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Miracle, and Other Poems

<h2 id="id00093" style="margin-top: 4em">A SONG</h2> Love maketh its own summer time, 'Tis June, Love, when we are together, And little I care for the frost in the air, For the heart makes its own summer weather. Love maketh its own winter time, And though the hills blossom with heather, If you are not near, 'tis December, my dear, For the heart makes its own winter weather. <h2 id="id00096" style="margin-top: 4em">THE CALL</h2> Across the dusty, foot-worn street Unblessed of flower or tree, Faint and far-off—there ever sounds The calling of the sea. From out the quiet of the hills, Where purple shadows lie, The pine trees murmur, "Come and rest And let the world go by." The west wind whispers all night long "Oh, journey forth afar To the green and pleasant places Where little rivers are!" And the soft and silken rustling Of bending yellow wheat Says, "See the harvest moon—that dims The arc-lights of the street." Though the city holds thee captive By trick, and wile, and lure, Out yonder lies the loveliness Of things that shall endure. The river road is wide and fair, The prairie-path is free, And still the old earth waits to give Her strength and joy to thee. <h2 id="id00103" style="margin-top: 4em">THE KNIGHT-ERRANT</h2> Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire To right the world's wrongs and champion truth; Deep in his eyes shone a heaven-lit fire, And royal and radiant day-dreams of youth! Gracious was he to both beggar and stranger, And for a rose tossed from fair finger-tips He would have ridden hard-pressed through all danger, The rose on his heart and a song on his lips! All the king's foes he counted his foemen; His not to say that a cause could be lost; Spirits like his faced the enemies' bowmen On long vanished fields—nor counted the cost. Wide was his out-look and far was his vision; Soul-fretting trifles he sent down the wind; Small griefs gained only his cheerful derision,— God's weather always was fair to his mind. But he would comfort a child who was crying, Knightly his deed to all such in distress; Never a beast by the road-side lay dying He did not stoop to with gentle caress. And by the old, and the sad, and the broken, Often he lingered, a well-beloved guest; Dear was his voice, whatever the word spoken, Sweetening their day with a song or a jest. In the far times of brave ballad and story, Men of his make kept the gates of the sea, Wrought mighty deeds of power and glory, Scattered their tyrants, and set the land free! * * * * * In the far times when perchance hearts were stronger, When for a faith men could face death alone, And it would seem that love lasted longer, Such a white soul would have come to its own. Down in the city the people but noted One who was silent when things went awry, Toiled at dull tasks, and was strangely devoted To small deeds of kindness that others passed by. Down in the city the people but noted One who thought little of wealth and its ways; One whose true words were full often misquoted, One who laughed lightly at blame or at praise. <h2 id="id00115" style="margin-top: 4em">A SOUTHERN LULLABY</h2> Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight;— (Shadow-man is comin' from de moon!)— You's as sweet as roses if dey is so pink an white; (Shadow-man '11 get here mighty soon.) Little honey baby, keep yo' footses still!— (Rocky-bye, oh, rocky, rocky-bye!) Hush yo' now, an listen to dat lonesome whippo'-will; Don't yo' fix yo' lip an start to cry. Little honey baby, stop dat winkin' quick!; (Hear de hoot-owl in de cotton-wood!) Yess—I sees yo' eyes adoin' dat dere triflin' trick— (He gets chillun if dey isn't good.) Little honey baby, what yo' think yo' see?— (Sister keep on climbin' to de sky—) Dat's a June bug—it aint got no stinger, lak a bee— (Reach de glory city by an by.) Little honey baby, what yo' skeery at?— (Go down, Moses—down to Phar-e-oh,)— No—dat isn't nuffin but a furry fly-round bat;— (Say, he'd betta let dose people go.) Little honey baby, yo' is all ma own,— Deed yo' is.—Yes,—dat's a fia-fly;— If I didn't hab yo'—reckon I'd be all alone; (Rocky-bye—oh, rocky, rocky-bye.) Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight;— (Shadow man is comin' from de moon,) You's as sweet as roses, if dey is so pink and white; (Shadow-man '11 get here mighty soon.) The lines in brackets are supposed to be sung or chanted. The Southern "Mammy" seldom sang a song through, but interladed it with comments.—V.S. <h2 id="id00124" style="margin-top: 4em">THE FAIRY CLOCK</h2> Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day! Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play? Tell me when the sun will set—tiny globe of silver-grey. It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn, Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn— And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn. Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things; Run too lightly with the wind—chased too many shining wings; Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings. Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun— All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun— In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone. And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas! Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass. Silver-clock! O Silver-clock! It was only yesterday Dandelions flecked the field, starry bright, and gold and gay; You are but the ghost of one—little globe of silver-grey! Tell me—tell me of the hour—for there is so much to do! Is it early? Is it late? Fairy clock! 0 tell me true, As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue. <h2 id="id00132" style="margin-top: 4em">THE SLUMBER ANGEL</h2> When day is ended, and grey twilight flies On silent wings across the tired land, The slumber angel cometh from the skies— The slumber angel of the peaceful eyes, And with the scarlet poppies in his hand. His robes are dappled like the moonlit seas, His hair in waves of silver floats afar; He weareth lotus-bloom and sweet heartsease, With tassels of the rustling green fir trees, As down the dusk he steps from star to star. Above the world he swings his curfew bell, And sleep falls soft on golden heads and white; The daisies curl their leaves beneath his spell, The prisoner who wearies in his cell Forgets awhile, and dreams throughout the night. * * * * * Even so, in peace, comes that great Lord of rest Who crowneth men with amaranthine flowers; Who telleth them the truths they have but guessed, Who giveth them the things they love the best, Beyond this restless, rocking world of ours. <h2 id="id00138" style="margin-top: 4em">THE LONELY ROAD</h2> We used to fear the lonely road That twisted round the hill; It dipped down to the river-way, And passed the haunted mill, And then crept on, until it reached The churchyard, green and still. No pipers ever took that road, No gipsies, brown and gay; No shepherds with their gentle flocks, No loads of scented hay; No market-waggons jingled by On any Saturday. The dog-wood there flung wide its stars, In April, silvery sweet; The squirrels crossed that path all day On tiny flying feet; The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn, Each shadowy safe retreat. And there the golden-belted bee Sang his sweet summer song, The crickets chirped there to the moon With steady note and strong; Till cold and silence wrapped them round When autumn nights grew long. But, oh! they brought the lonely dead Along that quiet way, With strange procession, dark and slow, On sunny days and grey; We used to watch them, wonder-eyed, Nor care again to play. And we forgot each merry jest; The birds on bush and tree Silenced the song within their throats And with us watched to see, The soft, slow passing out of sight Of that dark mystery. * * * * * We fear no more the lonely road That winds around the hill; Far from the busy world's highway And the gods' slow-grinding mill; It only seems a peaceful path, Pleasant, and green, and still. <h2 id="id00147" style="margin-top: 4em">SEA-BORN</h2> Afar in the turbulent city, In a hive where men make gold, He stood at his loom from dawn to dark, While the passing years were told. And when he knew it was summer-time By the grey dust on the street, By the lingering hours of daylight, And the sultry noon-tide heat— Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird To leave his cage and be free, For his heart like a shell kept singing The old, old song of the sea. And amid the noise and confusion Of wheels that were never still, He heard the wind through the scented pines On a rough, storm-beaten hill; While, beyond a maze of painted threads, Where his tireless shuttle flew, In fancy he saw the sunlit waves Beckon him out to the blue. <h2 id="id00153" style="margin-top: 4em">THE ANGEL</h2> Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread He came ere break of day— A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head, His misty robes were grey. And no man even knew that he went by, None saw or heard him pass; Softly he moved as clouds drift down the sky, Or shadows cross the grass. Close to a little bed where one lay low, At last he took his stand, And touched the head that tossed in restless woe With gentle, outstretched hand. "When bitterness," he said, "is at an end, And joy grows far and dim, I am the angel whom the Lord doth send To lead men on to Him. "Past the innumerable stars, my friend, Past all the winds that blow, We, too, must travel to our journey's end. Arise! And let us go!" "Stay! Stay!" the other cried. "I know thy face! Death is thy dreaded name!" "Nay—I am known as 'Love' in that far place," He said, "from whence I came." But still the other cried, with moan and tear, "I fear the dark—and thee!" "There is no dark," the angel said, "nor fear, For those who go with me. "There is no loneliness, and nevermore The shadow-haunted night, When we pass out beyond Life's swinging door The road," he said, "is bright." Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head, Downward the robe of grey; A radiant presence by the lowly bed Greeted the breaking day. * * * * * Within the long white ward one lay alone, None watched by him awhile, But some who passed him said, in whispered tone, "See—on his lips—the smile!" <h2 id="id00165" style="margin-top: 4em">WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES</h2> For thee, my small one—trinkets and new toys, The wine of life and all its keenest joys, When Christmas comes. For me, the broken playthings of the past That in my folded hands I still hold fast, When Christmas comes. For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be, And tender dreams of sweetest mystery, When Christmas comes. For thee, the future in a golden haze, For me, the memory of some bygone days, When Christmas comes. For thee, the things that lightly come and go, For thee, the holly and the mistletoe, When Christmas comes. For me, the smiles that are akin to tears, For me, the frost and snows of many years, When Christmas comes. For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay, For me, the purple shadows and the grey, When Christmas comes. For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door, For me, the faces I shall see no more, When Christmas comes. But ah, for both of us the mystic star That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar, When Christmas comes. For both of us the child they saw of old, That evermore his mother's arms enfold, When Christmas comes. <h2 id="id00171" style="margin-top: 4em">THE OPAL MONTH</h2> Now cometh October—a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway! On the world she smiles—but to me it seems Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams, Or memories of the May. Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare As she dances gaily by— Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest, And she tenderly holds against her breast A belated butterfly. The crickets sing no more to the stars— The spiders no more put up silver bars To entangle silken wings; But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn, And here and there—both at night and at morn— A lonely robin still sings. A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent With perfumed winds from the Orient And they weave o'er her a spell, For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet— And while mists like incense curl at her feet, She lingers her beads to tell. <h2 id="id00176" style="margin-top: 4em">NOCTURNE</h2> Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night, And let thy silver silence wrap us round Till we forget the city's dazzling light, The city's ceaseless sound. Here where the sand lies white upon the shore, And little velvet-fingered breezes blow, Dear sea, thy world-old wonder-song once more Sing to us e'er we go. Give us thy garnered sweets, short summer hour: Perfume of rose, and balm of sun-steeped pine; Scent from the lily's cup and horned flower, Where bees have drained the wine. Come, small musicians in the rough sea grass, Pipe us the serenade we love the best; And winds of midnight, chant for us a mass, Our hearts would be at rest. God of all beauty, though the world is thine, Our faith grows often faint, oft hope is spent; Show us Thyself in all things fair and fine, Teach us the stars' content. <h2 id="id00182" style="margin-top: 4em">A SONG OF LOVE</h2> Love reckons not by time—its May days of delight Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight. Love reckons not by time—its moments of despair Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear. Love counts not by the sun—it hath no night or day— 'Tis only light when love is near—'tis dark with love away. Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or space, But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place. Love is its own best law—its wrongs seek no redress; Love is forgiveness—and it only knoweth how to bless. <h2 id="id00188" style="margin-top: 4em">THE UNKNOWING</h2> If the bird knew how through the wintry weather An empty nest would swing by day and night, It would not weave the strands so close together Or sing for such delight. And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart, Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching Within its golden heart. If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses Knew of drowned sailors—and of storms to be— Methinks 'twould wait a little e'er it passes To meet the old grey sea. If youth could understand the tears and sorrow, The sombre days that age and knowledge bring, It would not be so eager for the morrow Or spendthrift of the spring. If love but learned how soon life treads its measure, How short and swift its hours when all is told, Each kiss and tender word 'twould count and treasure, As misers count their gold. <h2 id="id00194" style="margin-top: 4em">THE PETITION</h2> Sweet April! from out of the hidden place Where you keep your green and gold, We pray thee to bring us a gift of grace, When the little leaves unfold. Oh! make us glad with the things that are young; Give our hearts the quickened thrills That used to answer each robin that sung In the days of daffodils. For what is the worth of all that we gain, If we lose the old delight, That came in the time of sun and rain, When the whole round world seemed right? It was then we gave, as we went along, The faith that to-day we keep; And those April days were for mirth and song, While the nights were made for sleep. Yet, though we follow with steps that are slow The feet that dance and that run; We would still be friends with the winds that blow, And companions to the sun! <h2 id="id00200" style="margin-top: 4em">HALLOWE'EN</h2> There is an old Italian legend which says that on the eve of the beloved festival of All Saints (Hallowe'en) the souls of the dead return to earth for a little while and go by on the wind. The feast of All Saints is followed by the feast of the dead, when for a day only the sound of the Miserere is heard throughout the cities of Italy. Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say, When all souls come back from the far away— The dead, forgotten this many a day! And the dead remembered—ay! long and well— And the little children whose spirits dwell In God's green garden of asphodel. Have you reached the country of all content, 0 souls we know, since the day you went From this time-worn world, where your years were spent? Would you come back to the sun and the rain, The sweetness, the strife, the thing we call pain, And then unravel life's tangle again? I lean to the dark—Hush!—was it a sigh? Or the painted vine-leaves that rustled by? Or only a night-bird's echoing cry? <h2 id="id00207" style="margin-top: 4em">THE GLEANER</h2> As children gather daisies down green ways Mid butterflies and bees, To-day across the meadows of past days I gathered memories. I stored my heart with harvest of lost hours— With blossoms of spent years; Leaves that had known the sun of joy, and hours Drenched with the rain of tears. And perfumes that were long ago distilled From April's pink and white, Again with all their old enchantment, filled My spirit with delight. From out the limbo where lost roses go The place we may not see, With all its petals sweet and half-ablow, One rose returned to me. Where falls the sunlight chequered by the shade On meadows of the past, I gathered blossoms that no sun can fade No winter wind can blast. <h2 id="id00213" style="margin-top: 4em">THE ROVER</h2> Though I follow a trail to north or south, Though I travel east or west, There's a little house on a quiet road That my hidden heart loves best; And when my journeys are over and done, 'Tis there I will go to rest. The snows have bleached it this many a year; The sun has painted it grey; The vines hold it close in their clinging arms; The shadows creep there to stay; And the wind goes calling through empty rooms For those who have gone away. But the roses against the window-pane Are the roses I used to know; And the rain on the roof still sings the song It sang in the long ago, When I lay me down to sleep in a bed Little and white and low. It is long since I bid it all good-bye, With young light-hearted disdain; I remember who stood at the door that day; Her tears fell fast as the rain; And I whistled a tune and waved my hand, But never went back again. Toll I have paid at the gates of the world, The sand I know and the sea; I have taken the wide and open road, With steps unhindered and free; Yet, like a bell ringing down in my heart, My home is calling to me. <h2 id="id00219" style="margin-top: 4em">IN SOLITUDE</h2> He is not desolate whose ship is sailing Over the mystery of an unknown sea, For some great love with faithfulness unfailing Will light the stars to bear him company. Out in the silence of the mountain passes, The heart makes peace and liberty its own— The wind that blows across the scented grasses Bringing the balm of sleep—comes not alone. Beneath the vast illimitable spaces Where God has set His jewels in array, A man may pitch his tent in desert places Yet know that heaven is not so far away. But in the city—in the lighted city— Where gilded spires point toward the sky, And fluttering rags and hunger ask for pity, Grey Loneliness in cloth-of-gold, goes by. <h2 id="id00224" style="margin-top: 4em">THE ROBIN</h2> Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing, Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me You are the voice of the spring. Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted, Piper the gold of the world cannot pay, Up from the limbo of things long departed Memories you bring me to-day. You are the echo of songs that are over, You are the promise of songs that will come, You know the music, oh, light-winged rover, Sealed in the souls of the dumb. All of the past that we wearily sigh for, All of the future for which our hearts long, All Love would live for, and all Love would die for Wordless, you weave in a song. Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, My spirit answers each note that you sing, And while I listen—earth-bound—it seems to me You are the voice of the spring. <h2 id="id00230" style="margin-top: 4em">A SONG OF ROSES</h2> 'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow, To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low, 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know. One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red, Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled, And for the white rose sing a song—the white rose for the dead. And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold, King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old, Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold. And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee, You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free. 'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow! They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago. 