Godmade me simple from the first,And good to quench your body’s thirst.Think you he has no ministersTo glad that wayworn soul of yours?Here by the thronging Golden GateFor thousands and for you I wait,Seeing adventurous sails unfurledFor the four corners of the world.Here passed one day, nor came again,A prince among the tribes of men.(For man, like me, is from his birthA vagabond upon this earth.)Be thankful, friend, as you pass on,And pray for Louis Stevenson,That by whatever trail he fareHe be refreshed in God’s great care!
Godmade me simple from the first,And good to quench your body’s thirst.Think you he has no ministersTo glad that wayworn soul of yours?Here by the thronging Golden GateFor thousands and for you I wait,Seeing adventurous sails unfurledFor the four corners of the world.Here passed one day, nor came again,A prince among the tribes of men.(For man, like me, is from his birthA vagabond upon this earth.)Be thankful, friend, as you pass on,And pray for Louis Stevenson,That by whatever trail he fareHe be refreshed in God’s great care!
Godmade me simple from the first,And good to quench your body’s thirst.Think you he has no ministersTo glad that wayworn soul of yours?
Here by the thronging Golden GateFor thousands and for you I wait,Seeing adventurous sails unfurledFor the four corners of the world.
Here passed one day, nor came again,A prince among the tribes of men.(For man, like me, is from his birthA vagabond upon this earth.)
Be thankful, friend, as you pass on,And pray for Louis Stevenson,That by whatever trail he fareHe be refreshed in God’s great care!
Thisis the white winter day of his burial.Time has set here of his toiling the spanEarthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal,Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!Out in the broad open sun be his funeral,Under the blue for the city to see.Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle!Churches are narrow to hold such as he.Here on the steps of the temple he builded,Rest him a space, while the great city squareThrongs with his people, his thousands, his mourners;Tears for his peace and a multitude’s prayer.How comes it, think you, the town’s traffic pausesThus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve?Here in the sad surprise greatest AmericaShows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.She who is said to give life-blood for silver,Proves, without show, she sets higher than goldJust the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless,Made in God’s likeness once more as of old.Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,—Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite;Once more the gladder way wins revelation,—Soul bent on God forgets evil outright.Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty,Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear!Once more the new, purer plan’s vindication,—Man be God’s forecast, and Heaven is here.Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy hero!Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne;They of the burden go forth on the morrow,Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn.No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting;What giant arm to stay courage up now?March we a thousand file up to the City,Fellow with fellow linked, he taught us how!Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance!Never deployed for the steep nor the storm!Hear him say, “Hold fast, the night wears to morning!This God of promise is God to perform.”Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven!Thou hast known one wore this life without stain.What if for thee and me,—street, Yard, or Common,—Such a white captain appear not again!Fight on alone! Let the faltering spiritWithin thee recall how he carried a host,Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap;One Way till strife be done, strive each his most.Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee,Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dimSay, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour,“Brooks was His brother, and we have known him.”
Thisis the white winter day of his burial.Time has set here of his toiling the spanEarthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal,Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!Out in the broad open sun be his funeral,Under the blue for the city to see.Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle!Churches are narrow to hold such as he.Here on the steps of the temple he builded,Rest him a space, while the great city squareThrongs with his people, his thousands, his mourners;Tears for his peace and a multitude’s prayer.How comes it, think you, the town’s traffic pausesThus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve?Here in the sad surprise greatest AmericaShows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.She who is said to give life-blood for silver,Proves, without show, she sets higher than goldJust the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless,Made in God’s likeness once more as of old.Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,—Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite;Once more the gladder way wins revelation,—Soul bent on God forgets evil outright.Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty,Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear!Once more the new, purer plan’s vindication,—Man be God’s forecast, and Heaven is here.Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy hero!Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne;They of the burden go forth on the morrow,Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn.No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting;What giant arm to stay courage up now?March we a thousand file up to the City,Fellow with fellow linked, he taught us how!Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance!Never deployed for the steep nor the storm!Hear him say, “Hold fast, the night wears to morning!This God of promise is God to perform.”Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven!Thou hast known one wore this life without stain.What if for thee and me,—street, Yard, or Common,—Such a white captain appear not again!Fight on alone! Let the faltering spiritWithin thee recall how he carried a host,Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap;One Way till strife be done, strive each his most.Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee,Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dimSay, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour,“Brooks was His brother, and we have known him.”
Thisis the white winter day of his burial.Time has set here of his toiling the spanEarthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal,Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!
Out in the broad open sun be his funeral,Under the blue for the city to see.Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle!Churches are narrow to hold such as he.
Here on the steps of the temple he builded,Rest him a space, while the great city squareThrongs with his people, his thousands, his mourners;Tears for his peace and a multitude’s prayer.
How comes it, think you, the town’s traffic pausesThus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve?Here in the sad surprise greatest AmericaShows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.
She who is said to give life-blood for silver,Proves, without show, she sets higher than goldJust the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless,Made in God’s likeness once more as of old.
Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,—Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite;Once more the gladder way wins revelation,—Soul bent on God forgets evil outright.
Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty,Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear!Once more the new, purer plan’s vindication,—Man be God’s forecast, and Heaven is here.
Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy hero!Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne;They of the burden go forth on the morrow,Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn.
No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting;What giant arm to stay courage up now?March we a thousand file up to the City,Fellow with fellow linked, he taught us how!
Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance!Never deployed for the steep nor the storm!Hear him say, “Hold fast, the night wears to morning!This God of promise is God to perform.”
Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven!Thou hast known one wore this life without stain.What if for thee and me,—street, Yard, or Common,—Such a white captain appear not again!
Fight on alone! Let the faltering spiritWithin thee recall how he carried a host,Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap;One Way till strife be done, strive each his most.
Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee,Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dimSay, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour,“Brooks was His brother, and we have known him.”
Hereat the desk where once you sat,Who wander now with poets deadAnd summers gone, afield so far,There sits a stranger in your stead.Here day by day men come who knewYour steadfast ways and loved you well;And every comer with regretHas some new thing of praise to tell.The poet old, whose lyric heartIs fresh as dew and bright as flame,Longs for “his boy,” and finds you not,And goes the wistful way he came.Here where you toiled without reproach,Builded and loved and dreamed and planned,At every door, on every page,Lurks the tradition of your hand.And if to you, like reverie,There comes a thought of how they fareWhose footsteps go the round you wentOf noisy street and narrow stair,Know they have learned a new desire,Which puts unfaith and faltering by;And triumph fills their dream becauseOne life was leal, one hope was high.
Hereat the desk where once you sat,Who wander now with poets deadAnd summers gone, afield so far,There sits a stranger in your stead.Here day by day men come who knewYour steadfast ways and loved you well;And every comer with regretHas some new thing of praise to tell.The poet old, whose lyric heartIs fresh as dew and bright as flame,Longs for “his boy,” and finds you not,And goes the wistful way he came.Here where you toiled without reproach,Builded and loved and dreamed and planned,At every door, on every page,Lurks the tradition of your hand.And if to you, like reverie,There comes a thought of how they fareWhose footsteps go the round you wentOf noisy street and narrow stair,Know they have learned a new desire,Which puts unfaith and faltering by;And triumph fills their dream becauseOne life was leal, one hope was high.
