Lad, the mighty hills are calling,Hills of promise gleaming bright,And the floods of sunshine fallingFill their deepest vales with light.
There the young dawn's golden fireBeckons to a brighter day,Untrod paths of youth's desire,Heights unconquered far away.
Steep and dark and spectre-hauntedWinds the pathway to the height;Sturdy youth with heart undauntedDeems the toiling short and light.
Short or long, an easy Master,Gives each tired toiler rest,Counts not failure or disasterIf the striving be the best.
Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,Mates of old must soothe their pain,Mindless of whate'er befalls youIf but honour still remain.
They have made me a lovely gardenWith walls that are rugged and gray;They have filled it with pinks and rosesAnd lilies that bloom but a day;But the walls are so high and frowning,And the paths are so smooth and straight,And even their smallest windingLeads straight to the chapel gate.
I have planted a bed of pansiesAlong by the chapel wall,But though I have watered and weededThey never have blossomed at all.The sunshine of God cannot fall there,For the chapel tower is too high;So under its cold, gray shadowMy poor little blossoms die.
The Mother of God—in marble—Gleams white where the willows toss,And at the far end of the pathwayThe dear Christ hangs on the cross;And when the vespers are over,If I have not sinned all day,I may walk to the end of the gardenAnd kneel by the cross and pray.
But oh, for the wild, wild gardenThat I knew in the days gone by,Where the birches and elms and maplesStretched up to the wind-swept sky;Where, murmuring silver music,The brook through the ferny dellRan down to the fields of clover,—But hush, there's the vesper bell!
You went away in summertimeWhen leaves and flowers were young,And birds still lingered in the fieldsWith many songs unsung.
I'm glad it was in summertimeWhen skies were clear and blue,I could not say good-bye to youAnd bear the winter too.
Why must you sing of sorrowWhen the world is so full of woe?Why must you sing of the ugly?For the ugly and sad I know.Why will you sing of railways,Of Iron and Steel and Coal,And the din of the smoky cities?For these will not feed my soul.
But sing to me songs of beautyTo gladden my tired eyes,—The beauty of waving forest,Of meadows and sunlit skies;Sing me of childish laughter,Of cradles and painted toys,Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers,And the shouting of bathing boys.
For the earth has a store of beautyDeep hid from our blinded eyes,And only the true-born poetKnows just where the treasure lies.So lead me from paths that are ugly,From the dust of the city street.To paths that are fringed with flowers,Where the sky and the meadows meet.
And though Sorrow may walk beside meTo the far, far end of the road,If Beauty but beckon me onward,Less heavy will seem my load;And led in the paths of beauty,The world from its strife will cease;For I know that the paths of beautyLead on to the paths of peace.
The mystic sits by the sacred streamWatching the sun as it mounts the sky;And life to him is a haunting dreamOr a motley pageant passing by.
Sorrow and joy go on their way,Passion and lust and love and hate;Only a band of mummers they,Blindly led by the hand of fate.
Though the pageant is real and himself the dream,Though men are born and strive and die,Yet the mystic sits by the sacred streamWatching the sun go down the sky.
Here in the beautiful valley, here where the fair rivers meeting,Mingle their waters in silence and wander afar to the sea,Now does thy son returning offer thee homage and greeting,Now do my wandering footsteps turn, O Mother, to thee.
Gleam in the light of the sunset cross and turret and tower,Mirrored majestic and silent down by the willow-clad shore;Far through the valley resounding, telling the evensong hour,Echoes the old bell's tolling, calling me back once more.
Here in the halls where I lingered, there in the woods where I wandered,On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow,Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I ponderedDeeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.
Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness,Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap;Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness,Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.
Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river,Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night;Yet will my heart remember both Mother and sons forever,Far though the pathway may lead me, swift though the years in their flight.
I'll sing you a song of the Homeland,Though the strains be of little worth,A song of our own loved Homeland,Of the noblest land upon earth;Where the tide of the sea from oceans threeBeats high in its triple might,Where the winds are born in a southern mornAnd die in a polar night.
