Chapter 3
The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them fair,-- Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer. Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Canals and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.
The Hague, November, 1916.
FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS
IN HOLLAND
The laggard winter ebbed so slow With freezing rain and melting snow, It seemed as if the earth would stay Forever where the tide was low, In sodden green and watery gray.
But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of colour long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.
And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In shining pools of white and gold.
The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, Is gently seeping in, to strew The earth with heaven; and sudden rills Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, Spread into lakes of daffodils.
The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, Have overflowed their sandy beds, And fill the earth with faint perfume, The breath that Spring around her she And now the tulips break in bloom!
A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, A splendour and a mystery, Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: The roads are full of folks in glee, For lo,--to-day is Easter Day!
April, 1916.
SALUTE TO THE TREES
Many a tree is found in the wood And every tree for its use is good: Some for the strength of the gnarled root, Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit; Some for shelter against the storm, And some to keep the hearth-stone warm; Some for the roof, and some for the beam, And some for a boat to breast the stream;-- In the wealth of the wood since the world began The trees have offered their gifts to man.
But the glory of trees is more than their gifts: 'Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts, From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod, A column, an arch in the temple of God, A pillar of power, a dome of delight, A shrine of song, and a joy of sight! Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth; Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth; They shelter the dwellings of man; and they bend O'er his grave with the look of a loving friend.
I have camped in the whispering forest of pines, I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines; In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palm I have found good rest and slumber's balm. And now, when the morning gilds the boughs Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house, I open the window and make salute: "God bless thy branches and feed thy root! Thou hast lived before, live after me, Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree."
February, 1920.
III
OF THE UNFAILING LIGHT
THE GRAND CANYON
DAYBREAK
What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee? Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place Of ancient secrets,--gray and ghostly gulf Cleft in the green of this high forest land, And crowded in the dark with giant forms! Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?
A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound Broods over thee: a living silence breathes Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss. The morning-stars that sang above the bower Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet, Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!
She peers into thy depths with silent prayer For light, more light, to part thy purple veil. O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,-- Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time! 'Tis done,--the morning miracle of light,-- The resurrection of the world of hues That die with dark, and daily rise again With every rising of the splendid Sun!
Be still, my heart! Now Nature holds her breath To see the solar flood of radiance leap Across the chasm, and crown the western rim Of alabaster with a far-away Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by walls Of changeful opal, deepen into gold Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline, Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade, Purple of amethyst, and ruby red, Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry; Until the cataract of colour breaks Upon the blackness of the granite floor.
How far below! And all between is cleft And carved into a hundred curving miles Of unimagined architecture! Tombs, Temples, and colonnades are neighboured there By fortresses that Titans might defend, And amphitheatres where Gods might strive. Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered tiers Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky A single spire of marble pure as snow; And huge aerial palaces arise Like mountains built of unconsuming flame. Along the weathered walls, or standing deep In riven valleys where no foot may tread, Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments Of perished aeons and forgotten things. My sight is baffled by the wide array Of countless forms: my vision reels and swims Above them, like a bird in whirling winds. Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm; But spacious order and a sense of peace Brood over all. For every shape that looms Majestic in the throng, is set apart From all the others by its far-flung shade, Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there.
How still it is! Dear God, I hardly dare To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss Will draw me down into eternal sleep.
What force has formed this masterpiece of awe? What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste? O river, gleaming in the narrow rift Of gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep,-- Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil, And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,-- Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springs Amid the Utah hills, have carved this road Of glory to the California Gulf. But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost, 'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves, Too far away to make their fury heard!
At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slave Of gravitation,--yellow torrent poured From distant mountains by no will of thine, Through thrice a hundred centuries of slow Fallings and liftings of the crust of Earth,-- At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails. Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blind Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly down To cut this gash across the layered globe, The sole creative cause of all I see? Are force and matter all? The rest a dream?
Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair, A prison for the soul of man, a grave Of all his dearest daring hopes! The world Wherein we live and move is meaningless, No spirit here to answer to our own! The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth Adrift in space, no Captain on the ship: Nothing in all the universe to prove Eternal wisdom and eternal love! And man, the latest accident of Time,-- Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand, Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave, Who dupes his heart with immortality,-- Man is a living lie,--a bitter jest Upon himself,--a conscious grain of sand Lost in a desert of unconsciousness, Thirsting for God and mocked by his own thirst.
Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight, Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence Inhabiting this lofty lone abode, Speak to my heart again and set me free From all these doubts that darken earth and heaven! Who sent thee forth into the wilderness To bless and comfort all who see thy face? Who clad thee in this more than royal robe Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces? Who gave thee power upon the soul of man To lift him up through wonder into joy? God! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, God! Let all the shining pillars signal, God! He only, on the mystic loom of light, Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe His most majestic works: and He alone Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.
O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High, Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man, And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!
Now, far beyond all language and all art In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous, The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled In worldless worship! This is holy ground; Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine. Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise, If God were blind thy Beauty could not be!
February 24-26, 1913.
