Part 11

Autumn, Autumn, take me to your heart so, The bold heart, the singing heart whose strength shall make me strong; Send my healed life faring in colors of your wearing, Your gold and crimson bearing, against a grief too long.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_An Autumn Garden_

My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of God,-- An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world’s great shield, A border of boundless glamour For the soul’s familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its grassy footpath The white-tailed rabbits run. The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls at twilight Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing Time’s freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth’s great soul, Here man’s spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters?-- Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad. Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine’s crimson sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of passing days. These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, athrob with gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee’s call to valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty and peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship, Where beneficent truth is supreme, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That cannot rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

_Bliss Carman_

_September_

The wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by. It’s time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie; It’s time to take your basket up, and follow on with me, Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see.

For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine, The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine; The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow; The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow.

Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call, September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all, But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill-- The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still.

Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by! The sweet September calls us before the flowers die. The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet. Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet!

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_Days Like These_

I like the tangled brakes and briers, The hazy smoke of forest fires;

The misty hills’ soft robe of brown, The ravished fields’ regretful frown:

The wrinkled road’s unconscious snare, The free, unbreathed and fragrant air.

I like the wide, unworried sky, The resting wind’s contented sigh;

The rustle of the vagrant leaves, The whisper in the standing sheaves;

The birds’ lament for summer lost, The stinging challenge of the frost.

The sturdy life of stalwart trees Thrills in my veins on days like these!

_Ella Elizabeth Egbert_

_Indian Summer_

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June-- A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

_Emily Dickinson_

_The Deserted Pasture_

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have. The old gray rocks so friendly seen, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October passes In gorgeous livery,-- In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive And pitch their tents therein.

_Bliss Carman_

_The Coming of Dawn_

Midnight--the black, dead vast of night, Rain dripping slow on the sod, Fear of the future, darkness-born, Doubt of myself and God.

A sudden flush on the face of night, A veil from my soul withdrawn, A bird-note thrilling the silence through. And after that--the dawn.

_Grace Atherton Dennen_

_Alms in Autumn_

Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to light me on my way? The fairy folk have vanished from the meadow and the glen, And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again; Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To show the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.

Ash tree, ash tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys; I fear the gates of fairyland may all be shut fast; Give me of your magic keys that I may get past; I’ll tie them to my girdle, that as I go along My heart may find a comfort in their tiny tinkling song.

Holly bush, holly bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask; A pocketful of berries to thread on glowing strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands); So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, They’ll set the realms of fairyland a-dancing with delight.

_Rose Fyleman_

_November in England_

No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon! No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”--No end to any “Row”-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing ’em-- No knowing ’em! No travelling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- “No go”--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

_Thomas Hood_

_The Hound_

Some are sick for Spring and warm winds blowing Over close-sheathed buds and a patch of old snow, With the early arc-lamps delicately bowing Across thin sunshine that hesitates to go.

But it’s not for any April promises I sicken, Though their stammering sweetness be a plucked string; My mind is bent toward Autumn, I am shaken More by her denials than by all the hopes of Spring.

The curt cold days, the blue and windy weather, The smoke of burning brushwood keener than a frost, An orchard full of odors night is wise to gather, The fur-collared stubble where the flower is lost.

A clear green sunset and a pale moon showing, A sense of dawning ends, like the light in the sky. Autumn is a hound that shrills, my heart is for her gnawing, The quarry goes to Autumn, let Spring die.

_Babette Deutsch_

_Sky-Born Music_

_Earth’s crammed with heaven And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes...._

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

_Let Me Go Where’er I Will_

Let me go where’er I will, I hear a sky-born music still; It sounds from all things old, It sounds from all things young, From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul, Peals out a cheerful song. It is not only in the rose, It is not only in the bird, Not only where the rainbow glows, Nor in the song of woman heard, But in the darkest, meanest things There alway, alway something sings. ’Tis not in the high stars alone, Nor in the cups of budding flowers, Nor in the red-breast’s mellow tone, Nor in the bow that smiles in showers, But in the mud and scum of things There alway, alway something sings.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_Pippa’s Song_

The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled. The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his heaven-- All’s right with the world!

_Robert Browning_

_The Whisper Of Earth_

In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches Soften to the South wind, bending to the rain. From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain.

Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, Little crying wind-sounds come before the King.

Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne.

_Edward J. O’Brien_

_Sunrise_

Today I saw the sun come up, like Neptune from the sea. I saw him light a cliff with gold and wake a distant tree, I saw him shake his shaggy head and laugh the night away And toss unto a sleeping world another golden day.

The waves, which had been black and cold, came in with silver crests. I saw the sunbeams gently wake the songbirds in their nests, The slow-retreating night slipped back, and strewn on field and lawn, On every blade of grass I saw the jewels of the dawn.

Never was monarch ushered in with such a cavalcade; No hero bringing victory home has seen such wealth displayed. In honor of the coming day, the humblest plant and tree Stood on the curbstone of the world in radiant livery.

Pageants of splendor man may plan with robes of burnished gold, On horses from Arabia may prance the knights of old; Heralds on silver horns may blow, and kings come riding in, But I have seen God’s pageantry--I’ve watched a day begin!

_Edgar A. Guest_

_Prayer Before Poems_

Great Author of a world, of sky, of sea; Whose lyrics are translated by the birds, Come close and in the stillness I may learn To worship Thee with words.

Thou, who dost guide all groping, gifted hands ’Till they can finger every helpless string And find the souls of violins and harps, Aid me to sing.

Artist, who did the great originals, And carved the tender features of a saint, Who chose the colors for a universe, Teach me to paint.

_Anne Blackwell Payne_

_How Miracles Abound_

How miracles abound In each small plot of ground-- Aye, in the sky above it! (Do you not love it, The vast of sky a-thrill with lyric sound?) Now comes, now goes, The wonder of the rose; Color or flower, and both a boon Renewed with dawn or June. Each day the hyacinthine twilight fills The chalice of the hills. Ever there’s some fresh nectary For the knight-errant bee. And song--ah, the blithe bounty that sheds beauty On the stern ways of duty! Forsooth the doctrine’s sound That miracles abound! E’en the green sod, Yea, or the umbered clod, Revealeth God!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Little Things_

There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay About the rush of faces in the town by day, But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed. And the soft March wind and the low March mist Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed.... The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play-- These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn When the feast is laid for a day new-born.... Oh, better let the little things I loved when little Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; And better is a temple made of bark and thong Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.

_Orrick Johns_

_Clouds and Sky_

One time when I was sick, And could but see The sky above the top Of a tall tree,

It first was coldly blue Far past the tree. Without a cloud, it seemed Eternity.

But when clouds came, the sky, (I know not how), Was caught among the leaves-- And it was Now.

_Lancaster Pollard_

_My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold_

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man: So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man-- And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

_William Wordsworth_

_The Marshes_[5]

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

_Sidney Lanier_

[5] Extract from “The Marshes of Glynn.”

_Song_

The birds of the air, they sing it, Round the rim of the world they ring it; The bees in the blossom-bell, They tell, they tell.

No; birds in the air, none sing it, For the rift of the dawn none ring it; Noon bees in the blossom-bell, None tell, none tell.

I say it over and over,-- There is none can speak for a lover; But oh, ere the roses go, Her heart will know!

_John Vance Cheney_

_Out-of-Doors_

What came ye out for to seek, O Maker of Words? The color of grass in the sunshine, the music of birds; And what shall ye do when ye find them, O Singer of Songs? Weave a bright fabric of beauty, and give it to whom it belongs; Weave a gay fabric of music, to lay at the feet of mankind, All purple and gold for the sense, all golden and gray for the mind?

This came I out for to seek--the daffodil’s gold, The magic of buds all unfolding, the treasure untold That lies in the heart of the forest, the moss and the leaves, The jewel of flowers in the thicket, that no eye perceives; And these will I weave into music, these will I fashion to words, The wind in the grass and the rushes, the dawn-song of birds.

_Ethel E. Mannin_

_The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks_

To build the trout a crystal stair; To comb the hillside’s thick green hair; To water jewel-weed and rushes; To teach first notes to baby thrushes; To flavor raspberry and apple And make a whirling pool to dapple With scattered gold of late October; To urge wise laughter on the sober And lend a dream to those who laugh; To chant the beetle’s epitaph; To mirror the blue dragonfly, Frail air-plane of a slender sky; Over the stones to lull and leap Herding the bubbles like white sheep; The claims of worry to deny, And whisper sorrow into sleep!

