Some men there are who find in nature allTheir inspiration, hers the sympathyWhich spurs them on to any great endeavor,To them the fields and woods are closest friends,And they hold dear communion with the hills;The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,And the great winds bring healing in their sound.To them a city is a prison houseWhere pent up human forces labour and strive,Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;But where in winter they must live untilSummer gives back the spaces of the hills.To me it is not so. I love the earthAnd all the gifts of her so lavish hand:Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,I love the very human heart of man.Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lakeLazily reflecting back the sun,And scarcely ruffled by the little breezeWhich wanders idly through the nodding ferns.The blue crest of the distant mountain, topsThe green crest of the hill on which I sit;And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,The very crown of nature's changing yearWhen all her surging life is at its full.To me alone it is a time of pause,A void and silent space between two worlds,When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.For life alone is creator of life,And closest contact with the human worldIs like a lantern shining in the nightTo light me to a knowledge of myself.I love the vivid life of winter monthsIn constant intercourse with human minds,When every new experience is gainAnd on all sides we feel the great world's heart;The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below himGleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging.So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present,Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.
At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grassesSweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of rosesWhose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water,While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine;No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers,And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longingto wander,The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great songof Nature,Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the roadWhere many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the treesand the flowers,The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water;And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight,yet he venturesHis life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him.O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!
Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!See where it casts the shadow of that treeFar out upon the grass. And every gustOf light night wind comes laden with the scentOf opening flowers which never bloom by day:Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and thatPale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.It seems as though the garden which you loveWere like a swinging censer, its incenseFloating before us as a reverent actTo sanctify and bless our night of love.Tell me once more you love me, that 't is youYes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;And tell me it is by your own free willThat you are here, and that you like to beJust here, with me, under this sailing pine.I need to hear it often for my heartDoubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,And yet I would not have it goodness, ratherExcess of selfishness in you to needMe through and through, as flowers need the sun.I wonder can it really be that youAnd I are here alone, and that the nightIs full of hours, and all the world asleep,And none can call to you to come away;For you have given all yourself to meMaking me gentle by your willingness.Has your life too been waiting for this time,Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as thoughI were a priest before a holy shrine.I'm glad that you are beautiful, althoughWere you not lovely still I needs must love;But you are all things, it must have been soFor otherwise it were not you. Come, close;When you are in the circle of my armFaith grows a mountain and I take my standUpon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once moreKiss me, and let me feel you very nearWanting me wholly, even as I want you.Have years behind been dark? Will those to comeBring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?What does it matter, we have had to-night!To-night will make us strong, for we believeEach in the other, this is a sacrament.Beloved, is it true?
I know a country laced with roads,They join the hills and they span the brooks,They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.They are canopied like a Persian domeAnd carpeted with orient dyes.They are myriad-voiced, and musical,And scented with happiest memories.O Winding roads that I know so well,Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!They are set in my heart to a pulsing tuneGay as a honey-bee humming in June.'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feetAnd the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.A cow in a meadow shakes her bellAnd the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leavesTheir cargo the rainbow, and just now whereThe sun splashed bright on the road aheadA startled rabbit quivered and fled.O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!You curl your sun-spattered length along,And your march is beaten into a songBy the softly ringing hoofs of a horseAnd the panting breath of the dogs I love.The pageant of Autumn follows its courseAnd the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.And the song and the country become as one,I see it as music, I hear it as light;Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,The land of desire, my soul's delight.And always it beats in my listening earsWith the gentle thud of a horse's stride,With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,Following, following at my side.O Roads that journey to fairyland!Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,Leading me on, under crimson leaves,To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.
How still it is! Sunshine itself here fallsIn quiet shafts of light through the high treesWhich, arching, make a roof above the wallsChanging from sun to shadow as each breezeLingers a moment, charmed by the strange sightOf an Italian theatre, storied, seerOf vague romance, and time's long history;Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphereGrouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.What sound is that which echoes through the wood?Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?Perchance a minute more will see the broodOf the shaggy forest god, and on his lipWill rest the rushes he is wont to play.His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruitAnd weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,So light their touch the grasses scarcely swayAs they the measure tread to the lilting flute.Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns.A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!Surely 't was here some tragedy was done,And here the chorus sang each coming change?Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,But the nightingale in his most passionate moodBursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.The silence almost is a sound, and dreamsTake on the semblances of finite things;So potent is the spell that what but seemsElsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.The little woodland theatre seems to wait,All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,For something that is sure to come at last,Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.It grows a living presence, bold and shy,Cradling the future in a glorious past.