Hereat the desk where once you sat,Who wander now with poets deadAnd summers gone, afield so far,There sits a stranger in your stead.
Here day by day men come who knewYour steadfast ways and loved you well;And every comer with regretHas some new thing of praise to tell.
The poet old, whose lyric heartIs fresh as dew and bright as flame,Longs for “his boy,” and finds you not,And goes the wistful way he came.
Here where you toiled without reproach,Builded and loved and dreamed and planned,At every door, on every page,Lurks the tradition of your hand.
And if to you, like reverie,There comes a thought of how they fareWhose footsteps go the round you wentOf noisy street and narrow stair,
Know they have learned a new desire,Which puts unfaith and faltering by;And triumph fills their dream becauseOne life was leal, one hope was high.
Weare only common people,And he was a man like us.But he loved his fellows before himself;And he died for me and you,To redeem the world anewFrom cruelty and greed—For love the only creed,For honor the only law.There once was a man of the people,A man like you and me,Who worked for his daily bread,And he loved his fellows before himself.But he died at the hands of the throngTo redeem the world from wrong,And we call him the Son of God,Because of the love he had.And there was a man of the people,Who sat in the people’s chair,And bade the slaves go free;For he loved his fellows before himself.They took his life; but his wordThey could not take. It was heardOver the beautiful earth,A thunder and whisper of love.And there is no other way,Since man of woman was born,Than the way of the rebels and saints,With loving and labor vast,To redeem the world at lastFrom cruelty and greed;For love is the only creed,And honor the only law.
Weare only common people,And he was a man like us.But he loved his fellows before himself;And he died for me and you,To redeem the world anewFrom cruelty and greed—For love the only creed,For honor the only law.There once was a man of the people,A man like you and me,Who worked for his daily bread,And he loved his fellows before himself.But he died at the hands of the throngTo redeem the world from wrong,And we call him the Son of God,Because of the love he had.And there was a man of the people,Who sat in the people’s chair,And bade the slaves go free;For he loved his fellows before himself.They took his life; but his wordThey could not take. It was heardOver the beautiful earth,A thunder and whisper of love.And there is no other way,Since man of woman was born,Than the way of the rebels and saints,With loving and labor vast,To redeem the world at lastFrom cruelty and greed;For love is the only creed,And honor the only law.
Weare only common people,And he was a man like us.But he loved his fellows before himself;And he died for me and you,To redeem the world anewFrom cruelty and greed—For love the only creed,For honor the only law.
There once was a man of the people,A man like you and me,Who worked for his daily bread,And he loved his fellows before himself.But he died at the hands of the throngTo redeem the world from wrong,And we call him the Son of God,Because of the love he had.
And there was a man of the people,Who sat in the people’s chair,And bade the slaves go free;For he loved his fellows before himself.They took his life; but his wordThey could not take. It was heardOver the beautiful earth,A thunder and whisper of love.
And there is no other way,Since man of woman was born,Than the way of the rebels and saints,With loving and labor vast,To redeem the world at lastFrom cruelty and greed;For love is the only creed,And honor the only law.
Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow;Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.With a boy’s desireHe set the cupTo his lips to drink;The ruddy fireWas lifted upAt day’s cool brink,With a boy’s desire.The heart of a boy!He tasted life,And the bitter stingOf sorrow in joy,Failure in strife,Was pain to wringThe heart of a boy.In a childish whim,He spilled the wineUpon the floor,—In beads on the brimWas a glitter of brine,—Then, out at the doorIn a childish whim!Out of the storm,In the flickering light,A broken glassLies on our warmHearthstone to-night,While shadows passOut of the storm.Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.In sorrow and shameFor the craven heart,In manhood’s breastWith valor’s name,Let him departUnto his restIn sorrow and shame.In after yearsGod, who bestowsOr withholds the valor,Shall wipe all tears—Haply, who knows?—From his face’s pallorIn after years.He could not learnTo fight with his peersIn sturdier fashion;Let him returnThrough the night with tears,Stung with the passionHe could not learn.All-bountiful, calm,Where the great stars burn,And the spring bloom smothersThe night with balm,Let him returnTo the silent Mother’sAll-bountiful calm.Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.
Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow;Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.With a boy’s desireHe set the cupTo his lips to drink;The ruddy fireWas lifted upAt day’s cool brink,With a boy’s desire.The heart of a boy!He tasted life,And the bitter stingOf sorrow in joy,Failure in strife,Was pain to wringThe heart of a boy.In a childish whim,He spilled the wineUpon the floor,—In beads on the brimWas a glitter of brine,—Then, out at the doorIn a childish whim!Out of the storm,In the flickering light,A broken glassLies on our warmHearthstone to-night,While shadows passOut of the storm.Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.In sorrow and shameFor the craven heart,In manhood’s breastWith valor’s name,Let him departUnto his restIn sorrow and shame.In after yearsGod, who bestowsOr withholds the valor,Shall wipe all tears—Haply, who knows?—From his face’s pallorIn after years.He could not learnTo fight with his peersIn sturdier fashion;Let him returnThrough the night with tears,Stung with the passionHe could not learn.All-bountiful, calm,Where the great stars burn,And the spring bloom smothersThe night with balm,Let him returnTo the silent Mother’sAll-bountiful calm.Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.
Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow;Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.
With a boy’s desireHe set the cupTo his lips to drink;The ruddy fireWas lifted upAt day’s cool brink,With a boy’s desire.
The heart of a boy!He tasted life,And the bitter stingOf sorrow in joy,Failure in strife,Was pain to wringThe heart of a boy.
In a childish whim,He spilled the wineUpon the floor,—In beads on the brimWas a glitter of brine,—Then, out at the doorIn a childish whim!
Out of the storm,In the flickering light,A broken glassLies on our warmHearthstone to-night,While shadows passOut of the storm.
Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.
In sorrow and shameFor the craven heart,In manhood’s breastWith valor’s name,Let him departUnto his restIn sorrow and shame.
In after yearsGod, who bestowsOr withholds the valor,Shall wipe all tears—Haply, who knows?—From his face’s pallorIn after years.
He could not learnTo fight with his peersIn sturdier fashion;Let him returnThrough the night with tears,Stung with the passionHe could not learn.
All-bountiful, calm,Where the great stars burn,And the spring bloom smothersThe night with balm,Let him returnTo the silent Mother’sAll-bountiful calm.
Friends, let him restIn midnight now.Desire has goneOn the weary questWith aching brow:Until the dawn,Friends, let him rest.
