Part 4

It’s a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world-- There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled, And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, Down to the waters where the sea gulls call.

It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old, And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold that trod From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God.

They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold of old; Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; But you and I together we will take the road to-day, With the breath in our nostrils, on the King’s Highway.

We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow, And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay, And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray.

We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree, Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow.

Old Conquistadores, oh, brown priests and all, Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day, With the breath of God about us on the King’s Highway.

_John Steven McGroarty_

_God Made This Day For Me_

Jes’ the sort o’ weather and jes’ the sort o’ sky Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin’ by On a sea o’ smooth blue water. Oh, I ain’t an egotist, With an “I” in all my thinkin’, but I’m willin’ to insist That the Lord that made us humans and the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o’ weather an’ He made this day fer me.

This is jes’ my style o’ weather--sunshine floodin’ all the place, An’ the breezes from the eastward blowin’ gently on my face. An’ the woods chock-full o’ singin’ till you’d think birds never had A single care to fret ’em or a grief to make ’em sad. Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, An’ tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

It’s my day, sky an’ sunshine, an’ the temper o’ the breeze, Here’s the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please-- Beauty dancin’ all around me, music ringin’ everywhere, Like a weddin’ celebration. Why I’ve plumb fergot my care An’ the tasks I should be doin’ fer the rainy days to be While I’m huggin’ the delusion that God made this day fer me.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_The Country Faith_

Here in the country’s heart Where the grass is green Life is the same sweet life As it e’er hath been.

Trust in a God still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O’er the rising corn.

God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall-- This is the country faith, And the best of all!

_Norman Gale_

_Green Things Growing_

_Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; ’Tis very sure God walks in mine._

THOMAS E. BROWN

_Afoot_

Comes the lure of green things growing, Comes the call of waters flowing-- And the wayfarer desire Moves and wakes and would be going.

Hark the migrant hosts of June Marching nearer noon by noon! Hark the gossip of the grasses Bivouacked beneath the moon!

Long the quest and far the ending When my wayfarer is wending-- When desire is once afoot, Doom behind and dream attending!

In his ears the phantom chime Of incommunicable rhyme, He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires Of the Bedouins of Time.

Farer by uncharted ways, Dumb as death to plaint or praise, Unreturning he shall journey, Fellow to the nights and days;

Till upon the outer bar Stilled the moaning currents are, Till the flame achieves the zenith, Till the moth attains the star,

Till through laughter and through tears Fair the final peace appears, And about the watered pastures Sink to sleep the nomad years!

_Charles G. D. Roberts_

_Grace for Gardens_

Lord God in Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain!

Lord God in Paradise, Please bless the beans and peas, Give us corn full on the ear-- We will praise Thee, Lord, for these! Bless the blossom And the root, Bless the seed And the fruit!

Lord God in Paradise, Over my brown field is seen, Trembling and adventuring, A miracle of green. Send such grace As you know, To keep it safe And make it grow!

Lord God in Paradise, For the wonder of the seed, Wondering, we praise you, while We tell you of our need. Look down from Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain!

_Louise Driscoll_

_My Garden_

A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not-- Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool! Nay, but I have a sign; ’Tis very sure God walks in mine.

_Thomas E. Brown_

_April_

The charm is working, now, On the alder bough; Odors are afloat; The brook has a new note; Nightly in the silence grow Murmurs only lovers know,-- Love’s own minstrelsy Beginning in the tree; The airy hammers of the rain Tap--are still again.

_John Vance Cheney_

_A Song the Grass Sings_

The violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I’ll ask the buttercup If I may be her beau.

When winds go by, I’ll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be.

And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pass, I smiling at the buttercup, She smiling at the grass.

_Charles G. Blanden_

_The Young Dandelion_

I am a bold fellow As ever was seen, With my shield of yellow, In the grass green.

You may uproot me From field and from lane, Trample me, cull me-- I spring up again.

I never flinch, sir, Wherever I dwell, Give me an inch, sir, I’ll soon take an ell.

Drive me from garden, In anger and pride, I’ll thrive and harden By the roadside.

_Dinah Mulock Craik_

_Sunflowers_

My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky.

Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Wishing_

Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The ferns and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!

Nay--stay! I wish I were an elm-tree, A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And ever sweetly sing!

