Part 9

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet!

_Rudyard Kipling_

_St. Bartholomew’s On The Hill_

Bartholomew, my brother, I like your roomy church; I like your way of leaving No sinners in the lurch.

I wish the world were wealthy In ministers like you, When at the lovely August You give the blessed dew.

I love your rambling Abbey, So long ago begun, Whose choirs are in the tree-tops, Whose censor is the sun.

Its windows are the morning; Its rafters are the stars; The fog-banks float like incense Up from its purple floors.

And where the ruddy apples Make lamps in the green gloom, The flowers in congregation Are never pressed for room;

But in your hillside chapel, Gay with its gorgeous paints, They bow before the Presence,-- Sweet, merry little saints.

_Bliss Carman_

_Fishing_

“Men will grow weary,” said the Lord, “Of working for their bed and board. They’ll weary of the money chase And want to find a resting place Where hum of wheel is never heard And no one speaks an angry word. And selfishness and greed and pride And petty motives don’t abide. They’ll need a place where they can go To wash their souls as white as snow. They will be better men and true If they can play a day or two.”

The Lord then made the brooks to flow And fashioned rivers here below, And many lakes; for water seems Best suited for a mortal’s dreams. He placed about them willow trees To catch the murmur of the breeze. And the birds that sing the best Among the foliage to nest. He filled each pond and stream and lake With fish for man to come and take. Then stretched a velvet carpet deep On which a weary soul could sleep.

It seemed to me the Good Lord knew That man would want something to do When, worn and wearied with the stress Of battling hard for world success, When sick at heart of all the strife And pettiness of daily life. He knew he’d need, from time to time To cleanse himself of city grime, And he would want some place to be Where hate and greed he’d never see, And so on lakes and streams and brooks The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_A Vagabond Song_

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

_Bliss Carman_

_Have You?_

Have you ever built a camp-fire at the closing of the day? Have you sat and watched the embers glowing red? With your scanty supper finished and the things all cleared away, Have you sat and smoked and thought about your bed? Of the bed you left behind you in the dwelling-place of man, In the much o’er-furnished room you knew of yore; Ere you sought the silent places where a fellow learns he can Do a lot of things he never did before?

Have you ever spread a blanket down beneath the star-strewn skies? Rolled yourself within its cozy folds to sleep, At the base of mighty mountains, with their peaks that rise and rise? Have you known the age-old silence that they keep? Have you seen the red sun climbing up the eastern slope? Then know You will ne’er forget those rugged, happy days. What! You’ve never known the glory of the new-born day? Then go-- It’s a road that’s hard to travel--but it pays.

_Harry M. Dean_

_Gypsy-Heart_

The April world is misted with emerald and gold; The meadow-larks are calling sweet and keen; Gypsy-heart is up and off for woodland and for wold, Roaming, roaming, roaming through the green. Gypsy-heart, away! Oh, the wind--the wind and the sun! Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive to-day; Youth will soon be done.

From buds that May is kissing there trembles forth a soul; The rosy boughs are whispering the white; Gypsy-heart is heedless now of thrush and oriole, Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of delight. Gypsy-heart, beware! Oh, the song--the song in the blood! Magic walks the forest; there’s bewitchment on the air. Spring is at the flood.

The wings of June are woven of fragrance and of fire; Heap roses, crimson roses, for her throne. Gypsy-heart is anguished with tumultuous desire, Seeking, seeking, seeking for its own. Gypsy-heart, abide! Oh, the far--the far is the near! ’Tis a foolish fable that the universe is wide. All the world is here.

_Katharine Lee Bates_

_A More Ancient Mariner_

The swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A burly velveted rover, Who loves the booming wind in his ear As he sails the seas of clover.

A waif of the goblin pirate crew, With not a soul to deplore him, He steers for the open verge of blue With the filmy world before him.

* * * * *

He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, And levies on poor Sweetbrier; He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, And the Rose is his desire.

He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; He rifles the Buckwheat patches; Then battens his store of pelf galore Under the tautest hatches.

He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, Inveigles Daffodilly, And then like a tramp abandons each For the gorgeous Canada Lily.

