Part 7
I remember when befell Heartbreak fierce, intolerable, And no voice or touch but bound Deeper torment on the wound: Yet a little wind could rise Stroking cheek and tear-wet eyes, Breathing, “Hush! All pain shall pass! Still are winds, and skies, and grass!”
God, when all of earth shall lie Stripped and new beneath Thine eye, And Thy gold stars fall unstrung, And Thy curtain-sky down-flung, And Thy seas are lifted up Whole from out their empty cup, Grant me still, in Heaven’s place Sweet swift winds across my face!
_Margaret Widdemer_
_A Morning_
The glad, mad wind went singing by, The white clouds drove athwart the blue, Bold beauty of the morning sky And all the world was sun and dew, And sweet cold air with sudden glints of gold Like spilled stars glowing in the cedars’ hold.
I laughed for very joy of life, Oh, thrilling veins, oh, happy heart, Of this glad world with beauty rife, Exult that we too are a part; Rejoice! Rejoice! that miracle of birth Gave us this golden heritage of earth.
Oh, bold, blue sky, oh, keen, glad wind, I wonder me if this may be, That some day, leaving life behind, Our eyes shall view new land, new sea So exquisite that, lo! with thrilling breath, We shall laugh loud for very joy of death.
_Theodosia Garrison_
_The Wind’s Life_
I love the silver-shaken, The windy tops of trees That heave and lift in sequence, Like running surf of seas,
With swathes of changing purples And vistas golden-deep Where, for an unstirred moment, The sunlight lies asleep.
_Harry Kemp_
_The Mystic_
I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the sea, I have ridden the moon and stars. I have set my feet in the stirrup seat Of a comet coursing Mars. And everywhere Thro’ the earth and air My thought speeds, lightning-shod, It comes to a place where checking pace It cries, “Beyond lies God!”
* * * * *
I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the night, I have ridden the ghosts that flee From the vaults of death like a chilling breath Over eternity. And everywhere Is the world laid bare-- Ether and star and clod-- Until I wind to its brink and find But the cry, “Beyond lies God!”
* * * * *
I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the stars, I have ridden the force that flies With far intent thro’ the firmament And each to each allies. And everywhere That a thought may dare To gallop, mine has trod-- Only to stand at last on the strand Where just beyond lies God.
_Cale Young Rice_
_The Hill-Born_
_Again among the hills! The shaggy hills! The clear arousing air comes like a call Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills My heart as if a hero had just spoken._
RICHARD HOVEY
_The Cry of the Hillborn_
I am homesick for the mountains-- My heroic mother hills-- And the longing that is on me No solace ever stills.
I would climb to brooding summits With their old untarnished dreams, Cool my heart in forest shadows To the lull of falling streams;
Hear the innocence of aspens That babble in the breeze, And the fragrant sudden showers That patter on the trees.
I am lonely for my thrushes In their hermitage withdrawn, Toning the quiet transports Of twilight and of dawn.
I need the pure, strong mornings, When the soul of day is still, With the touch of frost that kindles The scarlet on the hill;
Lone trails and winding woodroads To outlooks wild and high, And the pale moon waiting sundown Where ledges cut the sky.
I dream of upland clearings Where cones of sumac burn, And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders Lie deep in beds of fern;
The gray and mottled beeches, The birches’ satin sheen, The majesty of hemlocks Crowning the blue ravine.
My eyes dim for the skyline Where purple peaks aspire, And the forges of the sunset Flare up in golden fire.
There crests look down unheeding And see the great winds blow, Tossing the huddled tree-tops In gorges far below;
Where cloud-mists from the warm earth Roll up about their knees, And hang their filmy tatters Like prayers upon the trees.
I cry for night-blue shadows On plain and hill and dome,-- The spell of old enchantments, The sorcery of home.
_Bliss Carman_
_Up a Hill and a Hill_
Up a hill and a hill there’s a sudden orchard-slope, And a little tawny field in the sun; There’s a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, And grasses nodding news one to one.
Up a hill and a hill there’s a windy place to stand, And between the apple-boughs to find the blue Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, With the white charmed ships sliding through.
Up a hill and a hill there’s a little house as gray As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, And a face at the window, checker-paned.
I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, Just to find that tawny field above the sea! Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle’s sweet! And the eyes at the window watch for me!
_Fannie Stearns Davis_
_Hills_
I never loved your plains!-- Your gentle valleys, Your drowsy country lanes And pleachèd alleys.
