Part 8

The island of dreams lies not far away, Encompassed by sunlight and sea, I happened to reach it the other day, While breezes were playing so languidly-- My boat scarcely moved on the bay.

And this is the island I happened to find, The isle ’mid the glittering deep: A bower with luxuriant foliage entwined, ’Mongst rocks that are mossy and steep, Where shadows give rest to the mind.

And here in the shade is a clear, cooling spring, Which ceaselessly murmurs its song, And down in a glade the brown thrushes sing, In afternoons drowsy and long, In hours that bear dreams on their wings;

And balm for the care-laden spirit have they, Of duty forgetfulness sweet, With fragrance of roses they lead you astray, To realms of fair visions replete, Bright visions of midsummer-day.

The fairies are here and the unreal things, Derided by men of pure facts, Though Science doth saunter here, sometimes she clings To fancy’s prophetical acts, And out of the dreamland them brings.

Yea, great things are born in this enchanted place, Where poets do loiter and rest, Beholding fair visions which beckon their race To vistas more lofty and blest, In beauty’s immaculate ways.

LAKE HARRIET

Behold the noiseless sailboat and canoe, That slowly glide upon the glassy lake, Which wedded seems to heaven’s lofty blue, And every silver cloud within its wake; The lonely youth dreams as he moves along, And who can tell what wondrous dreams they be, Fit theme, I ween, for any poet’s song, Of sadness or of gladsome reverie.

There also sail the lover and his lass, They laugh and chat, and have a gleeful time, For them the golden moments swiftly pass, Since they are living in life’s summer clime, To them sweet nature’s beauty doth exist As background only to their happiness, And heav’n the blue-eyed Harriet has kist, Because their own true love they dare confess.

And o’er the water strains from Lohengrin Come floating from the Grecian-pillard stand, And add enchantment to the charming scene, The wedding-scene of sky and sea and land,-- The hymeneal of youth’s dreams of life, Of hearts aglow with love’s sweet fervency, Of thousand souls who here forget their strife, And for an hour their wonted misery.

THE CUBIST

I wandered to-day in an institute, A wonderful palace of art, And this I can say in spirit and truth, It was a delight to my heart, To see how the masters of ages past Have found a place in this shrine, Till I came to a room, methinks ’twas the last, Which the Cubist’s contortions confine.

A disgrace, I said, to allow in this place, What lunatic homes should adorn, An insult to art and the human race, Of spirits degenerate born, A meaningless daub, a horrid display Of colors and lines and all, But then to myself I also did say: May be ’tis the age--and its soul.

A wicked word it was this to say, As I left for the congested street, And followed the masses which made their way To a place where ten thousand did meet Three times a day, to be edified With burlesque, in Jesus name, And painfully in my soul it cried: “The Cubist again, just the same!”

I glanced at a paper at hour of sleep, And found a whole page about bards, Who gained a renown by a single leap, With something which all art discards, Again I said: ’tis the Cubist’s age, A prophet is he after all, Of the church and the stage and the printed page, Of the age that has bartered its soul.

THE HANDCLASP

Full thousands of leagues over land, over seas, I travelled, for two things to find: From work, and its routine, a needed surcease, And knowledge, to quicken the mind.

I moved mid the crowds in the cities of fame, I pondered their pleasures and pride, A stranger, alone, wherever I came, I heard but the surge of the tide.

Though knowledge increased with the sight of the new, Though grandeur gave thrills of delight, Though marvelling oft at the things, man can do, Yet weariness came with the night.

And I longed for the sound of the voice of a friend, I longed for my home far away, When, behold, I met one at a thoroughfare’s end, At the close of a wearisome day!

The clasp of his hand, with the love of his heart, The warm and the genuine grip, Brought greater delight than the sight of all art, And all wonderful things of the trip.

A COUNTRY STORE

Beside a winding country road A house unique one sees, It used to be the Lord’s abode, Now that of groceries.

A church with graveyard in its rear, Where many saints do sleep, O, could they rise, I greatly fear, It would be for to weep,

Beholding what the years have wrought In changes of the place, How man for gain has rudely sought Its mem’ries to efface.

For here, where generations met To worship God in truth, Now Mammon has his motto set, With Vandal hand uncouth.

Where once did sound the Holy Word, By men of earnest heart, Now bargainings are daily heard,-- The language of the mart.

Where once the altar stood, now stands A stove around which sit The gossiper’s unholy bands And swear and lie and spit.

And could each much neglected mound Yield up its dust to life again, The words of Christ would then resound: “My Father’s house ye made a den.”

But thus our sacrilegious age Is blinded by the god of gold, Soon finished is its sacred page, Our days of worship well-nigh told.

SUNSETS ON CLEARWATER LAKE, MINN.

