Chapter 2
The thistle-birds have changed their dun, For yellow coats, to match the sun; And in the same array of flame The Dandelion Show's begun.
The flocks of young anemones Are dancing round the budding trees: Who can help wishing to go a-fishing In days as full of joy as these?
III
I think the meadow-lark's clear sound Leaks upward slowly from the ground, While on the wing the bluebirds ring Their wedding-bells to woods around.
The flirting chewink calls his dear Behind the bush; and very near, Where water flows, where green grass grows, Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."
And, best of all, through twilight's calm The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm!
IV
'Tis not a proud desire of mine; I ask for nothing superfine; No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record, or my line.
Only an idle little stream, Whose amber waters softly gleam, Where I may wade through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:
Only a trout or two, to dart From foaming pools, and try my art: 'Tis all I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart.
1894.
SPRING IN THE NORTH
I
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, Why the sweet Spring delays, And where she hides,--the dear desire Of every heart that longs For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire Of maple-buds along the misty hills, And that immortal call which fills The waiting wood with songs? The snow-drops came so long ago, It seemed that Spring was near! But then returned the snow With biting winds, and earth grew sere, And sullen clouds drooped low To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain Beat on the window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed With rumpled feathers down the wind again. Oh, were the seeds all lost When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? I searched the woods in vain For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. But every night the frost To all my longing spoke a silent nay, And told me Spring was far away. Even the robins were too cold to sing, Except a broken and discouraged note,-- Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat Music has put her triple finger-print, Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,-- "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"
II
But now, Carina, what divine amends For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, What wine of joy that blends A hundred flavours in a single cup, Is poured into this perfect day! For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers That lingered on their way, Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, Entangled with the bloom of later hours,-- Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue And white, and iris richly gleaming through The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze Of butter-cups and daisies in the field, Filling the air with praise, As if a chime of golden bells had pealed! The frozen songs within the breast Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, Melt into rippling floods Of gladness unrepressed. Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark, Warbler and wren and vireo, Mingle their melody; the living spark Of love has touched the fuel of desire, And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, Trembling with tenderness, While all the woods expand, In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, To veil a joy too sacred to be seen.
III
Come, put your hand in mine, True love, long sought and found at last, And lead me deep into the Spring divine That makes amends for all the wintry past. For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss Arrive with you; And in the lingering pressure of your kiss My dreams come true; And in the promise of your generous eyes I read the mystic sign Of joy more perfect made Because so long delayed, And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong; He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait: Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, You're doubly dear because you come so late.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings; Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling; Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings; Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying, Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass, Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,-- Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?
Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing, Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn, Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing, Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn. Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning; Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest; Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining Jove's golden shower into Danäe's breast!
Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted, Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose, Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted, Full to the brim the yellow river flows. Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten, Greener than emeralds shining in the sun. Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen! The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving! All of his heart he pours into his lay,-- "Love, love, love, and pure delight of living: Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!" Fair in your face I read the flowery presage, Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth: Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,-- Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!
1904.
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks, To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.
It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high, But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.
It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes! Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.
She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,-- A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail-- But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.
She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out. She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout? She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.
A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between, Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candlestick!
The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!
We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.
We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes; For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!
Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff? The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff! An' if there's Someone made 'em' I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.
California, 1913.
THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING
TO OLIVE WHEELER
Winter on Mount Shasta, April down below; Golden hours of glowing sun Sudden showers of snow! Under leafless thickets Early wild-flowers cling; But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear The first bird o' Spring!
Alders are in tassel, Maples are in bud; Waters of the blue McCloud Shout in joyful flood; Through the giant pine-trees Flutters many a wing; But, oh, my dear, I long to hear The first bird o' Spring!
Candle-light and fire-light Mingle at "the Bend"; 'Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan Light and shadow blend. Sweeter than a wood-thrush A maid begins to sing; And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear The first bird o' Spring!
The Bend, California, April 29, 1913.