I want my hills!--the trail That scorns the hollow.-- Up, up the ragged shale Where few will follow,
Up, over wooded crest And mossy boulder With strong thigh, heaving chest, And swinging shoulder,
So let me hold my way, By nothing halted, Until, at close of day, I stand, exalted,
High on my hills of dream-- Dear hills that know me! And then, how fair will seem The lands below me,
How pure, at vesper-time, The far bells chiming! God, give me hills to climb, And strength for climbing!
_Arthur Guiterman_
_Again Among the Hills_
Again among the hills! The shaggy hills! The clear arousing air comes like a call Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills My heart as if a hero had just spoken. Again among the hills! The jubilant, unbroken, Long dreaming of the hills! Far off, Ascutney smiles as one at peace; And over all The golden sunlight pours, and fills The hollow of the earth, like a god’s joy. Again among the hills! The tranquil hills That took me as a boy And filled my spirit with the silences!
O indolent, far-reaching hills that lie Secure in your own strength, and take your ease Like careless giants ’neath the summer sky-- What is it to you, O hills, That anxious men should take thought for the morrow? What has your might to do with thought or sorrow, Or cark and cumber of conflicting wills? Lone Pine, that thron’st thyself upon the height, Aloof and kingly, overlooking all, Yet uncompanioned, with the Day and Night For pageant and the winds for festival! I was thy minion once, and now renew Mine ancient fealty-- To that which shaped me still remaining true, And through allegiance only growing free.
* * * * *
The rising of the wind among the pines, The runic wind, full of old legendries! It talks to the ancient trees Of sights and signs And strange earth-creatures strong to make or mar-- Such tales as when the firelight flickered out In the old days men heard and had no doubt. O wind, what is your spell? Borne on your cry, the ages slip away, And lo, I too am of that elder day; I crouch by the logs and hear With credent ear And simple marvel the far tales men tell.
* * * * *
... Night on the hills! And the ancient stars emerge. The silence of their mighty distances Compels the world to peace. Now sinks the surge Of life to a soft stir of mountain rills, And over the swarm and urge Of eager men sleep falls and darkling ease.
Night on the hills! Dark mother-Night, draw near; Lay hands on us and whisper words of cheer So softly, oh, so softly! Now may we Be each as one that leaves his midnight task And throws his casement open; and the air Comes up across the lowlands from the sea And cools his temples, as a maid might ask With shy caress what speech would never dare; And he leans back to her demure desires, And as a dream sees far below The city with its lights aglow And blesses in his heart his brothers there; Then toward the eternal stars again aspires.
_Richard Hovey_
_Hill Hunger_
I want to stride the hills! My feet cry out For hills! Oh, I am sick to death of streets: The nausea of pavements and people always about; The savagery of mortar and steel that beats Me under, hedges me in; the iron shiver Of traffic!--I want to stride the hills, I want Hills toned frantic silver or a quiver Of scarlet; hills that hunger and grow gaunt! I am tired of steps and steps, and a thousand flights Of stairs resounding, shuffling, quarreling With shoes. I want a hill on windy nights, When April pauses with me, clambering Over the purple side to the top, until We pull ourselves up by a star--the hill! the hill!
_Joseph Auslander_
_Afternoon on a Hill_
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!
_Edna St. Vincent Millay_
_The Hills_
O my Soul, let us go unto our hills, We were native to them one day, you and I-- Less dwellers of the earth than of the sky Where the holy sense of silence stays and stills, Like a hand of benediction lifted high.
We have stayed in this market-place too long; We have bartered with the birth-right in our breast; We have shamed us with buffoonery and jest, Nor raised our eyes to where our hills were strong, Above this petty region of unrest.
O, my Soul, let us go unto our hills, To their wonderful, high silence and their might, Where the old dreams shall whisper us by night Till the sullen heart within us stirs and thrills, And wakes to weep and wonder and delight. O my soul, let us go unto our hills.
_Theodosia Garrison_
_On a Hill_
Spring on a wind-swept hill! The grass at our feet Sheered into waves of light! Spring, and the woodbird’s trill! Spring, and the stars of night Turned dewdrops glist’ning sweet. Earth-chained we stand, Thinking unearthly things, Looking across the land, Over the hills, beyond the sea, Our souls on tireless wings Soaring Eternity.
Spring! oh, the wind’s rush In the joyous trees! Oh, wide, free sky, and white Laughing clouds! And the hush When, as a musician’s might, God’s Hand rests on His keys.
_Irene Rutherford McLeod_
_Traveller’s Joy_
_Whose farthest footstep never strayed beyond the village of his birth Is but a lodger for the night in this old wayside inn of earth. Tomorrow he shall take his pack and set out for the ways beyond On the old trail from star to star, an alien and a vagabond._
RICHARD HOVEY
_Traveller’s Joy_
What went you, Pilgrim, for to see? A sign or wonder-thing maybe? Some marvel or a holy sight As clerks in chronicles do write? For you have gone and come again, Now tell us plain?
