The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFires of DriftwoodThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Fires of DriftwoodAuthor: Isabel Ecclestone MackayRelease date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12475]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Andrew Sly. Thanks to A Celebration of Women Writersfor providing the source text.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRES OF DRIFTWOOD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Fires of DriftwoodAuthor: Isabel Ecclestone MackayRelease date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12475]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Andrew Sly. Thanks to A Celebration of Women Writersfor providing the source text.
Title: Fires of Driftwood
Author: Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Author: Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12475]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Andrew Sly. Thanks to A Celebration of Women Writersfor providing the source text.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRES OF DRIFTWOOD ***
First published by McClelland & Stewart, Limited, Toronto, 1922.
The thanks of the author are due to the editors ofAinslee’s Magazine, The American Magazine, The Canadian Magazine, Canadian Home Journal, The Canadian Bookman, The Forum, The Globe, Harper’s Magazine, The Independent, The Ladies’ World, McClure’s Magazine, Metropolitan Magazine, The Reader Magazine, Scribner’s Magazine, Saturday Night,andThe Youth’s Companionfor permission to publish this verse in its present form.
ON what long tidesDo you drift to my fire,You waifs of strange waters?From what far seas,What murmurous sands,What desolate beaches—Flotsam of those glories that were ships!
I gather you,Bitter with salt,Sun-bleached, rock-scarred, moon-harried,Fuel for my fire.
You are Pride’s end.Through all to-morrows you are yesterday.You are waste,You are ruin,For where is that which once you were?
I gather you.See! I set free the fire within you—You awake in thin flame!Tremulous, mistlike, your soul aspires,Blue, beautiful,Up and up to the clouds which are its kindred!What is left is nothing—Ashes blown along the shore!
WHEN, as a lad, at break of dayI watched the fishers sail away,My thoughts, like flocking birds, would followAcross the curving sky’s blue hollow,And on and on—Into the very heart of dawn!
For long I searched the world—ah, me!I searched the sky, I searched the sea,With much of useless grief and rueingThose wingéd thoughts of mine pursuing—So dear were they,So lovely and so far away!
I seek them still and always mustUntil my laggard heart is dustAnd I am free to follow, follow,Across the curving sky’s blue hollow,Those thoughts too fleetFor any save the soul’s swift feet!
DEATH met a little child who criedFor a bright star which earth denied,And Death, so sympathetic, kissed it,Saying: “With meAll bright things be!”—And only the child’s mother missed it.
Death met a maiden on the brae,Her eyes held dreams life would betray,And gallant Death was greatly taken—“Leave,” whispered he,“Your dream with meAnd I will see you never waken.”
Death met an old man in a lane;So gnarled was he and full of painThat kindly Death was struck with pity—“Come you with me,Old man,” said he,“I’ll set you down in a fair city.”
So, kingly Death along the wayScatters rare gifts and asks no pay—Yet who to Death will write a sonnet?If any dare,Let him take careNo foolish tear be spilled upon it!
THEIR looks for me are bitter,And bitter is their word—I may not glance behind unseen,I may not sigh unheard.
So fare we forth from Babylon,Along the road of stone;And no one looks to BabylonSave I—save I alone!
My mother’s eyes are glory-filled(Save when they fall on me)The shining of my father’s faceI tremble when I see,
For they were slaves in Babylon,And now they’re walking free—They leave their chains in Babylon,I bear my chains with me!
At night a sound of singingThe vast encampment fills;“Jerusalem! Jerusalem!”It sweeps the nearing hills—
But no one sings of Babylon(Their home of yesterday)And no one prays for Babylon,And I—I dare not pray!
Last night the Prophet saw me;And, while he held me there,The holy fire within his eyesBurned all my secret bare.
“What! Sigh you so for Babylon?”(I turned away my face)“Here’s one who turns to Babylon,Heart traitor to her race!”
I follow and I follow!My heart upon the rack;I follow to Jerusalem—The long road stretches back
To Babylon, to Babylon!And every step I takeBears farther off from BabylonA heart that cannot break.
THIS morning at the doorI heard the Spring.Quickly I set it wideAnd, welcoming,“Come in, sweet Spring,” I cried,“The winter ash, long dried,Waits but your breath to riseOn phantom wing.”