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know. <h2 id="id00236" style="margin-top: 4em">PRAIRIE</h2> Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold Beneath the burnished blue of the sky, A silver-white sea lies still and cold, And a bitter wind blows by. But nothing passes the door all day, Though my watching eyes grow worn and dim, Save a lean, grey wolf that swings away To the far horizon rim. Then, one by one, the stars glisten out Like frozen tears on a purple pall— The darkness folds my cabin about And the snow begins to fall. I will make a hearth-fire red and bright And set a light by the window pane For one who follows the trail to-night That will bring him home again. Love will ride with him my heart to bless— Joy will out-step him across the floor— What matters the great white loneliness When we bar the cabin door? <h2 id="id00242" style="margin-top: 4em">THE CLIMBER</h2> He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top, His hands at rest, his forehead bound with bay; And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied The downward winding way. The great procession of the stars went by Far overhead, beyond the mountain's rim, But the unconquered worlds of time and space, As nothing were to him. There from his vantage ground, so still and high, He watched the storm clouds when they rolled below, And felt the wind mount up to where he stood Amid eternal snow. And sometimes in the valleys and the plains He saw the little children at their play; In cottage homes he saw the candle-light Gleam out at close of day. But he and loneliness kept feast and fast, The while with weary eyes, by night and day; They watched the path that led to common things— The downward winding way. "'Twas there," he said, "that gladness passed me by, In yonder valley, where I sought the truth; And there, a few leagues up the rocky slope, I said good-bye to Youth. "There, where the pine trees catch the sun's last gold, Love reached its hands to me and bade me stop; Oh, madness of the ones who climb," he said, "Up to the mountain top!" <h2 id="id00250" style="margin-top: 4em">THE DAISY</h2> An angel found a daisy where it lay On Heaven's highroad of transparent gold, And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray, Tell me what manner of strange bloom I hold. You came a long, long way—perchance you know In what far country such fair flowers blow?" Then spoke the other: "Turn thy radiant face And gaze with me down purple depth of space. See, where the stars lie spilled upon the night, Like amber beads that hold a yellow light. Note one that burns with faint yet steady glow; It is the Earth—and there these blossoms grow. Some little child from that dear, distant land Hath borne this hither in his dimpled hand." Still gazed he down. "Ah, friend," he said, "I, too, Oft crossed the fields at home where daisies grew." <h2 id="id00254" style="margin-top: 4em">THE VISION</h2> Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine, With the empty chapel, cold and grey, Telling her beads, while grief with marring line And bitter tear stole all her youth away. Outcast was she from what Life holdeth dear; Banished from joy that other souls might win; And from the dark beyond she turned with fear, Being so branded by the mark of sin. Yet when at last she raised her troubled face, Haunted by sorrow, whitened by alarms, Mary leaned down from out the pictured place, And laid the little Christ within her arms. Rosy and warm she held Him to her heart, She—the abandoned one—the thing apart. <h2 id="id00259" style="margin-top: 4em">SAINTS</h2> The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ, How vast their numbers be— On holy page and ancient scroll Their blessed names we see, And from the painted window panes They smile eternally. Rope-girdled monk, and pallid maid, And men who for Thy cross Fought with the Saracen of old, Counting their lives no loss— Martyrs who rose through golden flames, Free of the body's dross. Yet there be Saints uncanonised, Unrecognised, unknown— Here on the common roads of earth, Oft times they walk alone; Saints whom no soul hath ever praised, Saints whom no Church doth own. Men who against their souls' grim foes Wage an unyielding fight; Men of new creeds, and men of old, Men of dark hue, and white, Each pressing hard towards some far gleam Of Thy celestial light. Dwellers in places waste and lone, Toilers upon the seas— Mayhap they seldom pray high heaven. Softly—on bended knees— Yet in the roll-call of Thy Saints, Dear Christ—remember these. <h2 id="id00265" style="margin-top: 4em">AT MIDNIGHT</h2> Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord, And let us sleep; Give us our portion of forgetfulness, Silent and deep. Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes To close their sight; Shut out the shining of the moon and stars And candle-light. Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad, The shades of grey, The fancies that so haunt the little hours Before the day. Quiet the time-worn questions that are all Unanswered yet, Take from the spent and troubled souls of us Their vain regret; And lead us far into Thy silent land, That we may go Like children out across the field o' dreams Where poppies blow. So all Thy saints—and all Thy sinners too— Wilt Thou not keep, Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved Thou givest sleep? <h2 id="id00272" style="margin-top: 4em">NOVEMBER</h2> How like a hooded friar, bent and grey, Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray Doth sad November pass upon his way. Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low— In God's cathedral where the great trees grow, Now all day long he paceth to and fro. When shadows gather and the night-mists rise, Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes To where the last red rose of sunset lies. A little smile he weareth, wise and cold, The smile of one to whom all things are old, And life is weary, as a tale twice told. "Come see," he seems to say—"where joy has fled— The leaves that burned but yesterday so red Have turned to ashes—and the flowers are dead. "The summer's green and gold hath taken flight, October days have gone. Now bleached and white Winter doth come with many a lonely night. "And though the people will not heed or stay, But pass with careless laughter on their way, Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray." <h2 id="id00280" style="margin-top: 4em">THE LILY-POND</h2> On this little pool where the sunbeams lie, This tawny gold ring where the shadows die, God doth enamel the blue of His sky. Through the scented dark when the night wind sighs, He mirrors His stars where the ripples rise, Till they glitter like prisoned fireflies. 'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl, And here the lilies uplift and unfurl Their golden-lined goblets of carven pearl. When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink, Through the silver sedge at the pond's low brink The little lone field-mouse creeps down to drink. And creatures to whom only God is kind, The loveless small things, the slow, and the blind, Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find. Oh, restless the river, restless the sea! Where the great ships go, and the dead men be; The lily-pond giveth but peace to me. <h2 id="id00287" style="margin-top: 4em">LILACS</h2> In lonely gardens deserted—unseen— Oh! lovely lilacs of purple and white, You are dipping down through a mist of green; For the morning sun's delight. And the velvet bee, all belted with black, Drinks deep of the wine which your flagons hold, Clings close to your plumes while he fills his pack With a load of burnished gold. You hide the fences with blossoms of snow, And sweeten the shade of castle towers; Over low, grey gables you brightly blow, Like amethysts turned to flowers. The tramp on the highway—ragged and bold— Wears you close to his heart with jaunty air; You rest in my lady's girdle of gold, And are held against her hair. In God's own acre your tender flowers, Bend down to the grasses and seem to sigh For those who count time no more by hours— Whose summers have all passed by— But at eventide the south wind will sing, Like a gentle priest who chanteth a prayer; And thy purple censers he'll set a-swing, To perfume the twilight air. <h2 id="id00291" style="margin-top: 4em">APRIL</h2> April! April! April! With a mist of green on the trees— And a scent of the warm brown broken earth On every wandering breeze; What, though thou be changeful, Though thy gold turns to grey again, There's a robin out yonder singing, Singing in the rain. April! April! April! 'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee, She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes Full long and patiently. Come now—tell us, sweeting, Thou laggard so lovely and late, Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes When hearts have learned to wait? <h2 id="id00294" style="margin-top: 4em">PAEANS</h2> Oh! I will hold fast to Joy! I will not let him depart— He shall close his beautiful rainbow wings And sing his song in my heart. And I will live with Delight! I will know what the children know When they dance along with the April wind To find where the catkins grow! I will dream the old, old dreams, And look for pixie and fay In shadowy woods—and out on the hills— As we did but yesterday. Love I will keep in my soul— Ay! even by lock and key! There is nothing to fear in all of the world If Love will but stay with me. No, I will not let Faith go! I will say with my latest breath— I know there's a new and radiant road On the other side of Death. <h2 id="id00300" style="margin-top: 4em">THE HARP</h2> Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky The harp of all the world is hung on high, And through its shining strings the swallows fly. The little silver fingers of the rain Oft touch it softly to a low refrain, That all day long comes o'er