Masterof adored Madonnas,What is this men say of thee?Thou wert something less than honor’sMost exact epitome?Yes, they say you loved too many,Loved too often, loved too well.Just as if there could be anyOver-loving, Raphael!Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress,Long and raven? Mine are gold!”You should have made Art your mistress,Lived an anchorite and old!Ah, no doubt these dear good peopleOn familiar terms with God,Could devise a parish steepleBuilt to heaven without a hod.You and Solomon and CæsarWere three fellows of a kind;Not a woman but to please herYou would leave your soul behind.Those dead women with their beauty,How they must have loved you well,—Dared to make desire a duty,With the heretics in hell!And your brother, that Catullus,What a plight he must be in,If those silver songs that lull usWere result of mortal sin!If the artist were ungodly,Prurient of mind and heart,I must think they argue oddlyWho make shrines before his art.Not the meanest aspirationEver sprung from soul depravedInto art, but art’s elationWas the sanctity it craved.Oh, no doubt you had your troubles,Devils blue that blanched your hope.I dare say your fancy’s bubbles,Breaking, had a taste of soap.Did your lady-loves undo youIn some mediæval way?Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you!It is much the same to-day.Did their tantalizing laughterMake your wisdom overbold?Were you fire at first; and after,Did their kisses leave you cold?Did some fine perfidious Nancy,With the roses in her hair,Play the marsh-fire to your fancyOver quagmires of despair?My poor boy, were there more flowersIn your Florence and your Rome,Wasting through the gorgeous hours,Than your two hands could bring home?Be content; you have your glory;Life was full and sleep is well.What the end is of the story,There’s no paragraph to tell.
Masterof adored Madonnas,What is this men say of thee?Thou wert something less than honor’sMost exact epitome?Yes, they say you loved too many,Loved too often, loved too well.Just as if there could be anyOver-loving, Raphael!Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress,Long and raven? Mine are gold!”You should have made Art your mistress,Lived an anchorite and old!Ah, no doubt these dear good peopleOn familiar terms with God,Could devise a parish steepleBuilt to heaven without a hod.You and Solomon and CæsarWere three fellows of a kind;Not a woman but to please herYou would leave your soul behind.Those dead women with their beauty,How they must have loved you well,—Dared to make desire a duty,With the heretics in hell!And your brother, that Catullus,What a plight he must be in,If those silver songs that lull usWere result of mortal sin!If the artist were ungodly,Prurient of mind and heart,I must think they argue oddlyWho make shrines before his art.Not the meanest aspirationEver sprung from soul depravedInto art, but art’s elationWas the sanctity it craved.Oh, no doubt you had your troubles,Devils blue that blanched your hope.I dare say your fancy’s bubbles,Breaking, had a taste of soap.Did your lady-loves undo youIn some mediæval way?Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you!It is much the same to-day.Did their tantalizing laughterMake your wisdom overbold?Were you fire at first; and after,Did their kisses leave you cold?Did some fine perfidious Nancy,With the roses in her hair,Play the marsh-fire to your fancyOver quagmires of despair?My poor boy, were there more flowersIn your Florence and your Rome,Wasting through the gorgeous hours,Than your two hands could bring home?Be content; you have your glory;Life was full and sleep is well.What the end is of the story,There’s no paragraph to tell.
Masterof adored Madonnas,What is this men say of thee?Thou wert something less than honor’sMost exact epitome?
Yes, they say you loved too many,Loved too often, loved too well.Just as if there could be anyOver-loving, Raphael!
Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress,Long and raven? Mine are gold!”You should have made Art your mistress,Lived an anchorite and old!
Ah, no doubt these dear good peopleOn familiar terms with God,Could devise a parish steepleBuilt to heaven without a hod.
You and Solomon and CæsarWere three fellows of a kind;Not a woman but to please herYou would leave your soul behind.
Those dead women with their beauty,How they must have loved you well,—Dared to make desire a duty,With the heretics in hell!
And your brother, that Catullus,What a plight he must be in,If those silver songs that lull usWere result of mortal sin!
If the artist were ungodly,Prurient of mind and heart,I must think they argue oddlyWho make shrines before his art.
Not the meanest aspirationEver sprung from soul depravedInto art, but art’s elationWas the sanctity it craved.
Oh, no doubt you had your troubles,Devils blue that blanched your hope.I dare say your fancy’s bubbles,Breaking, had a taste of soap.
Did your lady-loves undo youIn some mediæval way?Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you!It is much the same to-day.
Did their tantalizing laughterMake your wisdom overbold?Were you fire at first; and after,Did their kisses leave you cold?
Did some fine perfidious Nancy,With the roses in her hair,Play the marsh-fire to your fancyOver quagmires of despair?
My poor boy, were there more flowersIn your Florence and your Rome,Wasting through the gorgeous hours,Than your two hands could bring home?
Be content; you have your glory;Life was full and sleep is well.What the end is of the story,There’s no paragraph to tell.
Sothey would raise your monument,Old vagabond of lovely earth?Another answer without wordsTo Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”Not much we gave you when alive,Whom now we lavishly deplore,—A little bread, a little wine,A little caporal—no more.Here in our lodging of a dayYou roistered till we were appalled;Departing, in your room we foundA string of golden verses scrawled.The princely manor-house of art,A vagrant artist entertains;And when he gets him to the road,Behold, a princely gift remains.Abashed, we set your name aboveThe purse-full patrons of our board;Remind newcomers with a nudge,“Verlaine took once what we afford!”The gardens of the Luxembourg,Spreading beneath the brilliant sun,Shall be your haunt of leisure nowWhen all your wander years are done.There you shall stand, the very mienYou wore in Paris streets of old,And ponder what a thing is life,Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold.There you will find, I dare surmise,Another tolerance than ours,The loving-kindness of the grass,The tender patience of the flowers.And every year, when May returnsTo bring the golden age again,And hope comes back with poetryIn your loved land across the Seine,Some youth will come with foreign speech,Bearing his dream from over sea,A lover of your flawless craft,Apprenticed to your poverty.He will be mute before you there,And mark those lineaments which tellWhat stormy unrelenting fateHad one who served his art so well.And there be yours, the livelong day,Beyond the mordant reach of pain,The little gospel of the leaves,TheNunc dimittisof the rain!
Sothey would raise your monument,Old vagabond of lovely earth?Another answer without wordsTo Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”Not much we gave you when alive,Whom now we lavishly deplore,—A little bread, a little wine,A little caporal—no more.Here in our lodging of a dayYou roistered till we were appalled;Departing, in your room we foundA string of golden verses scrawled.The princely manor-house of art,A vagrant artist entertains;And when he gets him to the road,Behold, a princely gift remains.Abashed, we set your name aboveThe purse-full patrons of our board;Remind newcomers with a nudge,“Verlaine took once what we afford!”The gardens of the Luxembourg,Spreading beneath the brilliant sun,Shall be your haunt of leisure nowWhen all your wander years are done.There you shall stand, the very mienYou wore in Paris streets of old,And ponder what a thing is life,Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold.There you will find, I dare surmise,Another tolerance than ours,The loving-kindness of the grass,The tender patience of the flowers.And every year, when May returnsTo bring the golden age again,And hope comes back with poetryIn your loved land across the Seine,Some youth will come with foreign speech,Bearing his dream from over sea,A lover of your flawless craft,Apprenticed to your poverty.He will be mute before you there,And mark those lineaments which tellWhat stormy unrelenting fateHad one who served his art so well.And there be yours, the livelong day,Beyond the mordant reach of pain,The little gospel of the leaves,TheNunc dimittisof the rain!
Sothey would raise your monument,Old vagabond of lovely earth?Another answer without wordsTo Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”
Not much we gave you when alive,Whom now we lavishly deplore,—A little bread, a little wine,A little caporal—no more.
Here in our lodging of a dayYou roistered till we were appalled;Departing, in your room we foundA string of golden verses scrawled.
The princely manor-house of art,A vagrant artist entertains;And when he gets him to the road,Behold, a princely gift remains.