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,Blown by the bright wind, debonair;Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,Above on the terrace a turret doorFrames a lady, listless and wan,But fair for the eye to rest upon.The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,And looking up to the lady, sings: —Down the road to Avignon,The long, long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.The octagon tower casts a shadeCool and gray like a cutlass blade;In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,The little green lizards run out and in.A sail dips over the ocean's rim,And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.The minstrel touches his silver strings,And gazing up to the lady, sings: —Down the road to Avignon,The long, long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.Slowly she walks to the balustrade,Idly notes how the blossoms fadeIn the sun's caress; then crosses whereThe shadow shelters a carven chair.Within its curve, supine she lies,And wearily closes her tired eyes.The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,And holding the lady spellbound, sings: —Down the road to Avignon,The long, long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.Clouds sail over the distant trees,Petals are shaken down by the breeze,They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;The sighing of waves sounds, far below.A humming-bird kisses the lips of a roseThen laden with honey and love he goes.The minstrel woos with his silver strings,And climbing up to the lady, sings: —Down the road to Avignon,The long, long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.Step by step, and he comes to her,Fearful lest she suddenly stir.Sunshine and silence, and each to each,The lute and his singing their only speech;He leans above her, her eyes unclose,The humming-bird enters another rose.The minstrel hushes his silver strings.Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!Down the road to Avignon,The long, long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.
A near horizon whose sharp jagsCut brutally into a skyOf leaden heaviness, and cragsOf houses lift their masonryUgly and foul, and chimneys lieAnd snort, outlined against the grayOf lowhung cloud. I hear the sighThe goaded city gives, not dayNor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.Below, straight streets, monotonous,From north and south, from east and west,Stretch glittering; and luminousAbove, one tower tops the restAnd holds aloft man's constant quest:Time! Joyless emblem of the greedOf millions, robber of the bestWhich earth can give, the vulgar creedHas seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.O Night! Whose soothing presence bringsThe quiet shining of the stars.O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clingsSo intimately close that scarsAre hid from our own eyes. BeggarsBy day, our wealth is having nightTo burn our souls before altarsDim and tree-shadowed, where the lightIs shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?This is the hour, but thou art not.Will waking tumult never cease?Hast thou thy votary forgot?Nature forsakes this man-begotAnd festering wilderness, and nowThe long still hours are here, no jotOf dear communing do I know;Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!
On winter nights beside the nursery fireWe read the fairy tale, while glowing coalsBuilded its pictures. There before our eyesWe saw the vaulted hall of traceried stoneUprear itself, the distant ceiling hungWith pendent stalactites like frozen vines;And all along the walls at intervals,Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,And ramped and were confined, and clustered leavesDivided where there peered a laughing face.The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.High pointed windows pierced the southern wallWhence proud escutcheons flung prismatic firesTo stain the tessellated marble floorWith pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;And in the shade beyond the further door,Its sober squares of black and white were hidBeneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mobOf lackeys and retainers come to viewThe Christening.A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throngAbout the entrance parted as the guestsFiled singly in with rare and precious gifts.Our eager fancies noted all they brought,The glorious, unattainable delights!But always there was one unbidden guestWho cursed the child and left it bitterness.The fire falls asunder, all is changed,I am no more a child, and what I seeIs not a fairy tale, but life, my life.The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a nameWhich honors all who bear it, and the powerOf making words obedient. This is much;But overshadowing all is still the curse,That never shall I be fulfilled by love!Along the parching highroad of the worldNo other soul shall bear mine company.Always shall I be teased with semblances,With cruel impostures, which I trust awhileThen dash to pieces, as a careless boyFlings a kaleidoscope, which shatteringStrews all the ground about with coloured sherds.So I behold my visions on the groundNo longer radiant, an ignoble heapOf broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,Even by hope or faith, my dragging stepsForce me forever through the passing days.
You came to me bearing bright roses,Red like the wine of your heart;You twisted them into a garlandTo set me aside from the mart.Red roses to crown me your lover,And I walked aureoled and apart.Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,Proud token of my gift to you.The petals waned paler, and shriveled,And dropped; and the thorns started through.Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,A diadem woven with rue.