I'll sing you a song of the Eastland,Of the land where our fathers died,Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead,Are sleeping side by side;Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soilOf the mighty river plain,Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings,And the old faith lives again.
I'll sing you a song of the WestlandWhere the magic cities rise,And the prairies clothed with their golden grainStretch under the azure skies;Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dimFar north in the arctic land,And the northern light in its mystic flightFlares over the golden strand.
And I'll sing of the men of the HomelandFrom the north and east and west,The men who went to the Homeland's call,(Ah, God, we have given our best!)But not in vain are our heroes slainIf under the darkened skies,All hand in hand from strand to strandA sin-purged nation rise.
Your mirror, love, reflects your smileAs morn-flushed skies the coming dawn,But oh, how blank the weary whileWhen you are gone!
My life's a mirror; with you near'Tis filled with joy the live-long day,But oh, how meaningless and drearWith you away!
I made a little song to-day,And then I wandered down Broadway,And saw the strange mad people runAnd dance about me in the sun,Or dive into the UndergroundLike rabbits frightened by the soundOf their own scampering through the grass;I watched a thousand people pass,But not a one did I hear say—I made a little song to-day.
I made a little song to-day,It sang beside me all the wayUntil I reached the lower town,Where crowds went surging up and down.Their eyes were hard and faces white,But some of them looked glad and bright,Because the Bulls—or was it Bears?—Had brought them gold for worthless shares;But I was happier than they;—I made a little song to-day.
I lie beneath a dark green pineWhere sunbeams scarcely ever shine,And if I'm still as still can beShy forest birds come down to me.
Brown thrushes run along the ground,Goldfinches flit without a sound,And humming-birds with ruby throatsAlight to smooth their emerald coats.
And when some day alone I lieBeneath the ever-changing sky,I'm glad to know the birds will comeTo welcome me to my new home.
For I will lie so still that theyWill linger by me all the day,And lulled at evening by their songI shall not find the darkness long.
One day I saw the bluebird's wingAgleam upon a waving seaOf emerald-coloured timothy.We walked together—you and I—We saw the bluebird gliding by;He came so near—the mad, wild thing—We almost touched his sapphire wing,But ere across our path he flewHe rose and vanished in the blue.
To-day I saw the bluebird's wing;I heard wood-thrushes round me sing;Wind-blown across the April sky,Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by;And on the sky-line's silver sheenWhite birches danced in frills of green,And all the world was mad with spring.But you were miles and miles away;The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.
Why do I lie upon the groundAnd listen to the silver soundOf water flowing from a spring?It sings a song I cannot sing.
Why am I gazing at the skyTo watch the clouds go trailing by?—Pearl ships upon a sapphire sea—They seek a land unknown to me.
Why do I listen to the songOf pine-boughs singing all day long?The secret that their songs unfoldTen thousand bards have left untold.
Beneath the crawling shadowOf a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten,The wild grape twines amid the fragmentsOf shattered pillars prone upon the ground,And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculpturesOf faun and youth and maiden,That once stood in the temple pediment,Young, naked, beautiful.In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthusleaves of the crumbling columns,And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.The wild bees hum and buzzAmong the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,Under the drowsy noonday sun,That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the thirsting hillside.Wanton and wild,Like an unhappy loverClinging to the breast of his dead mistress,The vine clings in voluptuous embraceAbout the naked, pallid forms,And mingles there with the eternal beautyOf youth and ageAnd life and death.
Beautiful statue of Parian marble,Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight,Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon;I follow, I follow.
Slender and white is your beautiful body,Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you;Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleepingIs the dream you emprison;—
A dream of beauty that lingers forever,A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight,A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters,Reflecting white temples.
Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow,My dream goes forth with your dream to wander;You lead me into a moonlit gardenBeside the Ægean.
White in the moonlight gleams the templeCutting the purple sky with its pediment;Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain;Black are the cypress trees.
The gods are asleep in the silent temple;Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sandMingles its drowsy rhythmical beatingWith the bells of the fountain.
Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses,Not in vain are your white arms lifted;And my dream of beauty and your dream eternalEmbrace in the moonlight.