(To Mrs. A. W. W.)

_First Evening_

A path of trembling gold, from where I stand, Across the limpid lake, to darkling woods, Upon the far off strand, Where evening’s glory broods, Until it changes into rose, A livid pink, suffusing all, The mighty water’s deep repose; And as the fiery ball Drops into clouds on the horizon’s rim, The hue, most delicate, takes on a crimson glow, In which the shadows of the shore grow dim, And slowly all things into darkness flow; Anon the moon appears and clothes the scene And floating mist-veil into languid sheen.

_Second Evening_

A sea of fire in which a sky Of lavender and blue and red Together with the clouds of changing dye Reflected are--divinely wed; And we, who rove about, are led By an illusion, such as seldom seen: A strange receding of the deep, As if we sat above a waterfall, O’er which our skiff full soon must leap Into immensity, bright, hyaline, Where brooding spirits beck and call.

A glorious view is heaven in the depth Of tranquil seas, but more Its virtues, mirrored in a human heart; And thou, who hast its kindnesses so kept, That changing vistas or receding shore Can not extinguish life’s immortal part In the abiding love divine, as clear As all this evening glory in a glassy mere, Art more than all what nature can express, Whose word can cheer, whose gentle hand can bless.

Illusions!--much is but illusions: Fear, and all the ghosts that troop with it. The good alone, in all its sweet effusion, Is real as the sun, by which the world is lit; The cataract of death, the dread abyss-- Does not exist, for all the light is His.

_Third Evening_

To-night the rising storm-clouds hide The sun’s departure from our gaze; A heavy mist begins to glide Across the water’s ashen face; A host of swallows, circling, fly Like cavalcades upon a plain; A myriad of insects die, Uncounted lives, like drops of rain Lost in the sea, lost in the All, The life, the death, the Oversoul. And little children laugh and play Upon the beach, and on the pier, In them the closing of the day, With gathering storm, awakes no fear, For in their souls the light remains, That oped the water-lily’s breast, And woke the warbler’s glad refrain, And all the heart of nature blest; What matters though the clouds obscure Its finished course one single eve, If we, like children, can allure Even clouds and mist to pleasure give.

_Fourth Evening_

The glitt’ring wavelets blind my sight, And neath the hand I needs must scan The dazzling shimmer of the light, Which like Seraphic highways span The breeze-swept, glad expanse; Methinks I see the Naiads dance To music of the swaying reeds And rushes, where the narrows jut, Adorned with many-colored weeds, From Neptune’s gardens freshly cut.

Amid the glimmer one discerns A boat wherein a youth doth stand, Like Hiawatha’s passing, turn Its prow with dreamy ease from land, The well nigh naked youth to me Is like a god of Grecian mould, Whose perfect form and symmetry Is like Apollo’s of old; He speaks to fellows in the deep, Whose heads move ’mid the curling gleams, Alas, that death should ever reap Among such scenes of pleasant dreams!

But nature always clamors for What she hath lent to life a while, And though we borrow more and more, And all her powers do beguile, Yet comes the hour on land or sea, She asks for all with usury.

The boy lifts up his hands and dives, A pleasant plunge that has no dread, But I recall some precious lives, Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead, And in my heart, at end of day, A prayer for the lads I say.

_Fifth Evening_

Song of the West-wind o’er the waves, Song of the billows, as the lave The shoreline with a mystic moan, Song of the rushes in the shallow, Song of the aspen tree and sallow,-- Ever as the undertone.

Song of cicadas and the cricket From ragged grasses and the thicket, Song of the whirring dragon-fly, That goes to sea, but for to die, Song of the warblers, flitting nigh, Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry.

Song of a horn on yonder hill, That echoes in the far away, The tone is soft as of a rill,-- “The end of a perfect day”-- As sinks the sun, and I depart, With all this music in my heart.

TWILIGHT

A dull, pink evening sky, A white ridge shadow-streaked below, The tall, dark trees near by,-- In the deep snow.

Two horses, one is white, As white as is the new-fall’n snow, The other black as darkest night,-- Along the highway go.

One, emblem of the parting day, The other, of approaching night, And o’er the hill the rosy ray Of this one hour’s delight.

APRIL

O, I love the month of April, when the southwind gently blows, Calling nature from its slumber, from cold winter’s long repose, Till the meadow its awakening by a tint of verdure shows, And the willow with bright saffron in the evening sunshine glows;

When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throat Lifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float; When the robin on the house-lawn proudly stands in his red coat, Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;--

When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery, Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy, And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea, It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane.

And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ring Which no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring; Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing, Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring.

Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art, Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart, And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a part In the hope which man professes through his worship and his art.