GOD OF THE OPEN AIR
I
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair With flowers below, above with starry lights And set thine altars everywhere,-- On mountain heights, In woodlands dim with many a dream, In valleys bright with springs, And on the curving capes of every stream: Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings Of morning, to abide Upon the secret places of the sea, And on far islands, where the tide Visits the beauty of untrodden shores, Waiting for worshippers to come to thee In thy great out-of-doors! To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, God of the open air.
II
Seeking for thee, the heart of man Lonely and longing ran, In that first, solitary hour, When the mysterious power To know and love the wonder of the morn Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; And thou didst meet thy child, Not in some hidden shrine, But in the freedom of the garden wild, And take his hand in thine,-- There all day long in Paradise he walked, And in the cool of evening with thee talked.
III
Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, And lost the child-like love that worshipped and was sure! For men have dulled their eyes with sin, And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, And built their temple walls to shut thee in, And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. But not for thee the closing of the door, O Spirit unconfined! Thy ways are free As is the wandering wind, And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore Their fellowship with thee, In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.
IV
Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, Built up a secret stairway to the height Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, Disciples of the Persian seer Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; And wayworn followers of the Indian sage Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree.
V
But One, but One,--ah, Son most dear, And perfect image of the Love Unseen,-- Walked every day in pastures green, And all his life the quiet waters by, Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. To him the desert was a place prepared For weary hearts to rest; The hillside was a temple blest; The grassy vale a banquet-room Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. With him the lily shared The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; And every bird that sang beside the nest Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing.
He watched the shepherd bring His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, The fisherman at daybreak fling His net across the waters gray and cold, And all day long the patient reaper swing His curving sickle through the harvest gold. So through the world the foot-path way he trod, Breathing the air of heaven in every breath; And in the evening sacrifice of death Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. Him will I trust, and for my Master take; Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, God of the open air, To thee I make my prayer.
VI
From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded, From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded, From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion, From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!) I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air. By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me, By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion, Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, (Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the eyes!) Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and skies.
While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading, And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading; While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under, Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, (Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!) Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth.
By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom unbidden, By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migration, (Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast!) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest.
For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces, For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places, For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers, For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers, For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,-- I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!
VII
These are the gifts I ask Of thee, Spirit serene: Strength for the daily task, Courage to face the road, Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load, And, for the hours of rest that come between, An inward joy in all things heard and seen. These are the sins I fain Would have thee take away: Malice, and cold disdain, Hot anger, sullen hate, Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, And discontent that casts a shadow gray On all the brightness of the common day. These are the things I prize And hold of dearest worth: Light of the sapphire skies, Peace of the silent hills, Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, Music of birds, murmur of little rills, Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass, And, after showers, The smell of flowers And of the good brown earth,-- And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. So let me keep These treasures of the humble heart In true possession, owning them by love; And when at last I can no longer move Among them freely, but must part From the green fields and from the waters clear, Let me not creep Into some darkened room and hide From all that makes the world so bright and dear; But throw the windows wide To welcome in the light; And while I clasp a well-belovèd hand, Let me once more have sight Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,-- Then gently fall on sleep, And breathe my body back to Nature's care, My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.
1904.
IV
WAYFARING PSALMS IN PALESTINE
THE DISTANT ROAD
Blessed is the man that beholdeth the face of a friend in a far country, The darkness of his heart is melted by the dawning of day within him,
It is like the sound of a sweet music heard long ago and half forgotten: It is like the coming back of birds to a wood when the winter is ended.
I knew not the sweetness of the fountain till I found it flowing in the desert, Nor the value of a friend till we met in a land that was crowded and lonely.
The multitude of mankind had bewildered me and oppressed me, And I complained to God, Why hast thou made the world so wide?
But when my friend came the wideness of the world had no more terror, Because we were glad together among men to whom we were strangers.
It seemed as if I had been reading a book in a foreign language, And suddenly I came upon a page written in the tongue of my childhood.
This was the gentle heart of my friend who quietly understood me, The open and loving heart whose meaning was clear without a word.
O thou great Companion who carest for all thy pilgrims and strangers, I thank thee heartily for the comfort of a comrade on the distant road.
THE WELCOME TENT
This is the thanksgiving of the weary, The song of him that is ready to rest.
It is good to be glad when the day is declining, And the setting of the sun is like a word of peace.
The stars look kindly on the close of a journey, The tent says welcome when the day's march is done.
For now is the time of the laying down of burdens, And the cool hour cometh to them that have borne the heat.
I have rejoiced greatly in labour and adventure; My heart hath been enlarged in the spending of my strength.
Now it is all gone, yet I am not impoverished, For thus only I inherit the treasure of repose.
Blessed be the Lord that teacheth my fingers to loosen, And cooleth my feet with water after the dust of the way.
Blessed be the Lord that giveth me hunger at nightfall, And filleth my evening cup with the wine of good cheer.
Blessed be the Lord that maketh me happy to be quiet, Even as a child that cometh softly to his mother's lap.
O God, thy strength is never worn away with labour: But it is good for us to be weary and receive thy gift of rest.