Abashed, we set your name aboveThe purse-full patrons of our board;Remind newcomers with a nudge,“Verlaine took once what we afford!”
The gardens of the Luxembourg,Spreading beneath the brilliant sun,Shall be your haunt of leisure nowWhen all your wander years are done.
There you shall stand, the very mienYou wore in Paris streets of old,And ponder what a thing is life,Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold.
There you will find, I dare surmise,Another tolerance than ours,The loving-kindness of the grass,The tender patience of the flowers.
And every year, when May returnsTo bring the golden age again,And hope comes back with poetryIn your loved land across the Seine,
Some youth will come with foreign speech,Bearing his dream from over sea,A lover of your flawless craft,Apprenticed to your poverty.
He will be mute before you there,And mark those lineaments which tellWhat stormy unrelenting fateHad one who served his art so well.
And there be yours, the livelong day,Beyond the mordant reach of pain,The little gospel of the leaves,TheNunc dimittisof the rain!
Sleepsoundly, little Thorlak,Where all thy peers have lain,A hero of no battle,A saint without a stain!Thy courage be upon thee,Unblemished by regret,For that adventure whitherThy tiny march was set.The sunshine be above thee,With birds and winds and trees.Thy way-fellows inheritNo better things than these.And silence be about thee,Turned back from this our warTo front alone the valleyOf night without a star.The soul of love and valor,Indifferent to fame,Be with thee, heart of vikings,Beyond the breath of blame.Thy moiety of manhoodUnspent and fair, go down,And, unabashed, encounterThy brothers of renown.So modest in thy freeholdAnd tenure of the earth,Thy needs, for all our meddling,Are few and little worth.Content thee, not with pity;Be solaced, not with tears;But when the whitethroats wakenThrough the revolving years,Hereafter be that peerlessAnd dirging cadence, child,Thy threnody unsullied,Melodious, and wild.Then winter be thy housing,Thy lullaby the rain,Thou hero of no battle,Thou saint without a stain.
Sleepsoundly, little Thorlak,Where all thy peers have lain,A hero of no battle,A saint without a stain!Thy courage be upon thee,Unblemished by regret,For that adventure whitherThy tiny march was set.The sunshine be above thee,With birds and winds and trees.Thy way-fellows inheritNo better things than these.And silence be about thee,Turned back from this our warTo front alone the valleyOf night without a star.The soul of love and valor,Indifferent to fame,Be with thee, heart of vikings,Beyond the breath of blame.Thy moiety of manhoodUnspent and fair, go down,And, unabashed, encounterThy brothers of renown.So modest in thy freeholdAnd tenure of the earth,Thy needs, for all our meddling,Are few and little worth.Content thee, not with pity;Be solaced, not with tears;But when the whitethroats wakenThrough the revolving years,Hereafter be that peerlessAnd dirging cadence, child,Thy threnody unsullied,Melodious, and wild.Then winter be thy housing,Thy lullaby the rain,Thou hero of no battle,Thou saint without a stain.
Sleepsoundly, little Thorlak,Where all thy peers have lain,A hero of no battle,A saint without a stain!
Thy courage be upon thee,Unblemished by regret,For that adventure whitherThy tiny march was set.
The sunshine be above thee,With birds and winds and trees.Thy way-fellows inheritNo better things than these.
And silence be about thee,Turned back from this our warTo front alone the valleyOf night without a star.
The soul of love and valor,Indifferent to fame,Be with thee, heart of vikings,Beyond the breath of blame.
Thy moiety of manhoodUnspent and fair, go down,And, unabashed, encounterThy brothers of renown.
So modest in thy freeholdAnd tenure of the earth,Thy needs, for all our meddling,Are few and little worth.
Content thee, not with pity;Be solaced, not with tears;But when the whitethroats wakenThrough the revolving years,
Hereafter be that peerlessAnd dirging cadence, child,Thy threnody unsullied,Melodious, and wild.
Then winter be thy housing,Thy lullaby the rain,Thou hero of no battle,Thou saint without a stain.
Inthe warm blue heart of the hillsMy beautiful, beautiful oneSleeps where he laid him downBefore the journey was done.All the long summer dayThe ghosts of noon draw nigh,And the tremulous aspens hearThe footing of winds go by.Down to the gates of the sea,Out of the gates of the west,Journeys the whispering riverBefore the place of his rest.The road he loved to followWhen June came by his door,Out through the dim blue hazeLeads, but allures no more.The trailing shadows of cloudsSteal from the slopes and are gone;The myriad life in the grassStirs, but he slumbers on;The inland wandering ternSkreel as they forage and fly;His loons on the lonely reachUtter their querulous cry;Over the floating liliesA dragon-fly tacks and steers;Far in the depth of the blueA martin settles and veers;To every roadside thistleA gold-brown butterfly clings;But he no more companionsAll the dear vagrant things.The strong red journeying sun,The pale and wandering rain,Will roam on the hills foreverAnd find him never again.Then twilight falls with the touchOf a hand that soothes and stills,And a swamp-robin sings into lightThe lone white star of the hills.Alone in the dusk he sings,And a burden of sorrow and wrongIs lifted up from the earthAnd carried away in his song.Alone in the dusk he sings,And the joy of another dayIs folded in peace and borneOn the drift of years away.But there in the heart of the hillsMy beautiful weary oneSleeps where he laid him down;And the large sweet night is begun.
Inthe warm blue heart of the hillsMy beautiful, beautiful oneSleeps where he laid him downBefore the journey was done.All the long summer dayThe ghosts of noon draw nigh,And the tremulous aspens hearThe footing of winds go by.Down to the gates of the sea,Out of the gates of the west,Journeys the whispering riverBefore the place of his rest.The road he loved to followWhen June came by his door,Out through the dim blue hazeLeads, but allures no more.The trailing shadows of cloudsSteal from the slopes and are gone;The myriad life in the grassStirs, but he slumbers on;The inland wandering ternSkreel as they forage and fly;His loons on the lonely reachUtter their querulous cry;Over the floating liliesA dragon-fly tacks and steers;Far in the depth of the blueA martin settles and veers;To every roadside thistleA gold-brown butterfly clings;But he no more companionsAll the dear vagrant things.The strong red journeying sun,The pale and wandering rain,Will roam on the hills foreverAnd find him never again.Then twilight falls with the touchOf a hand that soothes and stills,And a swamp-robin sings into lightThe lone white star of the hills.Alone in the dusk he sings,And a burden of sorrow and wrongIs lifted up from the earthAnd carried away in his song.Alone in the dusk he sings,And the joy of another dayIs folded in peace and borneOn the drift of years away.But there in the heart of the hillsMy beautiful weary oneSleeps where he laid him down;And the large sweet night is begun.
Inthe warm blue heart of the hillsMy beautiful, beautiful oneSleeps where he laid him downBefore the journey was done.
All the long summer dayThe ghosts of noon draw nigh,And the tremulous aspens hearThe footing of winds go by.
Down to the gates of the sea,Out of the gates of the west,Journeys the whispering riverBefore the place of his rest.
The road he loved to followWhen June came by his door,Out through the dim blue hazeLeads, but allures no more.