What are the great pine boughsThat stretch over me so lovinglyShielding me from the heat?They are the sheltering arms of God,VisibleAgainst white drifting clouds.
And the trailing white clouds,—What are they?They are the tattered, worn-out clothes,Bordered with broken pearls,Cast off by the angels and archangels,And by God himself.
All my life long I have loved cathedrals;Their gray, mysterious vaults and archesAre the home of peace and beauty,And sometimes, too, of hope.Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glassShut out the noisy world,And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts;Their blue welling clouds of incenseBring a pungent smell as of burning flowers,And their gleaming candlesBeckon like lights of home across the twilight.
And now I have a cathedral all my own.It has great pine trunks for pillars,For painted windows red and golden leaves;White slender birches are the singing-boys,And the great organ the winds of GodPlaying among the pine-boughs.The prim little spruces are virgin nuns,Telling their beads in drops of dew;And the bare broken tree-stumpsAre hooded monks shattered by worldly storms,But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me;The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell;From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;And from the great high altar of eternal rock,God himself looks forthIn the red glory of the dawn.
Two monsters,Iron and Coal,Sleep in the darkness.A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,And they awake hissing and writhing,And spew forth blood-red vomitIn streams like fiery serpents.Then from the reeking poolsA monstrous brood is born,Black, strong, beautiful.But we turn away our tired eyes,And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.
I.—AFTER SUNSET ON JURA
The Alps—A mighty string of pearlsWhich Day has laid aside—Flaunt their alluring beautyUpon the purple velvet of deep valleys,Until night,Stretching out black greedy fingers,Steals them one by one.
II.—LUCERNE
From staring eyesOf hotel windows,From flaunting richAnd cringing poor,From men and womenDrunken with wine, passion and money,From tired Cook's touristsDoing Switzerland on sixteen pounds,From shrieking steamersTearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds,From bands beating out brazen musicUnder the twisted plane-trees,From all that is poor and rich and ugly,I lift my eyes unto the eternal hillsWhich are outlined upon orange and crimsonBy a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight,And there my soul finds peace.
III.—LAKE LEMAN
Like the High Priest of JehovahThe lake, for the Festival of BeautyPuts upon its blue garmentA gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.
Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire;My eyes can scarcely bear its glory,As it burns crimson and scarletOn jasper and flame-colored sard,On ruby, red as sunset flame,And topaz shot with golden lights.Like the eternal fire of distant stars—Blue, green and white,Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire,Jacinth and beryl,Onyx and green-banded agate,And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers.Morning and eveningOn the day of the great FestivalThe High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate,And the chosen people, blinded by its glory,Bow down and worship.
I.
I saw a vision of beauty.My eyes looked through the mists of ages,Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was God.And I saw the waves of the blue Ægean,Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled,And I heard the singing of the water,As of playing of distant pipesBy slender shepherd lads among the hills.Then I turned away from the shoreAnd I saw the pediment of a great templeStanding white against the sky,And beneath the pediment rows of marble columnsLike giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty.Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees,Statues of gods and goddesses, youths and maidens,Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten brass.My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway,And I went a worshipper to the great temple,Whose burnished doors stood wide ajarGleaming like the portal of a dream city;I lifted my arms in adoration,And my soul drank its fillFrom the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.
II.
I saw a vision of faith.My eyes were turned to a mediæval cityOf crowded low-roofed houses,From which there rose a great cathedral,With walls of chiselled stoneAnd spires that pierced into the blue.Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brainLong years in wood and stone,Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their God.I entered in,
And saw the walls agleam with painted glass,More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings;I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea,And the voices of the singing-boysLike soft ripples on the velvet sand.With golden cross and smoking censersAnd priests in robes of scarlet and purple,The procession passed along;Then the great sweating throngBowed low upon the stony floor before the Host,And when the echoing musicHad vanished in the soaring vault above,The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloomComforted, into the golden sun-light.My soul, too, was comforted,For it had drunk deepFrom the pure mediæval well of faith.
III.