_Grace Hazard Conkling_

_A Word With a Skylark_

If this be all, for which I’ve listened long, Oh, spirit of the dew! You did not sing to Shelley such a song As Shelley sang to you.

Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest, Worm-eaten through and through,-- This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and crest,-- What better could you do?

Ah me! but when the world and I were young, There was an apple-tree, There was a voice in the dawn that sung The buds awake--ah me!

Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near, Like some spent leaf at best, You’d never sing again if you could hear My Bluebird of the West!

_Sarah Piatt_

_The Perilous Light_

The Eternal Beauty smiled on me From the long lily’s curved form, She laughed in a wave of the sea, She flashed on white wings through the storm.

In the bulb of a daffodil She made a little joyful stir, And the white cabin on the hill Was my heart’s home because of Her.

Her laughter fled the eyes of pride, Barefoot She went o’er stony land, And ragged children, hungry-eyed, Clung to Her skirts and held Her hand.

When storm winds shook the cabin door And red the Atlantic sunset blazed, The fisher folk of Mullaghmore Into Her eyes indifferent gazed.

By lonely waves She dwells apart, And sea gulls circling on white wings, Crowd round the windows of Her heart, Most dear to Her of starving things.

The ploughman, down by Knocknarea, Was free of Her twilight abode, In shining sea-winds, salt with spray, She haunted every gray cross road.

Some peasants with a creel of turf Along the wind-swept boreen came, Her feet went flashing through the surf, Her wings were in the sunset’s flame.

Beyond the rocks of Classiebawn, The mackerel fishers sailing far, Out in the vast Atlantic dawn Found, tangled in their nets, a star.

In every spent and broken wave The Eternal Beauty takes Her rest, She is the Lover of the Brave, The comrade of the perilous quest.

The Eternal Beauty wrung my heart, Faithful is She, and true to shed The austere glory of Art On the scarceness of daily bread.

Men follow Her with toil and thought, Over the heaven’s starry pride,-- The Eternal Beauty comes unsought To the child by the roadside.

_Eva Gore-Booth_

_Folly_

The moon has made me weary With its silver and its song. Such ardor in so old a thing Is wrong, all wrong.

It should be limping silently Across the leaden sky Or grumbling at the cloud-hills The wind piles high.

It should be teaching little moons The proper way to shine, Instead of singing sonnets To each adoring pine.

_Vivian Yeiser Laramore_

_One Blackbird_

The stars must make an awful noise In whirling round the sky; Yet somehow I can’t even hear Their loudest song or sigh.

So it is wonderful to think One blackbird can outsing The voice of all the swarming stars On any day in spring.

_Harold Monro_

_A Rune of Riches_

I have a golden ball, A big, bright, shining one, Pure gold; and it is all Mine.--It is the sun.

I have a silver ball, A white and glistering stone That other people call The moon;--my very own!

The jewel things that prick My cushion’s soft blue cover Are mine,--my stars, thick, thick, Scattered the sky all over.

And everything that’s mine Is yours, and yours, and yours,-- The shimmer and the shine!-- Let’s lock our wealth out-doors!

_Florence Converse_

_The Picture_

“There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” The painter-poet said, “That is violet-blue and emerald From the face of the sky o’erhead.”

So, far in the ancient forest, To the heart of the wood went I, But found no pool of emerald, No violet-blue for sky.

“There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” Said the painter-poet still. “That is violet-blue and emerald, Near the breast of a rose-green hill.”

And the heart of the ancient forest The painter-poet drew, And painted a pool of emerald That thrilled me through and through.

Then back to the ancient forest I went with a strange, wild thrill, And I found the pool of emerald, Near the breast of a rose-green hill.

_Frederick O. Sylvester_

“_Sic Vita_”

Heart free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder. Sun shine, moon shine, Stars, and winds a-blowing, All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing!

Mind free, step free, Days to follow after, Joys of life sold to me For the price of laughter. Girl’s love, man’s love Love of work and duty, Just a will of God’s to prove Beauty, beauty, beauty!

_William Stanley Braithwaite_

_A Blackbird Suddenly_

Heaven is in my hand, and I Touch a heart-beat of the sky, Hearing a blackbird’s cry.

Strange, beautiful, unquiet thing, Lone flute of God, how can you sing Winter to spring?

You have outdistanced every voice and word, And given my spirit wings until it stirred Like you--a bird!