The trailing shadows of cloudsSteal from the slopes and are gone;The myriad life in the grassStirs, but he slumbers on;
The inland wandering ternSkreel as they forage and fly;His loons on the lonely reachUtter their querulous cry;
Over the floating liliesA dragon-fly tacks and steers;Far in the depth of the blueA martin settles and veers;
To every roadside thistleA gold-brown butterfly clings;But he no more companionsAll the dear vagrant things.
The strong red journeying sun,The pale and wandering rain,Will roam on the hills foreverAnd find him never again.
Then twilight falls with the touchOf a hand that soothes and stills,And a swamp-robin sings into lightThe lone white star of the hills.
Alone in the dusk he sings,And a burden of sorrow and wrongIs lifted up from the earthAnd carried away in his song.
Alone in the dusk he sings,And the joy of another dayIs folded in peace and borneOn the drift of years away.
But there in the heart of the hillsMy beautiful weary oneSleeps where he laid him down;And the large sweet night is begun.
Brother, the world above youIs very fair to-day,And all things seem to love youThe old accustomed way.Here in the heavenly weatherIn June’s white arms you sleep,Where once on the hills togetherYour haunts you used to keep.The idling sun that lazesAlong the open fieldAnd gossips to the daisiesOf secrets unrevealed;The wind that stirs the grassesA moment, and then stillsTheir trouble as he passesUp to the darkling hills,—And to the breezy cloverHas many things to sayOf that unwearied roverWho once went by this way;The miles of elm-treed meadows;The clouds that voyage on,Streeling their noiseless shadowsFrom countries of the sun;The tranquil river reachesAnd the pale stars of dawn;The thrushes in their beechesFor reverie withdrawn;With all your forest fellowsIn whom the blind heart calls,For whom the green leaf yellows,On whom the red leaf falls;The dumb and tiny creaturesOf flower and blade and sod,That dimly wear the featuresAnd attributes of God;The airy migrant comersOn gauzy wings of fire,Those wanderers and roamersOf indefinite desire;The rainbirds and all dwellersIn solitude and peace,Those lingerers and foretellersOf infinite release;Yea, all the dear things livingThat rove or bask or swim,Remembering and misgiving,Have felt the day grow dim.Even the glad things growing,Blossom and fruit and stem,Are poorer for your goingBecause you were of them.Yet since you loved to cherishTheir pleading beauty here,Your heart shall not quite perishIn all the golden year;But God’s great dream above themMust be a tinge less pale,Because you lived to love themAnd make their joy prevail.
Brother, the world above youIs very fair to-day,And all things seem to love youThe old accustomed way.Here in the heavenly weatherIn June’s white arms you sleep,Where once on the hills togetherYour haunts you used to keep.The idling sun that lazesAlong the open fieldAnd gossips to the daisiesOf secrets unrevealed;The wind that stirs the grassesA moment, and then stillsTheir trouble as he passesUp to the darkling hills,—And to the breezy cloverHas many things to sayOf that unwearied roverWho once went by this way;The miles of elm-treed meadows;The clouds that voyage on,Streeling their noiseless shadowsFrom countries of the sun;The tranquil river reachesAnd the pale stars of dawn;The thrushes in their beechesFor reverie withdrawn;With all your forest fellowsIn whom the blind heart calls,For whom the green leaf yellows,On whom the red leaf falls;The dumb and tiny creaturesOf flower and blade and sod,That dimly wear the featuresAnd attributes of God;The airy migrant comersOn gauzy wings of fire,Those wanderers and roamersOf indefinite desire;The rainbirds and all dwellersIn solitude and peace,Those lingerers and foretellersOf infinite release;Yea, all the dear things livingThat rove or bask or swim,Remembering and misgiving,Have felt the day grow dim.Even the glad things growing,Blossom and fruit and stem,Are poorer for your goingBecause you were of them.Yet since you loved to cherishTheir pleading beauty here,Your heart shall not quite perishIn all the golden year;But God’s great dream above themMust be a tinge less pale,Because you lived to love themAnd make their joy prevail.
Brother, the world above youIs very fair to-day,And all things seem to love youThe old accustomed way.
Here in the heavenly weatherIn June’s white arms you sleep,Where once on the hills togetherYour haunts you used to keep.
The idling sun that lazesAlong the open fieldAnd gossips to the daisiesOf secrets unrevealed;
The wind that stirs the grassesA moment, and then stillsTheir trouble as he passesUp to the darkling hills,—
And to the breezy cloverHas many things to sayOf that unwearied roverWho once went by this way;
The miles of elm-treed meadows;The clouds that voyage on,Streeling their noiseless shadowsFrom countries of the sun;
The tranquil river reachesAnd the pale stars of dawn;The thrushes in their beechesFor reverie withdrawn;
With all your forest fellowsIn whom the blind heart calls,For whom the green leaf yellows,On whom the red leaf falls;
The dumb and tiny creaturesOf flower and blade and sod,That dimly wear the featuresAnd attributes of God;
The airy migrant comersOn gauzy wings of fire,Those wanderers and roamersOf indefinite desire;
The rainbirds and all dwellersIn solitude and peace,Those lingerers and foretellersOf infinite release;
Yea, all the dear things livingThat rove or bask or swim,Remembering and misgiving,Have felt the day grow dim.
Even the glad things growing,Blossom and fruit and stem,Are poorer for your goingBecause you were of them.
Yet since you loved to cherishTheir pleading beauty here,Your heart shall not quite perishIn all the golden year;
But God’s great dream above themMust be a tinge less pale,Because you lived to love themAnd make their joy prevail.
Now these are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s death,Blown through the reeds of the river,A sigh of the world’s last breath,Where the flickering red aurorasOut on the dark sweet hillsFollow all night through the forestThe cry of the whip-poor-wills.For the meanings of life are many,But the purpose of love is one,Journeying, tarrying, lonelyAs the sea wind or the sun.
Now these are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s death,Blown through the reeds of the river,A sigh of the world’s last breath,Where the flickering red aurorasOut on the dark sweet hillsFollow all night through the forestThe cry of the whip-poor-wills.For the meanings of life are many,But the purpose of love is one,Journeying, tarrying, lonelyAs the sea wind or the sun.
Now these are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s death,Blown through the reeds of the river,A sigh of the world’s last breath,
Where the flickering red aurorasOut on the dark sweet hillsFollow all night through the forestThe cry of the whip-poor-wills.
For the meanings of life are many,But the purpose of love is one,Journeying, tarrying, lonelyAs the sea wind or the sun.
Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,No more his dearest handComes back to me.Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Wandering waifs of doomFeckless are we.Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,I cannot understandHow these things be.
Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,No more his dearest handComes back to me.Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Wandering waifs of doomFeckless are we.Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,I cannot understandHow these things be.
Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,No more his dearest handComes back to me.
Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Wandering waifs of doomFeckless are we.
Wind of the Northern land,Wind of the sea,I cannot understandHow these things be.
Wind of the low red mornAt the world’s end,Over the standing cornWhisper and bend.Then through the low red mornAt the world’s end,Far out from sorrow’s bourne,Down glory’s trend,Tell the last years forlornAt the world’s end,Of my one peerless bornComrade and friend.
Wind of the low red mornAt the world’s end,Over the standing cornWhisper and bend.Then through the low red mornAt the world’s end,Far out from sorrow’s bourne,Down glory’s trend,Tell the last years forlornAt the world’s end,Of my one peerless bornComrade and friend.