THE GREAT CITIES
How wonderful are the cities that man hath builded: Their walls are compacted of heavy stones, And their lofty towers rise above the tree-tops.
Rome, Jerusalem, Cairo, Damascus,-- Venice, Constantinople, Moscow, Pekin,-- London, New York, Berlin, Paris, Vienna,--
These are the names of mighty enchantments, They have called to the ends of the earth, They have secretly summoned a host of servants.
They shine from far sitting beside great waters, They are proudly enthroned upon high hills, They spread out their splendour along the rivers.
Yet are they all the work of small patient fingers, Their strength is in the hand of man, He hath woven his flesh and blood into their glory.
The cities are scattered over the world like anthills, Every one of them is full of trouble and toil, And their makers run to and fro within them.
Abundance of riches is laid up in their treasuries, But they are tormented with the fear of want, The cry of the poor in their streets is exceeding bitter.
Their inhabitants are driven by blind perturbations, They whirl sadly in the fever of haste, Seeking they know not what, they pursue it fiercely.
The air is heavy-laden with their breathing, The sound of their coming and going is never still, Even in the night I hear them whispering and crying.
Beside every ant-hill I behold a monster crouching: This is the ant-lion Death, He thrusteth forth his tongue and the people perish.
O God of wisdom thou hast made the country: Why hast thou suffered man to make the town?
Then God answered, Surely I am the maker of man: And in the heart of man I have set the city.
THE FRIENDLY TREES
I will sing of the bounty of the big trees, They are the green tents of the Almighty, He hath set them up for comfort and for shelter.
Their cords hath he knotted in the earth, He hath driven their stakes securely, Their roots take hold of the rocks like iron.
He sendeth into their bodies the sap of life, They lift themselves lightly toward the heavens. They rejoice in the broadening of their branches.
Their leaves drink in the sunlight and the air, They talk softly together when the breeze bloweth, Their shadow in the noon-day is full of coolness.
The tall palm-trees of the plain are rich in fruit, While the fruit ripeneth the flower unfoldeth, The beauty of their crown is renewed on high forever.
The cedars of Lebanon are fed by the snow, Afar on the mountain they grow like giants, In their layers of shade a thousand years are dreaming.
How fair are the trees that befriend the home of man, The oak, and the terebinth, and the sycamore, The broad-leaved fig-tree and the delicate silvery olive.
In them the Lord is loving to his little birds, The linnets and the finches and the nightingales, They people his pavilions with nests and with music.
The cattle also are very glad of a great tree, They chew the cud beneath it while the sun is burning, And there the panting sheep lie down around their shepherd.
He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, He provideth a kindness for many generations, And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him.
Lord, when my spirit shall return to thee, At the foot of a friendly tree let my body be buried, That this dust may rise and rejoice among the branches.
THE PATHWAY OF RIVERS
The rivers of God are full of water, They are wonderful in the renewal of their strength, He poureth them out from a hidden fountain.
They are born among the hills in the high places, Their cradle is in the bosom of the rocks, The mountain is their mother and the forest is their father.
They are nourished among the long grasses, They receive the tribute of a thousand springs, The rain and the snow provide their inheritance.
They are glad to be gone from their birthplace, With a joyful noise they hasten away, They are going forever and never departed.
The courses of the rivers are all appointed; They roar loudly but they follow the road, For the finger of God hath marked their pathway.
The rivers of Damascus rejoice among their gardens; The great river of Egypt is proud of his ships; The Jordan is lost in the Lake of Bitterness.
Surely the Lord guideth them every one in his wisdom, In the end he gathereth all their drops on high, And sendeth them forth again in the clouds of mercy.
O my God, my life floweth away like a river: Guide me, I beseech thee, in a pathway of good: Let me run in blessing to my rest in thee.
THE GLORY OF RUINS
The lizard rested on the rock while I sat among the ruins, And the pride of man was like a vision of the night.
Lo, the lords of the city have disappeared into darkness, The ancient wilderness hath swallowed up all their work.
There is nothing left of the city but a heap of fragments; The bones of a vessel broken by the storm.
Behold the waves of the desert wait hungrily for man's dwellings, And the tides of desolation return upon his toil.
All that he hath painfully built up is shaken down in a moment, The memory of his glory is buried beneath the billows of sand.
Then a voice said, Look again upon the ruins, These broken arches have taught generations to build.
Moreover the name of this city shall be remembered, For here a poor man spoke a word that shall not die.
This is the glory that is stronger than the desert; God hath given eternity to the thought of man.
THE TRIBE OF THE HELPERS
The ways of the world are full of haste and turmoil; I will sing of the tribe of the helpers who travel in peace.
He that turneth from the road to rescue another, Turneth toward his goal: He shall arrive in time by the foot-path of mercy, God will be his guide.
He that taketh up the burden of the fainting, Lighteneth his own load: The Almighty will put his arms underneath him, He shall lean upon the Lord.
He that speaketh comfortable words to mourners, Healeth his own hurt; In the time of grief they will come to his remembrance. God will use them for balm.