A brown leaf shivered by,A soulless thing—My heart in quick dismayForgot to sing—Twisted and grim it lay,Kin to the ghost-ash gray,Dead, dead—strange herald thisOf jocund Spring!
I spurned it from the door.I longed that SpringShould come with song and glowAnd rush of wing,Not this, not this!—But ODead leaf, a year agoYou were the dear first-bornOf Hope and Spring!
BY a sense of Presence, keenly dear,I, who thought her distant,Knew her near.
By an echo that most sweetly woke,I, long keyed to silence,Knew she spoke.
By her nearness and the word she said,I, who thought her living,Knew her dead.
TO-NIGHT the air disclosesSouls of a million roses,And ghosts of hyacinths that died too soon;From Pan’s safe-hidden altarDim wraiths of incense falterIn waving spiral, making sweet the moon!
Aroused from fragrant covers,The vows of vanished loversTake voice in whisperings that rise and pass;Where the crisped leaves are lyingA tremulous, low sighingBreathes like a startled spirit o’er the grass.
Ah, Love! in some far garden,In Arcady or Arden,We two were lovers! Hush—remember notThe years in which I’ve missed you—’Twas yesterday I kissed youBeneath this haunted moon! Have you forgot?
THE moan of Rose Dolores, she made her plaint to me,“My hair is lifted by the wind that sweeps in from the sea;I taste its salt upon my lips—O jailer, set me free!”
“Content thee, Rose Dolores; content thee, child of care!There’s satin shoon upon thy feet and emeralds in thy hair,And one there is who hungers for thy step upon the stair.”
The moan of Rose Dolores, “O jailer, set me free!These satin shoon and green-lit gems are terrible to me;I hear a murmur on the wind, the murmur of the sea!”
“Bethink thee, Rose Dolores, bethink thee, ere too late!Thou wert a fisher’s child, alack, born to a fisher’s fate;Would’st lay thy beauty ’neath the yoke—would’st be a fisher’s mate?”
The moan of Rose Dolores “Kind jailer, let me go!There’s one who is a fisher—ah! my heart beats cold and slowLest he should doubt I love him—I! who love not heaven so!”
“Alas, sweet Rose Dolores, why beat against the bars?Thy fisher lover drifteth where the sea is full of stars;Why weep for one who weeps no more?—since grief thy beauty mars!”
The moan of Rose Dolores (she prayed me patiently)“O jailer, now I know who called from out the calling sea,I know whose kiss was in the wind—O jailer, set me free!”
ACROSS the trodden continent of yearsTo shrines of long ago,My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears—For could I knowThat in the temple of thy constancyThere still may burn a taper lit for me,’Twould be a star in starless heaven, to showThat Heaven could be.
Bent with the weight of all that I desiredAnd all that I forswore,My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired,From door to door,Begging of every stern-faced memoryAn alms of pity—just to come to thee,No more thy knight, thy champion no more—Only thy devotee!
SPRING will come to help me: she’ll be back again,Back with the soft sun, the sun I knew before.She will wear her green gown, the emerald gown she woreWhen the white-faced windflowers blew along the lane.
Spring will come to help me: When her waking sighDrifts across my sore heart all the pain will go.How shall hearts be aching when larks are flying low,Low across the fields of camas bluer than the sky?
I’ve a tryst with Spring here—maybe they’ll be fewNow the world grows older—and shall I delayJust because a Winter has stolen joy away?What cares Spring for old joys, all her joys are new.
Maybe there’ll be singing in my sorrow yet—I have heard of such things—but, if there be not,Still there’ll be the green pool in the pasture lot,All a-trail with willow fingers, delicate and wet.
Winter is a passing thing and Spring is always gay;If she, too, be passing she does not weep to know it.Time she takes to quicken seed but never time to grow it—Naught she cares for harvest that lies so far away.
THE tiny thing of painted gauze that flutters in the sunAnd sinks upon the breast of night with all its living done;
The unconsidered seed that from the garden blows away,Blooming its little time to bloom in one short summer day;
The leaf the idle wind shakes down in autumn from the tree,The grasshopper who for an hour makes gayest minstrelsy—
These—and this restless soul of mine—are one with flaming spheresAnd cold, dead moons whose ghostly fires haunt unremembered years.