Wind of the low red mornAt the world’s end,Over the standing cornWhisper and bend.
Then through the low red mornAt the world’s end,Far out from sorrow’s bourne,Down glory’s trend,
Tell the last years forlornAt the world’s end,Of my one peerless bornComrade and friend.
Windof the April stars,Wind of the dawn,Whether God nears or fars,He lived and shone.Wind of the April night,Wind of the dawn,No more my heart’s delightBugles me on.Wind of the April rain,Wind of the dawn,Lull the old world from painTill pain be gone.
Windof the April stars,Wind of the dawn,Whether God nears or fars,He lived and shone.Wind of the April night,Wind of the dawn,No more my heart’s delightBugles me on.Wind of the April rain,Wind of the dawn,Lull the old world from painTill pain be gone.
Windof the April stars,Wind of the dawn,Whether God nears or fars,He lived and shone.
Wind of the April night,Wind of the dawn,No more my heart’s delightBugles me on.
Wind of the April rain,Wind of the dawn,Lull the old world from painTill pain be gone.
Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Gently the hand of JuneStays thee and stills.Far off, untouched by tears,Raptures or ills,Sleeps he a thousand yearsOut on the hills.Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Is the land fair and boonWhither he wills?
Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Gently the hand of JuneStays thee and stills.Far off, untouched by tears,Raptures or ills,Sleeps he a thousand yearsOut on the hills.Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Is the land fair and boonWhither he wills?
Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Gently the hand of JuneStays thee and stills.
Far off, untouched by tears,Raptures or ills,Sleeps he a thousand yearsOut on the hills.
Wind of the summer noon,Wind of the hills,Is the land fair and boonWhither he wills?
Wind of the gulfs of night,Wind of the sea,Where the pale streamers lightMy world for me,—Breath of the wintry Norns,Frost-touch or sleep,—He whom my spirit mournsDeep beyond deepTo the last void and dimWhere ages stream—Is there no room for himIn all this dream?
Wind of the gulfs of night,Wind of the sea,Where the pale streamers lightMy world for me,—Breath of the wintry Norns,Frost-touch or sleep,—He whom my spirit mournsDeep beyond deepTo the last void and dimWhere ages stream—Is there no room for himIn all this dream?
Wind of the gulfs of night,Wind of the sea,Where the pale streamers lightMy world for me,—
Breath of the wintry Norns,Frost-touch or sleep,—He whom my spirit mournsDeep beyond deep
To the last void and dimWhere ages stream—Is there no room for himIn all this dream?
Wind of the outer waste,Threne of the outer world,Leash of the stars unlaced,Morning unfurled,Somewhere at God’s great need,I know not how,With the old strength and speedHe is come now;Therefore my soul is gladWith the old pride,Tho’ this small life is sadHere in my side.
Wind of the outer waste,Threne of the outer world,Leash of the stars unlaced,Morning unfurled,Somewhere at God’s great need,I know not how,With the old strength and speedHe is come now;Therefore my soul is gladWith the old pride,Tho’ this small life is sadHere in my side.
Wind of the outer waste,Threne of the outer world,Leash of the stars unlaced,Morning unfurled,
Somewhere at God’s great need,I know not how,With the old strength and speedHe is come now;
Therefore my soul is gladWith the old pride,Tho’ this small life is sadHere in my side.
Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,On a long trail and slowFarers are we.Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Shall I one day resumeHis love for me?Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,Then shall thy vagrant knowHow these things be.These are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s rest,From the hills of the Scarlet HunterAnd the trail of the endless quest.The wells of the sunrise harken,They wait for a year and a day:Only the calm sure thrushesFluting the world away!For the husk of life is sorrow;But the kernels of joy remain,Teeming and blind and eternalAs the hill wind or the rain.
Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,On a long trail and slowFarers are we.Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Shall I one day resumeHis love for me?Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,Then shall thy vagrant knowHow these things be.These are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s rest,From the hills of the Scarlet HunterAnd the trail of the endless quest.The wells of the sunrise harken,They wait for a year and a day:Only the calm sure thrushesFluting the world away!For the husk of life is sorrow;But the kernels of joy remain,Teeming and blind and eternalAs the hill wind or the rain.
Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,On a long trail and slowFarers are we.
Wind of the Northern gloom,Wind of the sea,Shall I one day resumeHis love for me?
Wind of the driven snow,Wind of the sea,Then shall thy vagrant knowHow these things be.
These are the seven wind songsFor Andrew Straton’s rest,From the hills of the Scarlet HunterAnd the trail of the endless quest.
The wells of the sunrise harken,They wait for a year and a day:Only the calm sure thrushesFluting the world away!
For the husk of life is sorrow;But the kernels of joy remain,Teeming and blind and eternalAs the hill wind or the rain.
Andrew Stratonwas my friend,With his Saxon eyes and hair,And his loyal viking spirit,Like an islesman of the NorthWith his earldom on the sea.At his birth the mighty MotherMade of him a fondling one,Hushed from pain within her arms,With her seal upon his lips;And from that day he was numberedWith the sons of consolation,Peace and cheer were in his hands,And her secret in his will.Now the night has Andrew StratonHoused from wind and storm foreverIn a chamber of the gloomWhere no window fronts the morning,Lulled to rest at last from rovingTo the music of the rain.And his sleep is in the far-offAlien villages of the dusk,Where there is no voice of welcomeTo the country of the strangers,Save the murmur of the pines.And the fitful winds all dayThrough the grass with restless footfallsHaunt about his narrow door,Muttering their vast unknownBorder balladry of time,To the hoarse rote of the sea.There he reassumes repose,He who never learned unrestHere amid our fury of toil,Undisturbed though all about himTo the cohorts of the nightSound the bugles of the spring;And his slumber is not brokenWhen along the granite hillsFlare the torches of the dawn.More to me than kith or kinWas the silence of his speech;And the quiet of his eyes,Gathered from the lonely sweepOf the hyacinthine hills,Better to the failing spiritThan a river land in June:And to look for him at eveningWas more joy than many friends.As the woodland brooks at noonWere his brown and gentle hands,And his face as the hill countryTouched with the red autumn sunFrank and patient and untroubledSave by the old trace of doomIn the story of the world.So the years went brightening by.Now a lyric wind and weatherBreaks the leaguer of the frost,And the shining rough month MarchCrumbles into sun and rain;But the glad and murmurous yearWheels above his rest and wakensNot a dream for Andrew Straton.Now the uplands hold an echoFrom the meadow lands at morn;And the marshes hear the riversRouse their giant heart once more,—Hear the crunching floe start seawardFrom a thousand valley floors;While far on amid the hillsUnder stars in the clear night,The replying, the replying,Of the ice-cold rivuletsPlashing down the solemn gorgesIn their arrowy blue speed,Fills and frets the crisp blue twilightWith innumerable sound,—With the whisper of the spring.But the melting fields are empty,Something ails the bursting year.Ah, now helpless, O my rivers,Are your lifted voices now!Where is all the sweet compassionOnce your murmur held for me?Cradled in your dells, I listenedTo your crooning, learned your language,Born your brother and your kin.When I had the morn for revel,You made music at my door;Now the days go darkling on,And I cannot guess your words.Shall young joy have troops of neighbors,While this grief must house alone?O my brothers of the hills,Who abide through stress and change,On the borders of our sorrow,With no part in human tears,Lift me up your voice againAnd put by this grievous thing!Ah, my rivers, Andrew StratonLeaves me here a vacant world!I must hear the roar of citiesAnd the jargon of the schools,With no word of that one spiritWho was steadfast as the sunAnd kept silence with the stars.I must sit and hear the babbleOf the worldling and the fool,Prating know-alls and reformersBusy to improve on man,With their chatter about God;Nowhere, nowhere the blue eyes,With their swift and grave regard,Falling on me