* * * * *

He dares to boast, along the coast, The beauty of Highland Heather,-- How he and she, with night on the sea, Lay out on the hills together.

He pilfers from every port of the wind, From April to golden autumn; But the thieving ways of his mortal days Are those his mother taught him.

* * * * *

He never could box the compass round; He doesn’t know port from starboard; But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, Where the choicest goods are harbored.

He never could see the Rule of Three, But he knows a rule of thumb Better than Euclid’s, better than yours, Or the teachers’ yet to come.

* * * * *

He drones along with his rough sea-song And the throat of a salty tar, This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair By the light of a yellow star.

He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, And works like a Trojan hero; Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, With the mercury at zero.

_Bliss Carman_

_Vagabonds_

Upon us vagabonds who take Our packs and paddles Sunday The good folk look austerely down, Though they may smile on Monday.

Some call us pagans, others tramps; The truth they never knew-- We faithfully attend the Church Of Saint Bartholomew.

Among the birches on the hill His holydays are kept Where thrushes flute the anthems, and Crumb-charity accept.

The sermon never wearies us; We hold the Amen pew, And pay our pew-rent to the Church Of Saint Bartholomew.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_The Gypsying_

I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young-- On a blue October morning Beneath a cloudless sky, When all the world’s a vibrant harp The winds o’ God have strung, And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by; The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung-- I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young.

I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old-- To step it with the wild west wind And sing the while we go, Through far forgotten orchards Hung with jewels red and gold; Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show, To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold-- I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old.

I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. The while we’ve heart for hazarding, The while we’ve will to sing, The while we’ve wit to hear the call And youth and mirth to spare, Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying, Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare-- I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_The Mendicants_

We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one.

And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold.

Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day.

* * * * *

O foolish ones, put by your care! Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, God keeps an open house for you.

* * * * *

But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of God, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod.

They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing.

* * * * *

One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair.

Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars.

_Bliss Carman_

_The Beloved Vagabond_

You who were once so careless, I can recall you now, Your blue-gray visionary eyes, your great and open brow, With naught to bind your heart-strings, and all the world in fee, You went where all the roads lead, beyond the farthest sea.

Lover of space and skyline, what vision seared your eyes? What gypsy word was winged to you that bade you gird and rise? What thread of smoke sent onward your restless, eager feet? What vagrant heart was waiting your wayward heart to greet?

We, who are kin to the city, across the candles praise Your tales of camps in twilight, your great and gallant ways, Your knowledge of the mysteries deep-hidden by the wood, The pagan trust you placed in man, the world you found so good.

Then leave a _patrin_ for mine eyes that I may follow too, Some day when all the world grows dim, and I shall beckon you; Across the distant moorland, from beacon furze piled high, May I, the newest rover, see your fire against the sky!

_W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_

_The Secret Voices_

Have you heard the secret voices go whispering in your blood, Of burning wood and falling leaf and swelling Springtime flood? Have you felt the tang of lusty wind, the stinging lash of rain, As tides of Spring march down the days with summer in their train?

Have you known the zest and sparkle, felt the magic in the air, And set your feet upon the road that leads to Anywhere? And seen the skirts of storm-clouds trailing over budding trees, And drunk the wine of virile life down to the very lees?

Have you heard and have you known the voices of the wind, That bid a man rise up and go and follow till he find The pot of gold at the rainbow’s base, Or a secret dream in a hidden place.... Have you heard the secret voices whispering that Spring has come, Calling you to rise and follow till you walk into the sun?

_Ethel Mannin_

_The Changing Year_

_Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason, The Lord of the Garden knows._

BLISS CARMAN

_Turn O’ The Year_

This is the time when bit by bit The days begin to lengthen sweet And every minute gained is joy-- And love stirs in the heart of a boy.

This is the time the sun, of late Content to lie abed till eight, Lifts up betimes his sleepy head-- And love stirs in the heart of a maid.

This is the time we dock the night Of a whole hour of candlelight; When song of linnet and thrush is heard-- And love stirs in the heart of a bird.

This is the time when sword-blades green, With gold and purple damascene, Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row-- And love stirs in a heart I know.