IF I should tell you what I knowOf where the first primroses grow,Betray the secrets of the lily,Bring crocus-gold and daffodilly,Would you tell me if charm there beTo win a maiden, willy-nilly?
I lie upon the fragrant heath,Kin to the beating heart beneath;The nesting plover I discoverNor stir the scented screen above her,Yet am I blind—I cannot findWhat turns a maiden to her lover!
Through all the mysteries of May,Initiate, I take my way—Sure as the blithest lark or linnetTo touch the pulsing soul within it—Yet with no art to reach Her heart,Nor skill to teach me how to win it!
I WATCH swift pictures flash and fadeOn the closed curtains of my eyes,—A bit of river green as jadeUnder green skies;
A single bird that soars and dipsRemote; a young and secret moonStealing to kiss some flower’s lipsToo shy for noon;
A pointing tree; a lifted hill,Sun-misted with a golden ring,—Were these once mine? And am I stillRemembering?
A path that wanders wistfullyWith no beginning there nor here,Nor special grace that it should beSo sharply dear,
Unless,—what if when every dayIs yesterday, with naught to borrow,I may slip down this wistful wayInto to-morrow?
I HEARD a sound of crying in the lane,A passionless, low crying,And I said, “It is the tears of the brown rainOn the leaves within the lane!”
I heard a sudden sighing at the door,A soft, persuasive sighing,And I said, “The summer breeze has sighed before,Gustily, outside the door!”
Yet from the place I fled, nor came again,With my heart beating, beating!For I knew ’twas not the breeze nor the brown rainAt the door and in the lane!
I BURIED Joy; and early to the tombI came to weep—so sorrowful was IWho had not dreamed that Joy, my Joy, could die.
I turned away, and by my side stood JoyAll glorified—ah, so ashamed was IWho dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die!
THE voice of my true love is lowAnd exquisitely kind,Warm as a flower, cold as snow—I think it is the Wind.
My true love’s face is white as mistThat moons have lingered on,Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed—I think it is the Dawn.
The breath of my true love is sweetAs gardens at day’s closeWhen dew and dark together meet—I think it is a Rose.
My true love’s heart is wild and shyAnd folded from my sight,A world, a star, a whispering sigh—I think it is the Night.
My true love’s name is lost to me,The prey of dusty years,But in the falling Rain I seeAnd know her by her tears!
WHO is the monarch of the Road?I, the happy rover!Lord of the way which lies beforeUp to the hill and over—Owner of all beneath the blue,On till the end, and after, too!
I am the monarch of the Road!Mine are the keys of morning,I know where evening keeps her storeOf stars for night’s adorning,I know the wind’s wild will, and whyThe lone thrush hurries down the sky!
I am the monarch of the Road!My court I hold with singing,Each bird a gay ambassador,Each flower a censer, swinging;And every little roadside thingA wonder to confound a king.
I am the monarch of the Road!I ask no leave for living;I take no less, I seek no moreThan nature’s fullest giving—And ever, westward with the day,I travel to the far away!
WITHIN my circled arm she lay and faintly smiled the long night through,And oh, but she was fair to view, fair to view!
Upon the whiteness of her robe the dew distilled, and on her veilAnd on her cheek of carvéd pearl that gleamed so pale.
(How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are,One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star!)
I kissed her heavy, folded hair. I kissed her heavy lids full oft;Beneath the shining of the stars her eyes shone soft.
“Love, Love!” I said, “the day was long”—“Oh, long indeed,” she sighing said.“I grow so jealous of the sun, since I am dead.”
(How sweet the air is in the night, how sweet, sweet, sweet the flowers seem—But oh, the emptiness of dawn that breaks the dream!)
YELLOW as the noonday sun,Purple as a day that’s done,White as mist that lingers paleOn the edge of morning’s veil,Delicate as love’s first kiss—Crocuses are just like this.
Ere the robin paints his breast,Ere the daffodil is drest,Ere the iris’ lovely headWaves above her perfumed bedComes the crocus—and the SpringFollows after, wing on wing!
Sweet perfection, holding upMagic dew in topaz cup,Alabaster, amethyst—Curling lips which Earth has kissed,Folded hearts where secrets hide,Secrets old when Eve was bride!