I saw a vision of love.Upon the field of battleAmid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapourRed streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground,Generously,Joyfully,That the world might not die from its festering wounds,But might drink health and lifeFrom these pure, youthful streams.Then I stood awed and dumb,For here was love supreme.
IV.
I saw a vision of death.Silence held my feet with clinging hands,And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes.Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadowsA great night-moth with sable folded wings;It seemed asleep upon a purple flower,But as I watched,Slowly it spread its wings,And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn,And all the world was drenched in showers of light.Then with his flaming wings outspreadThe great moth sailed away,Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea,Leaving behind a wake of golden light.And I know that my vision of deathWas only a vision of beauty.
I.—THE LADY WITH THE YELLOW FAN
O little lady with the yellow fanWhy are you so sad?Why does a tear standLike a tea-flower bud upon your cheek?Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk,Your slippers are embroidered with gems,A gold and emerald butterfly has lighted in your hair,Your serving-maid stands nearAwaiting your command,And if you lifted but one slender fingerA chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace.Why are you so sad?
It is because the ships beside the shoreSpread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze;The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands,And there is a gleam of swords and armour,For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.
II.—CAGED BIRDS
There are yellow birds within the cage;Beside its gilded bars there stand the womenWhom the Great Prince loves to honour.They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair,And live in a pretty pink and yellow house.But the women look not at the captive singing-birds,Nor listen to their song,Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves,Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.
III.—WISTERIA
Why do you peer at me, old man,With eyes half shut,From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?Your face is but a mask,Showing neither joy nor sorrow;But I know you bend your head to listenWhen the wild geese go honking towards the south,And your eyes grow wide with sadness,When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.You, too, love beauty,Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts,Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?
In quivering translucent light,Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky,Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water,Sleeps Beauty,Turned to stone by a miracle of art.And though she never stirs,But slumbers on in a worn and faded robeRose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white,We come from far-off cities,And we turn to her our hungry eyes,Even away from sunlit sky and sea.
A great prince of the ancient daysOnce loved a little geisha girl,Who wore a silken robe,Blue as the waters of the lily-pond.But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island,And the little geisha girlNever put on her robe of blue again.
And you, O purple iris with the golden bands,Are the soul of the Great Prince;And you, O slender one,Blue as lapis lazuli,Are the soul of the little dancing-girl;And you nestle at lastBeside your stately purple Prince,Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.
(In the Hokku manner)
I.
The white lotus-flowerGrows in the depths of the pool,Love grows in my heart.
II.
The peony flames crimson.My heart's blood is far redderThan its flame.
III.
Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms.Mist and drizzle of rain.Where art thou?
IV.
Darkness. Shadows in my soul.The vision of your face.Dawn and music.
V.
Hush of night. Perfumed breath of night.A moth with flaming wings.Come beloved.
The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys;The little wooden bridge,Where the waterfall rings its silver bells,Is a bow of darkness;The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet;A cloud of night-birdsDots the orange sky.
All day our paths have led us side by sideAlong the steep hot highways.It is cool evening now,And the temple bells call you one wayAnd the silence calls me another.
We come to the white door-posts of your house,We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves.We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drinkFrom a cup of sea-green jade.Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter,For I know that to-morrowMy path will not lead over the steep hill,Nor yours down to the deep valley,For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.
Outside the tentDarkness and giant trees swaying in the wind.The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep.And far across the lazy lapping waves,Above the crooning of the wind,I hear a wild loon crying,Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.
Inside the tentYour gentle breathing,Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon;Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.
Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry,But now it is only the voice of LonelinessBidding me farewell,As it passes away into the night.
You stir in your sleep softlyAnd turn your face to me,—And the loon cries no more.
I.
A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient templeAnd played the music taught it by the wind,At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain,When the breeze of summer night caressed it,Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea,Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.And the people,Who never heard the music of the wind,Paused to listen to the wind-bell,And then passed on through the temple gate,With music echoing in their ears.
O Maker of all music,Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.
II.
Beyond the temple gateA gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast,At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.And the people,Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky,Would linger as they passed from prayerTo watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool,And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets,With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.
O Maker of all beauty,Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.