_Katharine Tynan_

_April Music_

The lyric sound of laughter Fills all the April hills, The joy-song of the crocus, The mirth of daffodils.

They ring their golden changes Through all the azure vales; The sunny cowslips answer, Athwart the reedy swales.

Far down the woodland aisleways The trillium’s voice is heard; The little wavering wind-flowers Join in with jocund word.

The white cry of the dogwood Mounts up against the sky; The breath of violet music Upon the breeze goes by.

Give me to hear, O April, These choristers of thine Calling across the distance Serene and hyaline;

To clear my clouded vision Bedimmed and dulled so long, And heal my aching spirit With fragrance that is song!

_Clinton Scollard_

_The Year’s Awakening_

How do you know that the pilgrim track Along the belting zodiac Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, And never as yet a tinct of spring Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling; Oh, vespering bird, how do you know, How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature, With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction’s strength, And day put on some moments’ length, Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; Oh, crocus root, how do you know, How do you know?

_Thomas Hardy_

_Spring’s Answer_

I heard God calling And I came, His Sun signalled me With its flame. His Wind called me With its song. His Birds said they had been waiting Over long. His little Brooks ran tumbling Down the hills, Luring me with laughter Of rocky rills. His Grasses, yellow-green, Standing in the sun, Held up their fingers For me to come. Heart of Oak and heart of Pine Beat a faint tattoo-- Flowing sap in bole and bud Climbing up anew. Till at last the summons Set my heart aflame-- I heard God calling, And I came!

_Edwin Osgood Grover_

_Morning Song_

The grass is taller, greener, And the birds more loud; The flowers open freshly To a sky of cloud.

And man awakens gladly In a world that’s good, And thrills to some new beauty Not quite understood.

Though all the world is clouded It’s a gray delight-- For spring is swelling, swelling, And it rained last night.

_Lancaster Pollard_

_April Weather_

Soon, ah, soon the April weather With the sunshine at the door, And the mellow melting rain-wind Sweeping from the South once more.

Soon the rosy maples budding, And the willows putting forth, Misty crimson and soft yellow In the valleys of the North.

Soon the hazy purple distance, Where the cabined heart takes wing, Eager for the old migration In the magic of the spring.

Soon, ah, soon the budding windflowers Through the forest white and frail, And the odorous wild cherry Gleaming in her ghostly veil.

Soon, about the waking uplands The hepaticas in blue,-- Children of the first warm sunlight In their sober Quaker hue,--

All our shining little sisters Of the forest and the field, Lifting up their quiet faces With the secret half revealed.

Soon across the folding twilight Of the round earth hushed to hear, The first robin at his vespers Calling far, serene and clear.

Soon the waking and the summons, Starting sap in bole and blade, And the bubbling marshy whisper Seeping up through bog and glade.

Soon the frogs in silver chorus Through the night, from marsh and swale, Blowing in their tiny oboes All the joy that shall not fail,--

Passing up the old earth rapture By a thousand streams and rills, From the red Virginian valleys To the blue Canadian hills.

Soon, ah, soon the splendid impulse, Nomad longing, vagrant whim, When a man’s false angels vanish And the truth comes back to him.

Soon the majesty, the vision, And the old unfaltering dream, Faith to follow, strength to stablish, Will to venture and to seem;

All the radiance, the glamour, The expectancy and poise, Of this ancient life renewing Its temerities and joys.

Soon the immemorial magic Of the young Aprilian moon, And the wonder of thy friendship In the twilight--soon, ah, soon!

_Bliss Carman_

_The Runaway_

What are you doing, little day-moon, Over the April hill? What are you doing, up so soon, Climbing the sky with silver shoon? What are you doing at half-past noon, Slipping along so still?

Are you so eager, the heights unwon, That you cannot wait, But, unheeding of wind and sun, Out of your nest of night must run, Up where the day is far from done, Shy little shadow-mate?

Up and away then--with young mists Tripping, along the blue! Dance and dally and promise trysts Unto each that around you lists; For, little moon, not a one but wists April’s the time to woo!