Beauty’s soul was born with wings,Flight inspires all lovely things—Would you gather rainbow fire?See the rose of dawn’s desireTurn to ash beneath the moon?—Crocuses must leave us soon.
“O SISTER, sister, from the casement leaning,What sees thy trancéd eye, what is the meaningOf the strange rapture that thy features know?”“I see,” she said, “the sunset’s crimson glow.”
“O sister, sister, from the casement turning,What saw’st thou there save sunset’s sullen burning?—Thy hand is ice, and fever lights thine eye!”“I saw,” she said, “the twilight drifting by.”
“O sister, oft the sun hath set and oftenHave we beheld the twilight fold and softenThe edge of day— In this no mystery lies!”“I saw,” she said, “the crescent moon arise.”
“O sister, speak! I fear when on me fallethThine empty glance which some wild spell enthralleth!—How chill the air blows through the open door!”“I saw,” she said, “I saw”—and spake no more.
THERE’S not a leaf upon the treeTo show the sap is leaping,There’s not a blade and not an earEscaped from winter’s keeping—But there’s a something in the airA something here, a something there,A restless something everywhere—A stirring in the sleeping!
A robin’s sudden, thrilling note!And see—the sky is bluer!The world, so ancient yesterday,To-day seems strangely newer;All that was wearisome and staleHas wrapped itself in rosy veil—The wraith of winter, grown so paleThat smiling spring peeps through her!
WIND-SWEPT and fire-swept and swept with bitter rain,This was the world I came to when I came across the sea—Sun-drenched and panting, a pregnant, waiting plainCalling out to humankind, calling out to me!Leafy lanes and gentle skies and little fields all green,This was the world I came from when I fared across the sea—The mansion and the village and the farmhouse in between,Never any room for more, never room for me!
I’ve fought the wind and braved it; I cringe to it no more!I’ve fought the creeping fire back and cheered to see it die.I’ve shut the bitter rain outside and, safe within my door,Laughed to think I feared a thing not so strong as I!
I mind the long, white road that ran between the hedgerows neat,In that little, strange old world I left behind me long ago,I mind the air so full of bells at evening, far and sweet—All and all for someone else—I had leave to go!
It cost a tear to leave it—but here across the seaWith miles and miles of unused sky, and miles of unturned loam,And miles of room for someone else, and miles of room for meI’ve found a bigger meaning for the little word called “Home.”
IT is the English in me that loves the soft, wet weather—The cloud upon the mountain, the mist upon the sea,The sea-gull flying low and near with rain upon each feather,The scent of deep, green woodlands where the buds are breaking free.
A world all hot with sunshine, with a hot, white sky above it—Oh then I feel an alien in a land I’d call my own;The rain is like a friend’s caress, I lean to it and love it,’Tis like a finger on a nerve that thrills for it alone!
Is it the secret kinship which each new life is givenTo link it by an age-long chain to those whose lives are through,That wheresoever he may go, by fate or fancy driven,The home-star rises in his heart to keep the compass true?
Ah, ’tis the English in me that loves the soft, gray weather—The little mists that trail along like bits of wind-flung foam,The primrose and the violet—all wet and sweet together,And the sound of water calling, as it used to call at home.
SO has she lain for centuries unguessed,Her waiting face to waiting heaven turned,While winds have wooed and ardent suns have burnedAnd stars have died to sentinel her rest.
Only the snow can reach her as she lies,Far and serene, and with cold finger-tipsSeal soft the lovely quiet of her lipsAnd lightly veil the shadows of her eyes.
Man has no part—his little, noisy yearsRise to her silence thin and impotent—There are no echoes in that vast content,No doubts, no dreams, no laughter and no tears!
* A formation of mountain peaks above Vancouver Harbor, outlining the profile and form of a sleeping maiden.
DOWN at the docks—when the smoke clouds lie,Wind-ript and red, on an angry sky—Coal-dumps and derricks and piled-up bales,Tar and the gear of forgotten sails,Rusted chains and a broken spar(Yesterday’s breath on the things that are)A lone, black cat and a snappy cur,Smell of high-tide and of newcut fir,Smell of low-tide, fish, weed!—I swearI love every blesséd smell that’s there—For, aeons ago when the sea began,My soul was the soul of a sailorman.