with God’s look.I have seen and known and lovedOne who was too sure for sorrow,Too serenely wise for haste,Too compassionate for scorn,Fearless man and faultless comrade,One great heart whose beat was love.In a thousand thousand hollowsOf the hills to-day there twinkleIcy-blue handbreadths of April,Where the sinking snows decayIn the everlasting sun;And a thousand tiny creaturesStretch their heart to fill the world.Now along the wondrous trailAndrew Straton loved to followDay by day and year on year,The awaited sure returnOf all sleeping forest thingsIs reheralded abroad,Till the places of their journey,—Wells the frost no longer hushes,Ways no drift can bury now,Wood and stream and road and hillside,—Hail their coming as of old.But my beautiful lost comradeOf the golden heart, whose lifeRang through April like a voiceThrough some Norland saga, cryingSkoalto death, comes not again;Time shall not revive that presenceMore desired than all the flowers,Longer wished for than the birds.April comes, but April’s loverIs departed and not here.Sojourning beyond the frost,He delays; and now no more,—Though the goldenwings are comeWith their resonant tattoo,And along the barrier pinesMorning reddens on the hillsWhere the thrushes wake before it,—No more to the summoning flutesOf the forest Andrew StratonGets him forth afoot, light-hearted,On the unfrequented waysWith companionable Spring.Only the old dreams return.So I shape me here this fancy,Foolish me! of Andrew Straton;How the lands of that new kindredHave detained him with allegiance,And some far day I shall find him,There as here my only captain,Master of the utmost islesIn the ampler straits of sea.Out of the blue melting distanceOf the dreamy southward rangeJourney back the vagrant winds,Sure and indolent as time;And the trembling wakened wood-flowersLift their gentle tiny facesTo the sunlight; and the rainbirdsFrom the lonely cedar barrensUtter their far pleading cry.Up across the swales and burnt landsWhere the soft gray tinges purple,Mouldering into scarlet mist,Comes the sound as of a marching,The low murmur of the AprilIn the many-rivered hills.Then there stirs the old vague rapture,Like a wanderer come back,Still desiring, scathed but deathless,From beyond the bourne of tears,Wayworn to his vacant cabin,To this foolish fearless heart.Soon the large mild stars of springtimeWill resume the ancient twilightAnd restore the heart of earthTo unvexed eternal poise;For the great Will, calm and lonely,Can no mortal grief derange,No lost memories perturb;And the sluices of the morningWill be opened, and the daybreakWell with bird-calls and with brook-notes,Till there be no more despairIn the gold dream of the world.
Andrew Stratonwas my friend,With his Saxon eyes and hair,And his loyal viking spirit,Like an islesman of the NorthWith his earldom on the sea.At his birth the mighty MotherMade of him a fondling one,Hushed from pain within her arms,With her seal upon his lips;And from that day he was numberedWith the sons of consolation,Peace and cheer were in his hands,And her secret in his will.Now the night has Andrew StratonHoused from wind and storm foreverIn a chamber of the gloomWhere no window fronts the morning,Lulled to rest at last from rovingTo the music of the rain.And his sleep is in the far-offAlien villages of the dusk,Where there is no voice of welcomeTo the country of the strangers,Save the murmur of the pines.And the fitful winds all dayThrough the grass with restless footfallsHaunt about his narrow door,Muttering their vast unknownBorder balladry of time,To the hoarse rote of the sea.There he reassumes repose,He who never learned unrestHere amid our fury of toil,Undisturbed though all about himTo the cohorts of the nightSound the bugles of the spring;And his slumber is not brokenWhen along the granite hillsFlare the torches of the dawn.More to me than kith or kinWas the silence of his speech;And the quiet of his eyes,Gathered from the lonely sweepOf the hyacinthine hills,Better to the failing spiritThan a river land in June:And to look for him at eveningWas more joy than many friends.As the woodland brooks at noonWere his brown and gentle hands,And his face as the hill countryTouched with the red autumn sunFrank and patient and untroubledSave by the old trace of doomIn the story of the world.So the years went brightening by.Now a lyric wind and weatherBreaks the leaguer of the frost,And the shining rough month MarchCrumbles into sun and rain;But the glad and murmurous yearWheels above his rest and wakensNot a dream for Andrew Straton.Now the uplands hold an echoFrom the meadow lands at morn;And the marshes hear the riversRouse their giant heart once more,—Hear the crunching floe start seawardFrom a thousand valley floors;While far on amid the hillsUnder stars in the clear night,The replying, the replying,Of the ice-cold rivuletsPlashing down the solemn gorgesIn their arrowy blue speed,Fills and frets the crisp blue twilightWith innumerable sound,—With the whisper of the spring.But the melting fields are empty,Something ails the bursting year.Ah, now helpless, O my rivers,Are your lifted voices now!Where is all the sweet compassionOnce your murmur held for me?Cradled in your dells, I listenedTo your crooning, learned your language,Born your brother and your kin.When I had the morn for revel,You made music at my door;Now the days go darkling on,And I cannot guess your words.Shall young joy have troops of neighbors,While this grief must house alone?O my brothers of the hills,Who abide through stress and change,On the borders of our sorrow,With no part in human tears,Lift me up your voice againAnd put by this grievous thing!Ah, my rivers, Andrew StratonLeaves me here a vacant world!I must hear the roar of citiesAnd the jargon of the schools,With no word of that one spiritWho was steadfast as the sunAnd kept silence with the stars.I must sit and hear the babbleOf the worldling and the fool,Prating know-alls and reformersBusy to improve on man,With their chatter about God;Nowhere, nowhere the blue eyes,With their swift and grave regard,Falling on me with God’s look.I have seen and known and lovedOne who was too sure for sorrow,Too serenely wise for haste,Too compassionate for scorn,Fearless man and faultless comrade,One great heart whose beat was love.In a thousand thousand hollowsOf the hills to-day there twinkleIcy-blue handbreadths of April,Where the sinking snows decayIn the everlasting sun;And a thousand tiny creaturesStretch their heart to fill the world.Now along the wondrous trailAndrew Straton loved to followDay by day and year on year,The awaited sure returnOf all sleeping forest thingsIs reheralded abroad,Till the places of their journey,—Wells the frost no longer hushes,Ways no drift can bury now,Wood and stream and road and hillside,—Hail their coming as of old.But my beautiful lost comradeOf the golden heart, whose lifeRang through April like a voiceThrough some Norland saga, cryingSkoalto death, comes not again;Time shall not revive that presenceMore desired than all the flowers,Longer wished for than the birds.April comes, but April’s loverIs departed and not here.Sojourning beyond the frost,He delays; and now no more,—Though the goldenwings are comeWith their resonant tattoo,And along the barrier pinesMorning reddens on the hillsWhere the thrushes wake before it,—No more to the summoning flutesOf the forest Andrew StratonGets him forth afoot, light-hearted,On the unfrequented waysWith companionable Spring.Only the old dreams return.So I shape me here this fancy,Foolish me! of Andrew Straton;How the lands of that new kindredHave detained him with allegiance,And some far day I shall find him,There as here my only captain,Master of the utmost islesIn the ampler straits of sea.Out of the blue melting distanceOf the dreamy southward rangeJourney back the vagrant winds,Sure and indolent as time;And the trembling wakened wood-flowersLift their gentle tiny facesTo the sunlight; and the rainbirdsFrom the lonely cedar barrensUtter their far pleading cry.Up across the swales and burnt landsWhere the soft gray tinges purple,Mouldering into scarlet mist,Comes the sound as of a marching,The low murmur of the AprilIn the many-rivered hills.Then there stirs the old vague rapture,Like a wanderer come back,Still desiring, scathed but deathless,From beyond the bourne of tears,Wayworn to his vacant cabin,To this foolish fearless heart.Soon the large mild stars of springtimeWill resume the ancient twilightAnd restore the heart of earthTo unvexed eternal poise;For the great Will, calm and lonely,Can no mortal grief derange,No lost memories perturb;And the sluices of the morningWill be opened, and the daybreakWell with bird-calls and with brook-notes,Till there be no more despairIn the gold dream of the world.