Oh--no! I wish I were a robin, A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wings!

_William Allingham_

_Rain_

Is it raining, little flower?-- Be glad of rain! Too much sun would wither thee; ’Twill shine again.

The sky is very black, ’tis true; But just behind it shines the blue.

God watches; and thou wilt have sun, When clouds their perfect work have done.

_Lucy Larcom_

_To the Dandelion_

Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; ’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God’s value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God’s book.

_James Russell Lowell_

_The Grass_

A child said _What is the grass?_ fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say _Whose?_

_Walt Whitman_

_Buttercups_

There must be fairy miners Just underneath the mould, Such wondrous quaint designers Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals, And beat them into shreds; And mould them into petals, To make the flowers’ heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers To tiny seeds like pearls, And store them up in bowers For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns Above a forge of gold, To keep, with fairy lanterns, The world from growing old.

_Wilfrid C. Thorley_

_The Lilac_

Who thought of the lilac? “I,” dew said, “I made up the lilac out of my head.”

“She made up the lilac! Pooh!” thrilled a linnet, and each dew-note had a lilac in it.

_Humbert Wolfe_

_The Hollyhocks_

The hollyhocks are standing In groups against the wall, Engaged in conversation With the lowly flowers small, That gaze with admiration On floral dames so gay, Who wear such ruffled bonnets Of crimson deep to-day.

* * * * *

The wind has paused to listen To the dames of high degree, And the mignonette and pansies Are laughing with such glee! The mullein pinks are blushing, And the poppies say, “Oh, see, In the dame’s gay frilled red bonnet She has a bumblebee!”

_Ray Laurance_

_The Ragged Regiment_

I love the ragged veterans of June, Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display In gardens fine,--but such as dare the noon With saucy faces by the public way.

Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white, Round Dandelion, and flouncing Bouncing-Bet, The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright, Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset.

Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out From garden service, scorned and set apart,-- There’s not one member of your ragged rout But makes a warmth of welcome in my heart.

_Alice Williams Brotherton_

_Marigolds_

The marigolds are nodding: I wonder what they know. Go, listen very gently; You may persuade them so.

Go, be their little brother, As humble as the grass, And lean upon the hill-wind, And watch the shadows pass.

Put off the pride of knowledge, Put by the fear of pain; You may be counted worthy To live with them again.

Be Darwin in your patience, Be Chaucer in your love; They may relent and tell you What they are thinking of.

_Bliss Carman_

_In a Garden_

Sky! Why are you so very gay To-day? Dimpled with the clouds at play, Blithe with the sun’s vivacious ray.... Why?

Moon! Why do you pursue me so? Are you whispering That youth passes over-soon? Don’t you know I’ve buried you a dozen times Behind tall buildings?--Pagan thing! The very Churches clutch at you With grasping spires To tear you from the sky! Veil with clouds your glittering Unholy gaze!... Virgin?... You are an aged courtesan Leering at lovers!... leave me, leave me, then! If you were not half-blind, you’d see _I am alone_!... Oh, moon ... stop mocking me!

Trees! Murmuring to each passing breeze Ancient mysteries-- Flowers, Gossiping with drowsy bees In social, chaste amenities-- Don’t you know my heart is breaking? Can’t you sympathize with aching Human misery? Are all your little hours Golden as these? Or ... do you hide Your searching, poignant tragedies, Under the hard, bright smile of pride? I think that I shall also go Laughing, ... not too loudly ... Moving with gracious step and slow, Quietly ... proudly ... And then, perhaps, no one will know My heart has died!

_Theda Kenyon_

_The Dandelions_

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle-notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans talking.

They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne’er were heard of after!

_Helen Gray Cone_

_Rhodora_

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_Daisies_

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our hearts free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, The orioles whistled them out of the wood; And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!” And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”

_Bliss Carman_

_Out in the Fields with God_

The little cares that fretted me I lost them yesterday Among the fields, above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen, I cast them all away, Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new mown hay, Among the husking of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- Out in the fields with God.

_Elizabeth Browning_

_The Blackbird_

In the far corner, close by the swings, every morning a blackbird sings.

His bill’s so yellow, his coat’s so black, that he makes a fellow whistle back.

Ann, my daughter, thinks that he sings for us two especially.