A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES
FOR ARCHIE RUTLEDGE
Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Just about the proper size For the trout of Dickey's Run,-- Luck go with them every one!
Dainty little feathered beauties, Listen now, and learn your duties: Not to tangle in the box; Not to catch on logs or rocks, Boughs that wave or weeds that float, Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat! Not to lure the glutton frog From his banquet in the bog; Nor the lazy chub to fool, Splashing idly round the pool; Nor the sullen horned pout From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew, Dainty flies, is game for you. Darting swiftly through the air Guided by the angler's care, Light upon the flowing stream Like a winged fairy dream; Float upon the water dancing, Through the lights and shadows glancing, Till the rippling current brings you, And with quiet motion swings you, Where a speckled beauty lies Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here's your game and here's your prize! Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last, Rises, and you have him fast! Then remember well your duty,-- Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is _Salvelinus Fontinalis_.
So, you plumed illusions, go, Let my comrade Archie know Every day he goes a-fishing I'll be with him in well-wishing. Most of all when lunch is laid In the dappled orchard shade, With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too, Sitting as we used to do Round the white cloth on the grass While the lazy hours pass, And the brook's contented tune Lulls the sleepy afternoon,-- Then's the time my heart will be With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
A NOON-SONG
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; But who will give praise to the fulness of light, And sing us a song of the glory of noon? Oh, the high noon, the clear noon, The noon with golden crest; When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength! How slowly he crept as the morning wore by! Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky. Oh, the long toil, the slow toil, The toil that may not rest, Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, The wings of the wind in the forest are furled, The river runs softly, the birds are all still, The workers are resting all over the world. Oh, the good hour, the kind hour, The hour that calms the breast! Little inn half-way on the road of the day, Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade, The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune, The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid, To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. Oh, the deep noon, the full noon, Of all the day the best! When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns To his home by the way of the west!
1906.
TURN O' THE TIDE
The tide flows in to the harbour,-- The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,-- And the little ships riding at anchor, Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their wings to the wide wild air, And venture a voyage they know not where,-- To fly away and be free!
The tide runs out of the harbour,-- The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,-- And the little ships rocking at anchor, Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand, To rest in the lee of the high hill land,-- To hold their haven and stay!
My heart goes round with the vessels,-- My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,-- And the turn o' the tide passes through it, In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling At morn, to range where the far waves foam, At night, to a harbour in love's true home, With the hearts that understand!
Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.
SIERRA MADRE
O mother mountains! billowing far to the snowlands, Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue, Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands? What have their groves and gardens to do with you?
Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle, Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,-- Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile, Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.
You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely, Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts; Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.
Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim? What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?
Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming: "Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain; Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.
"Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land, Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields, Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky land, Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields."
O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you! Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty fills,-- Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,-- I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.
Pasadena, March, 1913.
SCHOOL
I put my heart to school In the world where men grow wise: "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule; 'Come back when you win a prize.'"
My heart came back again: "Now where is the prize?" I cried.-- "The rule was false, and the prize was pain, And the teacher's name was Pride."
I put my heart to school In the woods where veeries sing And brooks run clear and cool, In the fields where wild flowers spring.
"And why do you stay so long My heart, and where do you roam?" The answer came with a laugh and a song,-- "I find this school is home."
April, 1901.
INDIAN SUMMER
A silken curtain veils the skies, And half conceals from pensive eyes The bronzing tokens of the fall; A calmness broods upon the hills, And summer's parting dream distils A charm of silence over all.
The stacks of corn, in brown array, Stand waiting through the tranquil day, Like tattered wigwams on the plain; The tribes that find a shelter there Are phantom peoples, forms of air, And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.
At evening when the crimson crest Of sunset passes down the West, I hear the whispering host returning; On far-off fields, by elm and oak, I see the lights, I smell the smoke,-- The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.
_Tertius and Henry van Dyke_.
November, 1903.
LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES
Long, long, long the trail Through the brooding forest-gloom, Down the shadowy, lonely vale Into silence, like a room Where the light of life has fled, And the jealous curtains close Round the passionless repose Of the silent dead.
Plod, plod, plod away, Step by step in mouldering moss; Thick branches bar the day Over languid streams that cross Softly, slowly, with a sound Like a smothered weeping, In their aimless creeping Through enchanted ground.
"Yield, yield, yield thy quest," Whispers through the woodland deep: "Come to me and be at rest; I am slumber, I am sleep." Then the weary feet would fail, But the never-daunted will Urges "Forward, forward still! Press along the trail!"
Breast, breast, breast the slope See, the path is growing steep. Hark! a little song of hope Where the stream begins to leap. Though the forest, far and wide, Still shuts out the bending blue, We shall finally win through, Cross the long divide.
On, on, on we tramp! Will the journey never end? Over yonder lies the camp; Welcome waits us there, my friend, Can we reach it ere the night? Upward, upward, never fear! Look, the summit must be near; See the line of light!
Red, red, red the shine Of the splendour in the west, Glowing through the ranks of pine, Clear along the mountain-crest! Long, long, long the trail Out of sorrow's lonely vale; But at last the traveller sees Light between the trees!
March, 1904.
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES
I
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.
Above the sea the clouds were keeping Their secret leaguer, gray and still; They sent their misty vanguard creeping With muffled step from hill to hill.
All day the sullen armies drifted Athwart the sky with slanting rain; At sunset for a space they lifted, With dusk they settled down again.
II
At dark the winds began to blow With mutterings distant, low; From sea and sky they called their strength, Till with an angry, broken roar, Like billows on an unseen shore, Their fury burst at length.
I heard through the night The rush and the clamour; The pulse of the fight Like blows of Thor's hammer; The pattering flight Of the leaves, and the anguished Moan of the forest vanquished.
At daybreak came a gusty song: "Shout! the winds are strong. The little people of the leaves are fled. Shout! The Autumn is dead!"
III
The storm is ended! The impartial sun Laughs down upon the battle lost and won, And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host In rolling lines retreating to the coast.
But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade, And grateful friends of every fallen leaf, Forget the glories of the cloud-parade, And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.
For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; And still we turn on gala-days to tread Among the rustling memories of the dead.
1874.
THREE ALPINE SONNETS
I
THE GLACIER
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.
At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.
Zermatt, 1872.
II
THE SNOW-FIELD
White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; The vault of heaven was glaring overhead With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, "Shall any living thing that dares to tread This royal lair of Death escape again?"
But even then I saw before my feet A line of pointed footprints in the snow: Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, Had passed this way along his journey fleet, And left a message from a friend unknown To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.
Zermatt, 1872.
III
MOVING BELLS
I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills, And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and fills With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.
Gstaad, August, 1909.
A SNOW-SONG
Does the snow fall at sea? Yes, when the north winds blow, When the wild clouds fly low, Out of each gloomy wing, Silently glimmering, Over the stormy sea Falleth the snow.
Does the snow hide the sea? Nay, on the tossing plains Never a flake remains; Drift never resteth there; Vanishing everywhere, Into the hungry sea Falleth the snow.
What means the snow at sea? Whirled in the veering blast, Thickly the flakes drive past; Each like a childish ghost Wavers, and then is lost; In the forgetful sea Fadeth the snow.
1875.
ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine The art that reared thy costly shrine! Thy carven columns must have grown By magic, like a dream in stone.
Yet not within thy storied wall Would I in adoration fall, So gladly as within the glen That leads to lovely Hawthornden.
A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green And vine-clad pillars, while between, The Esk runs murmuring on its way, In living music night and day.
Within the temple of this wood The martyrs of the covenant stood, And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, From Nature's solemn altar-stair.
Edinburgh, 1877.
THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND
The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies! With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colours ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.