Andrew Stratonwas my friend,With his Saxon eyes and hair,And his loyal viking spirit,Like an islesman of the NorthWith his earldom on the sea.
At his birth the mighty MotherMade of him a fondling one,Hushed from pain within her arms,With her seal upon his lips;
And from that day he was numberedWith the sons of consolation,Peace and cheer were in his hands,And her secret in his will.
Now the night has Andrew StratonHoused from wind and storm foreverIn a chamber of the gloomWhere no window fronts the morning,Lulled to rest at last from rovingTo the music of the rain.
And his sleep is in the far-offAlien villages of the dusk,Where there is no voice of welcomeTo the country of the strangers,Save the murmur of the pines.
And the fitful winds all dayThrough the grass with restless footfallsHaunt about his narrow door,Muttering their vast unknownBorder balladry of time,To the hoarse rote of the sea.
There he reassumes repose,He who never learned unrestHere amid our fury of toil,Undisturbed though all about himTo the cohorts of the nightSound the bugles of the spring;And his slumber is not brokenWhen along the granite hillsFlare the torches of the dawn.
More to me than kith or kinWas the silence of his speech;And the quiet of his eyes,Gathered from the lonely sweepOf the hyacinthine hills,Better to the failing spiritThan a river land in June:And to look for him at eveningWas more joy than many friends.
As the woodland brooks at noonWere his brown and gentle hands,And his face as the hill countryTouched with the red autumn sun
Frank and patient and untroubledSave by the old trace of doomIn the story of the world.So the years went brightening by.
Now a lyric wind and weatherBreaks the leaguer of the frost,And the shining rough month MarchCrumbles into sun and rain;But the glad and murmurous yearWheels above his rest and wakensNot a dream for Andrew Straton.
Now the uplands hold an echoFrom the meadow lands at morn;And the marshes hear the riversRouse their giant heart once more,—
Hear the crunching floe start seawardFrom a thousand valley floors;While far on amid the hillsUnder stars in the clear night,The replying, the replying,Of the ice-cold rivuletsPlashing down the solemn gorgesIn their arrowy blue speed,Fills and frets the crisp blue twilightWith innumerable sound,—With the whisper of the spring.
But the melting fields are empty,Something ails the bursting year.
Ah, now helpless, O my rivers,Are your lifted voices now!Where is all the sweet compassionOnce your murmur held for me?Cradled in your dells, I listenedTo your crooning, learned your language,Born your brother and your kin.
When I had the morn for revel,You made music at my door;Now the days go darkling on,And I cannot guess your words.Shall young joy have troops of neighbors,While this grief must house alone?
O my brothers of the hills,Who abide through stress and change,On the borders of our sorrow,With no part in human tears,Lift me up your voice againAnd put by this grievous thing!
Ah, my rivers, Andrew StratonLeaves me here a vacant world!
I must hear the roar of citiesAnd the jargon of the schools,With no word of that one spiritWho was steadfast as the sunAnd kept silence with the stars.I must sit and hear the babbleOf the worldling and the fool,Prating know-alls and reformersBusy to improve on man,With their chatter about God;Nowhere, nowhere the blue eyes,With their swift and grave regard,Falling on me with God’s look.
I have seen and known and lovedOne who was too sure for sorrow,Too serenely wise for haste,Too compassionate for scorn,Fearless man and faultless comrade,One great heart whose beat was love.
In a thousand thousand hollowsOf the hills to-day there twinkleIcy-blue handbreadths of April,Where the sinking snows decayIn the everlasting sun;And a thousand tiny creaturesStretch their heart to fill the world.
Now along the wondrous trailAndrew Straton loved to followDay by day and year on year,The awaited sure returnOf all sleeping forest thingsIs reheralded abroad,Till the places of their journey,—Wells the frost no longer hushes,Ways no drift can bury now,Wood and stream and road and hillside,—Hail their coming as of old.
But my beautiful lost comradeOf the golden heart, whose lifeRang through April like a voiceThrough some Norland saga, cryingSkoalto death, comes not again;Time shall not revive that presenceMore desired than all the flowers,Longer wished for than the birds.
April comes, but April’s loverIs departed and not here.
Sojourning beyond the frost,He delays; and now no more,—Though the goldenwings are comeWith their resonant tattoo,And along the barrier pinesMorning reddens on the hillsWhere the thrushes wake before it,—No more to the summoning flutesOf the forest Andrew StratonGets him forth afoot, light-hearted,On the unfrequented waysWith companionable Spring.
Only the old dreams return.So I shape me here this fancy,Foolish me! of Andrew Straton;How the lands of that new kindredHave detained him with allegiance,And some far day I shall find him,There as here my only captain,Master of the utmost islesIn the ampler straits of sea.
Out of the blue melting distanceOf the dreamy southward rangeJourney back the vagrant winds,Sure and indolent as time;And the trembling wakened wood-flowersLift their gentle tiny facesTo the sunlight; and the rainbirdsFrom the lonely cedar barrensUtter their far pleading cry.
Up across the swales and burnt landsWhere the soft gray tinges purple,Mouldering into scarlet mist,Comes the sound as of a marching,The low murmur of the AprilIn the many-rivered hills.
Then there stirs the old vague rapture,Like a wanderer come back,Still desiring, scathed but deathless,From beyond the bourne of tears,Wayworn to his vacant cabin,To this foolish fearless heart.
Soon the large mild stars of springtimeWill resume the ancient twilightAnd restore the heart of earthTo unvexed eternal poise;For the great Will, calm and lonely,Can no mortal grief derange,No lost memories perturb;And the sluices of the morningWill be opened, and the daybreakWell with bird-calls and with brook-notes,Till there be no more despairIn the gold dream of the world.