I’M A PART OF THE WIND AND THE CURLING WAVE

I’m a part of the wind and the curling wave, Of the budding trees and the tender blade, A part of the life that has burst its grave, Of crocus and buttercup studding the glade, Of the goose-berry bush and the shadow it throws, Of the moss on the rocks and the slender ferns, Of the burly weed that earliest grows, And all that quickens and upward yearns.

I’m a part of the light, and the golden flash Of the flicker’s wing o’er the glittering pond, Of the sable crow in the lofty ash, A-calling his mate in the trees beyond; Of the dragon-fly’s gossamer wing and flight; Of the insect just risen from winter’s sleep; Of things that find in the sun delight, Whether they blossom, or fly, or creep.

A part of the risen life and the all Eternal Spirit, anew each spring, Wherefore I follow its kindly call, To hear the carol His angels sing,-- What saith it? O, you must hear it alone, In the paths of the woods on an April day, And feel, as I do, you are truly one With nature--to fathom the glorious lay.

THE CHIPPING SPARROW

The clouds are hanging dark and low, The budding trees are still quite bare, And from the North the cold winds blow, Of spring we almost might despair.

But from the branches, ashen gray, Outside my window, comes a song, A warbling Chipping Sparrow’s lay, To cold and dimness nonchalant.

His music has a thrilling joy, It warms the soul, allures a smile, Its brooding doubts he does destroy, And makes it happy like a child.

And now a sudden, cheering gleam Falls on him from a rift of blue, I see him in a golden dream,-- I know that song alone is true.

His crimson tuft a poet’s crown, His tawny breast a badge of love, And that clear sunray coming down, Our Father’s watchful eye above.

IN THE LILAC-BLOSSOM-TIME

When the fragrance of the purple and lavender lilac-bloom Meets the sweet distilled aroma from the plum and apple-trees, And the dainty scent of violets amid the garden-gloom, Where’s the music of the hum and drone of pollen-painted bees, Then my soul takes up its harp, which long upon the willows hung, And attunes it to the gladness that is floating in the air, For it is in lilac-blossom-time that everything grows young, And the heart of man is lighter, and has little less of care.

In the lilac-blossom-time it seems, the brown thrush blithest sings, And the wood-dove cooes the deepest from a breast brimful with love, And the Oriole’s glad music clearest ’mongst the branches rings, To its mate that sits abrooding on the nest upon the bough; And the Whip-poor-will is calling from the woodlands dark, at eve, With a zest which makes the farmer feel that even the night hath song, And in the cool of day he thinks, it is quite good to live, “Since after toil I here can rest the lilac-trees among.”

In the lilac-blossom-time, methinks, are children happiest, Since with that blossoms’ coming a great liberty draws nigh, The days of school are over, and they feel supremely blest In the days mid nature’s glories, ’neath the blue and open sky, Or to lie beneath the lilacs with a story-book in hand, Reading perfume into fancies, Puck and fairies twixt each line, Till the heart is with them dancing in a happy wonderland, While the shadows of the after-noon with lilac hues combine.

In the lilac-blossom-time the lovers often fondly meet, And drink the blossom’s odor, a true potency for dreams, And oftest when the evening-dew makes it a tenfold sweet, A-trembling like a tear of joy within the clear moonbeam, The youth in his new happiness a prince of kingdoms is, The maiden is a being fair, as from some other clime, And heaven itself is upon earth in that pure, binding kiss, There in her father’s garden in the lilac-blossom-time.

THE RUNNEL’S DITTY

I met a runnel amid the meads, In the evening, in the evening, And it did ramble ’mongst rush and reeds, In the evening, in the evening, And I did linger to hear its song, As it did carelessly wind along, In the evening, in the evening.

What sang the runnel upon its way? In the evening, in the evening; I listened long to its happy lay, In the evening, in the evening; But all my musing seemed but in vain, And all its music awoke but pain, In the evening, in the evening.

The blooming thornapple on its bank, Also listened, also listened, And flags and buttercups, dewy dank, Also listened, also listened; And thrushes nestling in alder-trees, Did hush their babes with its melodies, And they listened, and they listened.

I asked the violets on its side, In the evening, in the evening,-- If they its song would to me confide, In the evening, in the evening; And like some children of guileless soul They said: “Its lay is the song of all, In the evening, in the evening.”

“The ceaseless longing to reach the sea, In the evening, in the evening; The song of life and eternity, In the evening, in the evening; A lay of love in the early morn, A lay of hope to the lone and lorn,-- In the evening, in the evening.”

THE CHILD AND THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN

She pored o’er the open page Of the Gospel, according to John, Where the Ruler did Christ engage At hours of the silent night, And sought for his soul that light, Which God sent forth through His Son.