I saw the sky from rim to rim Full-filled with light up to the brim, As though it were a mighty cup To God’s lip holden up. I saw a river and a down, A harbor and a little town, A marshland blue with irises-- I saw all these.
Saw, too, a sedgy pond where lay Lilies like anchored stars that Day Had ravished from the summer night And kept them there alight. I saw a hill-side gold with furze, And wildrose banks and junipers Distilling fragrance pungent-sweet; I saw a path that called my feet To go with it as any friend, To heart’s desire at the end.
Sooth, all of these! but ’mid them all Did nothing wonderful befall? No miracle? Yea, but I have no word to tell Of that great thing that happened me-- I saw the sea!
O wide, and blue and infinite! League upon league of space and light! I think that down this sapphire floor One might walk straight to heaven’s door And lift its golden latchet-bar, Nor find it far Or very strange, as one would guess, After such earthly loveliness.
Poor pilgrim, is this all your store Of tales to tell? Is there no more Than this that any man might show? Yea, all is told. How should you know That I have looked on Beauty’s face, And being far from men a space Have found at springs of Quietness The hands that heal, the hands that bless-- Have known the sun and wind and trod The holy earth and talked with God!
_Arthur Ketchum_
_Ellis Park_
Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town; Carry you for country there To make the city ways more fair.
I take your trees And your breeze, Your greenness, Your cleanness, Some of your shade, some of your sky, Some of your calm as I go by; Your flowers to trim The pavements grim; Your space for room in the jostled street, And grass for carpet to my feet. Your fountains take and sweet bird calls To sing me from my office walls. All that I can see I carry off with me.
But you never miss my theft, So much treasures you have left. As I find you, fresh at morning, So I find you, home returning, Nothing lacking from your grace. All your riches wait in place For me to borrow On the morrow.
Do you hear this praise of you, Little park that I pass through?
_Helen Hoyt_
_Afoot_
Long is the road ’twixt town and town that runs, Travelled by many a lordly cavalcade, With trappings gay, and rich caparisons, Jester and squire, and laughing knight and maid: With gallant clash and stir they go their way: I trudge afoot thro’ all the drouth of day.
For me, the misty meadows fresh with morn, The tramp thro’ noontide heat to evening gray, The far-seen smoke from the day’s goal upborne, The halt, the friendly greeting by the way, The distant hill beyond far hill descried, The road by day, the rest at eventide.
I know each wayside wood, each moorland brown, Each hidden by-way and reposeful nook, Where I may linger when the sun goes down, Dipping tired feet in some cool flowing brook; I know the free hill and the glooming glen, And kindly fires, and humble homes of men.
_C. Fox-Smith_
_The Going of His Feet_
His feet went here and there About the common earth. He touched to grandeur all Men held of little worth.
He loved the growing flowers, The small bright singing birds, The patient flocks of sheep, The many-pastured herds.
The field of rippling corn That shimmered in the sun, The soft blue smoke of eve That curled when day was done....
He did not search afar For what He had to say: His mind reached forth and drew Its strength from every day:}
The struggling nets, alive With fish drawn from the sea Supplied Him with the apt And chosen simile....
He saw a neighbor build A house that did not stand-- And men may not forget The House Upon The Sand;
He saw a widow drop Her mite into the hoard-- And to eternity That treasure is up-stored;
He heard a publican Who thought none others there-- The souls of all mankind Are richer for that prayer....
O, Poet of the World, I pray Thee, come to me, That my lame heart might walk, That my dark soul may see;
And teach me, too, to go About the ways of earth And find the Wealth of God In things of little worth!
_Harry Kemp_
_Down East and Up Along_
Down east and up along the fringy coast of Maine There’s rumor of the summer and the warm soft rain. There’s lisp of little leaves astir in the heart of every tree, There’s gossip in the grasses that run down to meet the sea. In my heart I hear them calling like a siren’s song, “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!”
Down east and up along the brooks are flowing full, The gray sea is blue again, the spring tides pull, The keening of the winter wind no longer haunts the seas, There’s the velvet touch of raindrops upon the southern breeze. The throb of life resurgent is calling loud and long, “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!”
Down east and up along the sun is warm again, Calling to the hungry hearts of city-weary men. Telling of the golden days in a land of woods and sea, A land of summer glory and of autumn ecstasy. You can almost hear the music of the hovering angel throng, For the very edge of Heaven lies down east and up along!
