, To be at rest.
Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, I'd fly away from every careful sorrow, And find my rest.
II
But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling, Home flew the dove to seek his nest, Deep in the forest where his mate was calling To love and rest.
Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander; Lose not thy life in barren quest. There are no happy islands over yonder; Come home and rest.
1874.
THE HERMIT THRUSH
O wonderful! How liquid clear The molten gold of that ethereal tone, Floating and falling through the wood alone, A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!
_O holy, holy! holy! Hyaline, Long light, low light, glory of eventide! Love far away, far up,--love divine! Little love, too, for ever, ever near, Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine, In the leafy dark where you hide, You are mine,--mine,--mine!_
Ah, my belovèd, do you feel with me The hidden virtue of that melody, The rapture and the purity of love, The heavenly joy that can not find the word?
Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, Come very near to me, and do not move,-- Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew The cool, green cup of air with harmony, And we will drink the wine of love with you.
May, 1908.
SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN
Children of the elemental mother, Born upon some lonely island shore Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, Where the crested billows plunge and roar; Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, In the far-off solitary places I have seen you floating wild and free!
Here the high-built cities rise around you; Here the cliffs that tower east and west, Honeycombed with human habitations, Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, Restless, up and down the watery highway, While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.
Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, Clank and clamour of the vast machine Human hands have built for human bondage-- Yet amid it all you float serene; Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly Down to glean your harvest from the wave; In your heritage of air and water, You have kept the freedom Nature gave.
Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray; Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, Round the _Half-Moon_ creeping up the bay; Even so your voices creaked and chattered, Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, While your black and beady eyes were glistening Round the sullen British prison-ships.
Children of the elemental mother, Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, From the crowded boats that cross the ferries Many a longing heart goes out to you. Though the cities climb and close around us, Something tells us that our souls are free, While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, While the river flows to meet the sea!
December, 1905.
THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET
I
Where's your kingdom, little king? Where the land you call your own, Where your palace and your throne? Fluttering lightly on the wing Through the blossom-world of May, Whither lies your royal way, Little king?
_Far to northward lies a land Where the trees together stand Closely as the blades of wheat When the summer is complete. Rolling like an ocean wide Over vale and mountainside, Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine,-- All those mighty trees are mine. There's a river flowing free,-- All its waves belong to me. There's a lake so clear and bright Stars shine out of it all night; Rowan-berries round it spread Like a belt of coral red. Never royal garden planned Fair as my Canadian land! There I build my summer nest, There I reign and there I rest, While from dawn to dark I sing, Happy kingdom! Lucky king!_
II
Back again, my little king! Is your happy kingdom lost To the rebel knave, Jack Frost? Have you felt the snow-flakes sting? Houseless, homeless in October, Whither now? Your plight is sober, Exiled king!
_Far to southward lie the regions Where my loyal flower-legions Hold possession of the year, Filling every month with cheer. Christmas wakes the winter rose; New Year daffodils unclose; Yellow jasmine through the wood Flows in February flood, Dropping from the tallest trees Golden streams that never freeze. Thither now I take my flight Down the pathway of the night, Till I see the southern moon Glisten on the broad lagoon, Where the cypress' dusky green, And the dark magnolia's sheen, Weave a shelter round my home. There the snow-storms never come; There the bannered mosses gray Like a curtain gently sway, Hanging low on every side Round the covert inhere I bide, Till the March azalea glows, Royal red and heavenly rose, Through the Carolina glade Where my winter home is made. There I hold my southern court, Full of merriment and sport: There I take my ease and sing, Happy kingdom! Lucky king!_
III
Little boaster, vagrant king, Neither north nor south is yours, You've no kingdom that endures! Wandering every fall and spring, With your ruby crown so slender, Are you only a Pretender, Landless king?
_Never king by right divine Ruled a richer realm than mine! What are lands and golden crowns, Armies, fortresses and towns, Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings,-- What are these to song and wings? Everywhere that I can fly, There I own the earth and sky; Everywhere that I can sing, There I'm happy as a king._
1900.
THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally: _Tirra-lirra, Early morn, New born! Day is near, Clear, clear. Down the river All a-quiver, Fish are breaking; Time for waking, Tup, tup, tup! Do you hear? All clear-- Wake up!_
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.
This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying, Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying: _Surely, surely, surely, Life is dear Even here. Blue above, You to love, Purely, purely, purely._
There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.