_Humbert Wolfe_

_The Robin_

The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, And April but begun.

The robin is the one That speechless from her nest Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best.

_Emily Dickinson._

_Clover_

Little masters, hat in hand, Let me in your presence stand, Till your silence solve for me This your threefold mystery.

Tell me--for I long to know-- How, in darkness there below, Was your fairy fabric spun, Spread and fashioned, three in one.

Did your gossips gold and blue, Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, Ere your triple forms were seen, Suited liveries of green?

Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed Captives of a prison seed-- Like the Genie, once again Get you back into the grain?

Little masters, may I stand In your presence, hat in hand, Waiting till you solve for me This your threefold mystery?

_John B. Tabb_

_A Conversation_

A little road goes up the hill, And Thistle-down says she, “I’m off a-gipsying today, Drift up the road with me.”

“And sure ’tis nice to go,” says I, “But ’tis not I will come, For who would feed my cow and cat, And make my wheel to hum?

’Tis here at home that I will bide, And thanks to you,” says I, So off went gipsy Thistle-down A-drifting in the sky.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_A Yellow Pansy_

To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly quivering came; His wings on the sombre lichens Played like a yellow flame.

He looked at the gay geraniums, And the sleepy four-o’-clocks; He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy-growing box.

He longed for the peace and the silence, And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wee wild heart was weary Of skimming the endless air.

And now in the old green garden,-- I know not how it came,-- A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame.

And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again!

_Helen Gray Cone_

_The Answer_

Lavender for old loves, Roses for the new, Heliotrope for pleasure, lass, And for sorrow, rue.

Rosemary lest you forget.-- Take, or let it be. I will have the wholesome pine And the open sea.

Rosemary lest you forget.-- When I come again Up the old familiar path In the autumn rain,

What if you’ve forgotten, lass? Say, what shall I do?-- Here is heartsease by the gate With the bitter rue.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_A Prayer_

Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the grasses grow; Hush my soul to meet the shock Of the wild world as a rock; But my spirit, propt with power, Make as simple as a flower. Let the dry heart fill its cup, Like a poppy looking up; Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down.

Teach me, Father, how to be Kind and patient as a tree. Joyfully the crickets croon Under shady oak at noon; Beetle, on his mission bent, Tarries in that cooling tent. Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot-- Place where passing souls can rest On the way and be their best.

_Edwin Markham_

_The Kinship of the Trees_

_I think I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.... Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree._

JOYCE KILMER

_Tree Feelings_

I wonder if they like it--being trees? I suppose they do.... It must feel good to have the ground so flat, And feel yourself stand right straight up like that-- So stiff in the middle--and then branch at ease, Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow, And all those fringy leaves that flutter so. You’d think they’d break off at the lower end When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend. But then you think of all the roots they drop, As much at bottom as there is on top,-- A double tree, widespread in earth and air Like a reflection in the water there.

I guess they like to stand still in the sun And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run; And like to feel the rain run through their hair And slide down to the roots and settle there. But I think they like the wind best. From the light touch That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much, To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide, And all the time so stiff and strong inside! And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel How long their roots are, and the earth how leal!

And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost! And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost! And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem, But to be apples--and bow down with them!

_Charlotte Perkins Stetson_

_ABC’S in Green_

The trees are God’s great alphabet: With them He writes in shining green Across the world His thoughts serene.

He scribbles poems against the sky With a gay, leafy lettering, For us and for our bettering.

The wind pulls softly at His page, And every star and bird Repeats in dutiful delight His word, And every blade of grass Flutters to class.

Like a slow child that does not heed, I stand at summer’s knees, And from the primer of the wood I spell that life and love are good, I learn to read.

_Leonora Speyer_

_O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees!_

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees, I came along your narrow track To bring my gifts unto your knees And gifts did you give back; For when I brought this heart that burns-- These thoughts that bitterly repine-- And laid them here among the ferns And the hum of boughs divine, Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart’s despair, Your darkness on its noise.

_Herbert Trench_

_God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree_

God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star? How did you dream of a damson west, Crossed by an inky bar? How did you think of a dear brown pool Where flocks of shadows are?

God, when you thought of a cobweb, How did you think of dew? How did you know a spider’s house Had spangles bright and new? How did you know we human folk Would love them as we do?