_Edwin Osgood Grover_
_The Joys of the Road_
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;
A vagrant’s morning wide and blue, In early fall, when the wind walks, too;
A shadowy highway cool and brown, Alluring up and enticing down
From rippled water to dappled swamp, From purple glory to scarlet pomp;
The outward eye, the quiet will, And the striding hart from hill to hill;
The tempter apple over the fence; The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince;
The palish asters along the wood, A lyric touch of the solitude;
An open hand, an easy shoe, And a hope to make the day go through,--
Another to sleep with, and a third To wake me up at the voice of a bird;
The resonant, far-listening morn, And the hoarse whisper of the corn;
The crickets mourning their comrades lost, In the night’s retreat from the gathering frost
(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?)
A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me;
A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, And a jug of cider on the board;
An idle noon, a bubbling spring, The sea in the pine-tops murmuring;
A scrap of gossip at the ferry; A comrade neither glum nor merry,
Asking nothing, revealing naught, But minting his words from a fund of thought,
A keeper of silence eloquent, Needy, yet royally well content,
Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife, And full of the mellow juice of life,
No fidget and no reformer, just A calm observer of ought and must,
A lover of books, but a reader of man, No cynic and no charlatan,
Who never defers and never demands, But smiling, takes the world in his hands,--
Seeing it good as when God first saw And gave it the weight of His will for law.
And Oh, the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun,
By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, A will-o’-the-wisp, a light-o’-dream,
Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year,
A jack-o’-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire!
The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;
(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)
The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The silent fleck of the cold new moon;
The sound of the hollow sea’s release From stormy tumult to starry peace;
With only another league to wend; And two brown arms at the journey’s end!
These are the joys of the open road-- For him who travels without a load.
_Bliss Carman_
_Song of the Open_
There’s a whisper in the orchard, there’s a laughter in the breeze, There’s a catbird’s chuckle in the maple tree; And the wind has come from westward, scattering the maple-keys. Oh, it’s time to break your fetters and be free!
All the rain’s astir and calling, all the grass is wet and brown, All the world waits just beyond the window-pane; And the day is dull and dripping in the gray, gas-lighted town, But the country’s fresh and clean with fall again.
Oh, it’s out along the prairie with the cool rain in your face, And it’s out along the river flowing free, And it’s out across the hill-tops in a flying-footed race With just your heart to bear you company.
There’s the prairie curving softly with its golden blooms aglow, And the purple splashes on its ripened flanks; And the idle grassy hollows where the brilliant salvias grow, And the sturdy cat-tails marshal out their ranks.
Ah, the scarlet of the orchards and the saffron of the fields! Ah, the purple of the vineyards in the sun! Ah, the river in the sunlight, flashing silver as a shield For a moment--and your Indian summer’s done.
So it’s home along the prairie with the north wind blowing chill, And it’s home across the meadow’s heaving sea, And it’s home with winter shouting just beyond the farthest hill, But yet the road is open and is free.
_Sara Hamilton Birchall_
_Rebellion_
To wake at morn, And hear the little laugh Of the lake-wind in the trees; To watch at dawn The earliest sunbeam kiss The mist-crowned, towering peaks And glide down to the plains.
Ah, that is Life! Not this-- To wake at morn, And hear the swelling roar Of Man, Beast and Machine, Toiling in murky air And a city’s sweat!
At noon to dream Where Nature’s bowers are hid Beneath an arch Of twined and intersticing vines, While on the air Quivers the chanting of the sighing woods, And the songs of mating birds.
Ah, that is Life! Not this-- At noon to pause, And lay aside the pen for one brief hour: Then to return, as I did yesterday, Will do to-morrow and on all to-morrows-- Oh, Fool, Machine, and Slave!
Again at dusk, To watch the sun’s last ray Fade in the west; To feel Earth’s grand transition From day to night-- That moment when the world Pauses and knows itself! The Angelus chimes And echoes round the Earth;
Here the Muezzin’s call, There a child’s lullaby, And now a poor serf’s prayer.... Earth’s evensong!
To hear that is to live! Not this-- To breast the roaring surge Of thousands, pale and tired, dead in soul, Crowding with merciless haste toward home. Home?... Past ere the sweet of home has touched the sense! To toil that we may sleep That better we may toil; To toil that we may eat, That better we may toil. Ay, that is Life; but still-- But still we dream!
_Stephen Chalmers_
_The Tree-Top Road_
Life’s sweetest joys are hidden In unsubstantial things; An April rain, a fragrance, A vision of blue wings: And what are memory and hope But dreams? And yet the bread On which these little lives of ours Are fed and comforted!
Without imagination The soul becomes a clod, Missing the trail of beauty, Losing the way to God. And I have built a templed-stair Out of a lilac bloom And climbed to heaven with purple pomp And censers of perfume!