This is the song of the Yellow-throat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you:
_Which way, sir? I say, sir, Let me teach you, I beseech you! Are you wishing Jolly fishing? This way, sir! I'll teach you._
Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will give, And all the day your heart will say, "'Tis luck enough to live."
This is the song the Brown Thrush flings Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it bubbles and rings, Mark how it closes:
_Luck, luck, What luck? Good enough for me, I'm alive, you see! Sun shining, No repining; Never borrow Idle sorrow; Drop it! Cover it up! Hold your cup! Joy will fill it, Don't spill it, Steady, be ready, Good luck!_
1899.
A NOVEMBER DAISY
Afterthought of summer's bloom! Late arrival at the feast, Coming when the songs have ceased And the merry guests departed, Leaving but an empty room, Silence, solitude, and gloom,-- Are you lonely, heavy-hearted; You, the last of all your kind, Nodding in the autumn wind; Now that all your friends are flown, Blooming late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower, Reading mournful mood of mine In your looks, that give no sign Of a spirit dark and cheerless! You possess the heavenly power That rejoices in the hour. Glad, contented, free, and fearless, Lift a sunny face to heaven When a sunny day is given! Make a summer of your own, Blooming late and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white Sea-like through the meadow rolled: Once my heart could hardly hold All its pleasures. I remember, In the flood of youth's delight Separate joys were lost to sight. That was summer! Now November Sets the perfect flower apart; Gives each blossom of the heart Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,-- Blooming late and all alone.
November, 1899.
THE LILY OF YORROW
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.
Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower; Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.
Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume enchanted Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted, Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.
Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening? Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?
Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden, Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.
Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a lifelong endeavour; Surely to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.
'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me: Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,-- Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.
Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow? Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.
1894.
II
OF SKIES AND SEASONS
IF ALL THE SKIES
If all the skies were sunshine, Our faces would be fain To feel once more upon them The cooling plash of rain.
If all the world were music, Our hearts would often long For one sweet strain of silence, To break the endless song.
If life were always merry, Our souls would seek relief, And rest from weary laughter In the quiet arms of grief.
THE AFTER-ECHO
How long the echoes love to play Around the shore of silence, as a wave Retreating circles down the sand! One after one, with sweet delay, The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, Have lingered in the crescent bay, Until, by lightest breezes fanned, They float far off beyond the dying day And leave it still as death. But hark,-- Another singing breath Comes from the edge of dark; A note as clear and slow As falls from some enchanted bell, Or spirit, passing from the world below, That whispers back, Farewell. So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,-- The after-echo of departed years,-- And touches all the soul to tears.
1871.
DULCIORA
A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.
A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, And grows in silence to an amber dawn Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.
A joy that falls into the hollow heart From some far-lifted height of love unseen, Unknown, makes a more perfect melody Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.
Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky And the fair ministries of Nature dear, But as they set themselves unto the tune That fills our life; as light mysterious Flows from within and glorifies the world.
For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.
1872.
MATINS
Flowers rejoice when night is done, Lift their heads to greet the sun; Sweetest looks and odours raise, In a silent hymn of praise.
So my heart would turn away From the darkness to the day; Lying open in God's sight Like a flower in the light.
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST
Who watched the worn-out Winter die? Who, peering through the window-pane At nightfall, under sleet and rain Saw the old graybeard totter by? Who listened to his parting sigh, The sobbing of his feeble breath, His whispered colloquy with Death, And when his all of life was done Stood near to bid a last good-bye? Of all his former friends not one Saw the forsaken Winter die.
Who welcomed in the maiden Spring? Who heard her footfall, swift and light As fairy-dancing in the night? Who guessed what happy dawn would bring The flutter of her bluebird's wing, The blossom of her mayflower-face To brighten every shady place? One morning, down the village street, "Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,-- And none had been awake to greet The coming of the maiden Spring.
But look, her violet eyes are wet With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; And in her song my fancy hears A note of sorrow trembling yet. Perhaps, beyond the town, she met Old Winter as he limped away To die forlorn, and let him lay His weary head upon her knee, And kissed his forehead with regret For one so gray and lonely,--see, Her eyes with tender tears are wet.
And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.
1873.
WHEN TULIPS BLOOM
I
When tulips bloom in Union Square, And timid breaths of vernal air Go wandering down the dusty town, Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow, And leads the eyes to sunset skies Beyond the hills where green trees grow;
Then weary seems the street parade, And weary books, and weary trade: I'm only wishing to go a-fishing; For this the month of May was made.
II
I guess the pussy-willows now Are creeping out on every bough Along the brook; and robins look For early worms behind the plough.