_Cale Young Rice_

_Spring Market_

It’s foolish to bring money To any spring wood, Jewels won’t help you, Gold’s no good.

Silver won’t buy you One small leaf. You may bring joy here, You may bring grief.

You should look for Tufted moss, Marked where a light foot Ran across.

Where the old rose hips Shrivel brown And dried clematis Bloom hangs down.

There you’ll find what Everyman needs, Wild religion Without any creeds,

Green that lifts its Blossoming head, New life springing Among the dead.

You needn’t bring money To this market place, Or think you can bargain for Wild flower grace.

_Louise Driscoll_

_Song in March_

I sing the first green leaf upon the bough, The tiny kindling flame of emerald fire, The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how The sap will flush the briar.

I sing the sweeping beryl on the slopes, Ephemeræ that come before the bees, The ferns renascent, and the virgin hopes Of pale anemones.

I sing the dream’s unfolding, and I sing The chrysalis broken by the ice-freed shore, The clear air winnowed by the bluebird’s wing, And April at the door!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Flower Chorus_

O such a commotion under the ground, When March called “Ho, there! ho!” Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whisperings to and fro! “Are you ready?” the Snowdrop asked, “’Tis time to start, you know.” “Almost, my dear!” the Scilla replied, “I’ll follow as soon as you go.” Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came Of laughter sweet and low, From millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow.

“I’ll promise my blossoms,” the Crocus said, “When I hear the blackbird sing.” And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, “My silver and gold I’ll bring.” “And ere they are dulled,” another spoke, “The hyacinth bells shall ring.” But the Violet only murmured “I’m here,” And sweet grew the air of spring. Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came Of laughter sweet and low, From millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow.

Oh, the pretty brave things, thro’ the coldest days Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart tho’ the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down; But patiently each wrought her wonderful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown, And now they are coming to lighten the world Still shadowed by winter’s frown. And well may they cheerily laugh “Ha! ha!” In laughter sweet and low, The millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_April’s Coming_

April comes with sudden showers, Chilling winds and sunny hours. April comes with growing green On the trees still winter-lean. April brings the singing bird And a joy that is absurd. April comes and April goes, But the flowers April sows-- Earth’s obituary tears-- Wake the immemorial years. So with Spring’s passing comes Summer with her borrowed drums; Fall and winter in a ring Till April comes again with spring.

_Lancaster Pollard_

_The Secret_

On that first day so singular Under the ground, It was too dark for crescent or for star, Too deep for sound.

And lying there one thought alone I could not still: How soon would snow-white cherry buds be blown Across the hill.

And then a voice within the tomb Said very low: “When April lights her first sharp flame of bloom You’ll know!”

_John Richard Moreland_

_Spring_

All the lanes are lyric, All the bushes sing; You are at your kissing, Spring!

Romping with your children Do not fail to bring Mary to the haystack, Spring!

Froth upon the fingers, Bosom for a king, Speed her from the milking, Spring!

_Norman Gale_

_April Weather_

Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, For here is April weather! The daffodils beneath the trees Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note; The scarlet tulip blowing; And white, aye, white as my love’s throat-- The dogwood boughs are growing.

The lilac bush is sweet again; Down every wind that passes, Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, And care is but a feather; And every lad his love can win, For here is April weather.

_Lizette Woodworth Reese_

_Renewal_

April, when I heard Your lyrical low word, And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossom stirred,

Something strangely came-- Something I cannot name-- And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame.

When the yellow gleam Of your hosts that stream-- Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus--made the world a golden dream,

Something, April, said To my heart that bled-- Bled with old remembrance--“Lo, the grief-strewn days are fled!”

_Sursum corda!_ Now, When blooms the apple-bough, April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow;

Heal me, if you will; Bathe my heart until I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil!

_Charles Hanson Towne_

_April_

Something tapped at my window pane, Someone called me without my door. Someone laughed like the tinkle o’ rain, The robin echoed it o’er and o’er.

I threw the door and the window wide; Sun and the touch of the breeze and then-- “Ah, were you expecting me, dear?” she cried, And here was April come back again.

_Theodosia Garrison_