and o'er again. And when the storms of God above it roll, The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul To songs of wild delight or bitter dole. And through the quiet night, as faint and far As melody down-drifted from a star, Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are. But only flying words of joy and woe, Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below, Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow. And in the cities that men call their own, And in the unnamed places, waste and lone, This harp forever sounds Life's undertone. <h2 id="id00307" style="margin-top: 4em">GULLS</h2> When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim— See where they circle, and dip and fly, The grey free-lances of wind and sky, To the water's distant rim! Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight, A courage that cannot fail, They face the breakers—they face the night— The mad storm-horses are silvery white, They ride through the bitter gale! They seem like the souls of the long, long lost, Who breasted the ocean-main— Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed, Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost, And never came home again. Or stranger and wilder fancy—it seems As I hear their wind-torn cry, No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams, But the wraiths of hopes—the ghosts of dreams That the old sea-gods saw die. When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim— See where they circle, and dip and fly, The grey free-lances of wind and sky, To the far horizon's rim. <h2 id="id00313" style="margin-top: 4em">THE SHEPHERD WIND</h2> When hills and plains are powdered white, And bitter cold the north wind blows, Upon my window in the night A fairy-garden grows. Here poppies that no hand hath sown Bloom white as foam upon the sea, And elfin bells to earth unknown Hold frost-bound melody. And here are blossoms like to stars Tangled in nets of silver lace— My very breath their beauty mars, Or stirs them from their place. Perchance the echoes of old songs Found here a resting place at last With drifting perfume that belongs To roses of the past. Or all the moonbeams that were lost On summer nights the world forgets May here be prisoned by the frost With souls of violets. The wind doth shepherd many things— And when the nights are long and cold, Who knows how strange a flock he brings All safely to the fold. <h2 id="id00320" style="margin-top: 4em">THE TEMPLE</h2> Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands! Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean, Beneath the blue it stands, And no cathedral anywhere Seemeth so holy or so fair. It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key, No window-bars shut out the stars, The aisles are wide and free— Here through the night each altar-light Is but a moon-beam, silver-white. Silently as the temple grew at Solomon's command, Still as things seem within a dream This rose from out the land: And all the pillars, grey and high, Lifted their arches to the sky. Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines— The magic scent that hath been pent Within the tangled vines: No censor filled with spices rare E'er swung such sweetness on the air. And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear, For it is blessed, and giveth rest To those who enter here— Here in the evening—who can know But God Himself walks to and fro! And music past all mastering within the chancel rings; None could desire a sweeter choir Than this—that soars and sings, Till far the scented shadows creep— And quiet darkness bringeth sleep. <h2 id="id00327" style="margin-top: 4em">REQUEST</h2> (To E. M.) Sing me a song—a song to ease old sorrows, And dull the edge of care— A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows That be my share. Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding, Though barred they be and strong, And send black grief far down the wind a-riding— Sing me a song. Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring, And April ecstasy, That I may follow it and go a-faring To Arcady. Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing, And when the light turns grey, Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing The rose-edged day. The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness, And then in undertone Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness To thee alone. And thou hast learned from little brook and river Their tender melody— The notes that set the thrush's throat a-quiver Are known to thee. Sing me a song—a song to ease old sorrows, And dull the edge of care— A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrows That be my share. <h2 id="id00336" style="margin-top: 4em">A SONG</h2> 0 heart of mine—if I were but a swallow— A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free— On wings unwearied I would find and follow Some path that led to thee! Were I a rose out in the garden growing My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing— Yet bring thee memories. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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