Dear Bessie, would my tired rhymeHad force to rise from apathy,And shaking off its lethargyRing word-tones like a Christmas chime.But in my soul's high belfry, chillThe bitter wind of doubt has blown,The summer swallows all have flown,The bells are frost-bound, mute and still.Upon the crumbling boards the snowHas drifted deep, the clappers hangPrismed with icicles, their clangUnheard since ages long ago.The rope I pull is stiff and cold,My straining ears detect no soundExcept a sigh, as round and roundThe wind rocks through the timbers old.Below, I know the church is brightWith haloed tapers, warm with prayer;But here I only feel the airOf icy centuries of night.Beneath my feet the snow is litAnd gemmed with colours, red, and blue,Topaz, and green, where light falls throughThe saints that in the windows sit.Here darkness seems a spectred thing,Voiceless and haunting, while the starsMock with a light of long dead yearsThe ache of present suffering.Silent and winter-killed I stand,No carol hymns my debt to you;But take this frozen thought in lieu,And thaw its music in your hand.
Thou father of the children of my brainBy thee engendered in my willing heart,How can I thank thee for this gift of artPoured out so lavishly, and not in vain.What thou created never more can die,Thy fructifying power lives in meAnd I conceive, knowing it is by thee,Dear other parent of my poetry!For I was but a shadow with a name,Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;So strange is Fate that it has been my lotTo learn through thee the presence of that aimWhich evermore must guide me. All unknown,By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,A tree has blossomed in a night that seemedOf stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sownThis seed of beauty in a ground of truth.Humbly I dedicate myself, and yetI tremble with a sudden fear to setNew music ringing through my fading youth.
A flickering glimmer through a window-pane,A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass,Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleetAcross uneven pavements sunk in slimeTo scatter and then quench itself in mist.And struggling, slipping, often rudely hurledAgainst the jutting angle of a wall,And cursed, and reeled against, and flung asideBy drunken brawlers as they shuffled past,A man was groping to what seemed a light.His eyelids burnt and quivered with the strainOf looking, and against his temples beatThe all enshrouding, suffocating dark.He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a doorThat opened, and a howl of obscene mirthGrated his senses, wallowing on the floorLay men, and dogs and women in the dirt.He sickened, loathing it, and as he gazedThe candle guttered, flared, and then went out.Through travail of ignoble midnight streetsHe came at last to shelter in a porchWhere gothic saints and warriors made a shieldTo cover him, and tortured gargoyles spatOne long continuous stream of silver rainThat clattered down from myriad roofs and spiresInto a darkness, loud with rushing soundOf water falling, gurgling as it fell,But always thickly dark. Then as he leanedUnconscious where, the great oak door blew backAnd cast him, bruised and dripping, in the church.His eyes from long sojourning in the nightWere blinded now as by some glorious sun;He slowly crawled toward the altar steps.He could not think, for heavy in his earsAn organ boomed majestic harmonies;He only knew that what he saw was light!He bowed himself before a cross of flameAnd shut his eyes in fear lest it should fade.
Blue through the window burns the twilight;Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plotDents into pools where a foot has been.Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, notOf water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embersScattering wide at a stronger gust.Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembersCreaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,Wrapping the mists round her withering form,Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrowTravails to birth in the womb of the storm.
Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone age,When hours were long and days sufficed to holdWide-eyed delights and pleasures uncontrolledBy shortening moments, when no gaunt presageOf undone duties, modern heritage,Haunted our happy minds; must thou withholdThy presence from this over-busy world,And bearing silence with thee disengageOur twined fortunes? Deeps of unhewn woodsAlone can cherish thee, alone possessThy quiet, teeming vigor. This our crime:Not to have worshipped, marred by alien moodsThat sole condition of all loveliness,The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.
Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floorFrom some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,The level sunshine slants, its greater lightQuenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,Flickering, unreplenished, at the doorHas striven against darkness the long night.Dawn fills the room, and penetrating, bright,The silent sunbeams through the window pour.And she lies sleeping, ignorant of Fate,Enmeshed in listless dreams, her soul not yetRipened to bear the purport of this day.The morning breeze scarce stirs the coverlet,A shadow falls across the sunlight; wait!A lark is singing as he flies away.