But she could not read a word, A child of four summers she, Not ever, even once, had she heard That story of second birth, Nor asked, like the wise of the earth, “O, Lord, how can these things be?”

Her face had the glory of heaven, The look of an angel her eye, I said: “And to her it is given To know, for her soul is one With the soul of this page of John, And the wisdom that comes from on high.”

THE BIRTHDAY CAKE

Five little candles on her birthday cake, Five little candles brightly burning, We gaze on them, while memories awake Of happy moments, nevermore returning.

Five little years of childhood happiness, Five little years, when oft we played together, How often did her love and joy us bless, When days seemed dark, and stormy was the weather.

The tiny lights are dying one by one, As one by one the years their flight have taken, I shed a tear for that which thus is gone, And kiss the child for whom the cake was baken.

MY GOLDFISH

Five little goldfish in a vase My simple study-room do grace, And oft when tired of reading books, I turn to them my weary looks, And pleasure find in their quaint ways, Reminding me of ancient lays.

Amid the deep, on sparkling sands, A tow’ring Gothic castle stands, Its gates and windows open wide, Through which the lustrous carplings glide, Like sea-nymphs in the days of old, Like mermaids in an age of gold.

They hide beneath the dark green weed, And fondly on its frondlets feed, It seems an island near the shore, Where Lorelei did sing of yore, And gold and green most softly blend, As then--ere romance had an end.

O, days of legendary lore, Of fairy-folk and nymphs galore! When tired of this prosaic age, And weary of the modern page, I find my golden fish suggest The dreams with which your life was blest.

II

Sometimes, when in uphappy mood, I on my limitations brood, And think how narrow the confines, In which the soul almost repines, I turn again--just to behold My finny friends of burnished gold.

How little is their rounded sphere, Though rivers wide are rushing near! How little chance themselves to be, In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea! I wonder not that mournful gape, And rolling glance they seem to ape.

Yet, all the pity I bestow Is tearless, since in heart I know, It would be fatal for my fish To leave the boun’dry of their dish, For they would be an easy prey To larger ones in stream or bay.

And then this moral comes to me, While craving larger liberty; It might be death the bounds to break, Which fate and duty round me make, So be content and get the best Of what, perhaps, is but a jest.

THE FIDDLER’S CHRISTMAS MUSIC

(Founded on a Norwegian Folk-lore.)

There lived in the land of Ole Bull A peasant-fiddler of old, Whose soul with music was often more full Than his violin ever told. He knew not the art of clefs and notes, Such seemed but some mystic runes, But he heard the music that richly floats In nature’s unwritten tunes.

He played for the dances at many a farm, Led many a bridal train, And everywhere did he naively charm The mirth-loving maid and swain; But sometimes he played in a lonely place, When no one, perchance, was near, And then there was sadness in his face, In his eyes a furtive tear.

For the strains which he heard he could never play, Though trying it o’er and o’er, Forgotten they were from day to day, And wandered his way no more; Sometimes in anger he flung the thing, Which would not obey his soul, Then took it again with its broken string, Like a mother her child from his fall.

On a Christmas eve he had listened long To the tones in the snowy air-- The bells that sent forth their joyous song, Re-echoing here and there In mountain hollow or forest deep, Or far o’er the frozen fjord, A thousand voices woke from their sleep, To join in the heavenly chord.

In the house the Christmas feast was spread, And he ate and drank as he should, There was meat and pudding and raisin bread, And the Yule-tide brew was good; They feasted well on that holy eve, And did not forget a pray’r, And the fiddler felt it was good to live, For banished he had all care.

In his sleep that night he seemed to see His room full of fairy-folk, They danced about with a wondrous glee To the tunes their fiddler awoke-- Such tunes as he never had heard before, So soft, so clear, and gay, Like silver ripples against a shore, In the morn of a summer’s day.

He saw the player, his strings and bow, Each touch of his finger tips, From which such gladness did overflow, With pleasure of lovers’ lips; He asked the elfin to teach him one, Ah, one from his repertoire, Which he gladly did, and when it was done, Another, just for encore.

He taught him three, and he taught him four, Yea, six, while the fairies danced, Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor, At which the elfin glanced, And saw a cross on its side engraved, Then rose and run with a cry, The fairies following, as morning waved His rosy plumes in the sky.

The peasant awoke from his fairy dream, Sought his fiddle, began to play, And strange enough, as it now may seem, Remembered tunes in the elfin way, He played them all till the day shone bright, He played them all till the church bells rang, To call to mass among candle lights, To hear the story which angels sang.

But neither mass, nor the homily Could fix his mind on the solemn things; An absent look in his face one might see, And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings; His wife did see it and almost wept, And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sake Might be from fairies and devils kept, Both when asleep, or when awake.