Goaded and harassed in the factoryThat tears our life up into bits of daysTicked off upon a clock which never stays,Shredding our portion of Eternity,We break away at last, and steal the keyWhich hides a world empty of hours; waysOf space unroll, and Heaven overlaysThe leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supineWithin a granite basin, under oneThe bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and IReach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.
Cloud-topped and splendid, dominating allThe little lesser hills which compass thee,Thou standest, bright with April's buoyancy,Yet holding Winter in some shaded wallOf stern, steep rock; and startled by the callOf Spring, thy trees flush with expectancyAnd cast a cloud of crimson, silently,Above thy snowy crevices where fallPale shrivelled oak leaves, while the snow beneathMelts at their phantom touch. Another yearIs quick with import. Such each year has been.Unmoved thou watchest all, and all bequeathSome jewel to thy diadem of power,Thou pledge of greater majesty unseen.
A little garden on a bleak hillsideWhere deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snowLies far into the spring. The sun's pale glowIs scarcely able to melt patches wideAbout the single rose bush. All deniedOf nature's tender ministries. But no, —For wonder-working faith has made it blowWith flowers many hued and starry-eyed.Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;Here butterflies and bees fare far to roveAmid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night aboveFling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.A little garden, loved with a great love!
Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!The climbing sun with new recovered powersDoes warm thee into being, through the ringOf rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee flingThy green shoots up, inheriting the dowersOf bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thingTo make all nature glad, thou art so gay;To fill the lonely with a joy untold;Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,To-morrow jewelled with raindrops. Always boldTo stand erect, full in the dazzling playOf April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.
'T is you that are the music, not your song.The song is but a door which, opening wide,Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strongSings but of you. Throughout your whole life longYour songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divideThis perfect beauty; waves within a tide,Or single notes amid a glorious throng.The song of earth has many different chords;Ocean has many moods and many tonesYet always ocean. In the damp Spring woodsThe painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine conesAutumn alone can ripen. So is thisOne music with a thousand cadences.
Always we are following a light,Always the light recedes; with groping handsWe stretch toward this glory, while the landsWe journey through are hidden from our sightDim and mysterious, folded deep in night,We care not, all our utmost need demandsIs but the light, the light! So still it standsSurely our own if we exert our might.Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,Its value is that it doth always seemBut just a little farther on. Distraught,But lighted ever onward, we are broughtUpon our way unknowing, in a dream.
A face seen passing in a crowded street,A voice heard singing music, large and free;And from that moment life is changed, and weBecome of more heroic temper, meetTo freely ask and give, a man completeRadiant because of faith, we dare to beWhat Nature meant us. Brave idolatryWhich can conceive a hero! No deceit,No knowledge taught by unrelenting years,Can quench this fierce, untamable desire.We know that what we long for once achievedWill cease to satisfy. Be still our fears;If what we worship fail us, still the fireBurns on, and it is much to have believed.
Must all of worth be travailled for, and thoseLife's brightest stars rise from a troubled sea?Must years go by in sad uncertaintyLeaving us doubting whose the conquering blows,Are we or Fate the victors? Time which showsAll inner meanings will reveal, but weShall never know the upshot. Ours to beWasted with longing, shattered in the throes,The agonies of splendid dreams, which dayDims from our vision, but each night brings back;We strive to hold their grandeur, and essayTo be the thing we dream. Sudden we lackThe flash of insight, life grows drear and gray,And hour follows hour, nerveless, slack.
Life! Austere arbiter of each man's fate,By whom he learns that Nature's steadfast lawsAre as decrees immutable; O pauseYour even forward march! Not yet too lateTeach me the needed lesson, when to waitInactive as a ship when no wind drawsTo stretch the loosened cordage. One imploresThy clemency, whose wilfulness innateHas gone uncurbed and roughshod while the yearsHave lengthened into decades; now distressedHe knows no rule by which to move or stay,And teased with restlessness and desperate fearsHe dares not watch in silence thy wise wayBringing about results none could have guessed.
What instinct forces man to journey on,Urged by a longing blind but dominant!Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing dauntHis never failing eagerness. The sunSetting in splendour every night has wonHis vassalage; those towers flamboyantOf airy cloudland palaces now hauntHis daylight wanderings. Forever doneWith simple joys and quiet happinessHe guards the vision of the sunset sky;Though faint with weariness he must possessSome fragment of the sunset's majesty;He spurns life's human friendships to professLife's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.