Down at the docks—where the ships come in,And the endless trails of the sea begin,Where the shining wake of a steamer’s trackIs barred by the tow of the tugboats black,Where slim yachts dip to the singing sprayAnd a gay wind whistles the world away—Here sad ships lie which will sail no more,But new ships build on the noisy shore,And always the breath of the wind and tideWhispers the lure of the sea outside,Till now and to-morrow and yesterdayAre linked by the spell of the faraway!
Down at the docks—when the morning’s newAnd the air is gold and the distance blue,There’s a pull at the heart! But best of allIs to see the sun shrink, red and small,While the fog steals in (more surely fleetThan the smacks that run from her white-shod feet)And clamours of startled calls ariseFrom bewildered ships that have lost their eyes;The fog horn bellows its deep-mouthed shout,The little lights on the shore blur outAnd strange, dim shapes pass wistfullyWith a secret tide to a secret sea.
I THINK that when the Master Jeweler tellsHis beads of beauty over, seeking thereOne gem to name as most supremely fair,To you He turns, O lake of hidden wells!
So very lovely are you, Lake Louise,The stars which crown your lifted peaks at evenMistake you for a little sea in heavenAnd nightly launch their shining argosies.
From shore to dim-lit shore a ripple slips,The happy sigh of faintly stirring nightWhere safe she sleeps upon this virgin heightCaptive of dream and smiling with white lips.
Surely a spell, creation-old, was madeFor you, O lake of silences, that allEarth’s fretting voices here should muted fall,As if a finger on their lips were laid!
THE sunlight falls on old Quebec,A city framed of rose and gold,An ancient gem more beautifulIn that its beauty waxes old.O Pearl of Cities! I would setYou higher in our diadem,And higher yet and higher yet,That generations still to beMay kindle at your history!
’Twas here that gallant Champlain stoodAnd gazed upon this mighty stream,These towering rock-walls, buttressed high—A gateway to a land of dream;And all his silent men stood nearWhile the great fleur-de-lis fell free,(Too awe-struck they to raise a cheer)And while the shining folds outspreadThe sunset burned a sudden red.
Here paced the haughty Frontenac,His great heart torn with pride and pain,His clear eye dimming as it sweptThe land he might not see again,This infant world, this strange New FranceDropped down as by some vagrant windUpon the New World’s vast expanse,Threatened yet safe! Through storm and stressTime’s challenge to the wilderness.
Here, when to ease her tangled skeinFate cut her threads and formed anewThe pattern of the thing she plannedAnd red war slipped the shuttle through,Montcalm met Wolfe! The bitter strifeOf flag and flag was ended here—And every man who gave his lifeGave it that now one flag may wave,One nation rise upon his grave!
The twilight falls on old QuebecAnd in the purple shines a star,And on her citadel lies peaceMore powerful than armies are.O fair dream city! Ebb and flowOf race feuds vex no more your walls.Can they of old see this? and knowThat, even as they dreamed, you standGatekeeper of a peace-filled land!
OF old the Winds came romping down,Oh, wild and free were they!They bent the prairie grasses lowAnd made a place to play.
Then, that the gods might hear their voiceOn purple days of spring,They sought the tossing, pine-clad slopeAnd made a place to sing.
Tired at last of song and play,They found a canyon deepAnd in its echoing silencesThey made a place to weep.
Man came, a small and feeble thing,And looked upon the plain.“Lo, this is mine,” he said, and setA seal of golden grain.
Upon the mountain slopes he gazed,Where the great pine trees grow,Then gashed their mighty sides and laidTheir singing branches low.
He clung upon the canyon’s ledgeAnd from its topmost ridge,Above its vast and awful deeps,He built himself a bridge.
A bauble in the light of day,New gilded by the sun,It seemed like some great, golden webBy giant spider spun!
The homeless winds came rushing down—Oh they were wild and free!And angry for their stolen plainAnd for their felled pine tree—
And angry—angry most of allFor that brave bridge of gold!With deep-mouthed shout they hurtled downTo tear it from its hold—
The girders shrieked, the cables strainedAnd shuddered at the roar—Yet, when the winds had passed, the bridgeHeld firmly as before!
Still fairy-like and frail it shoneAgainst the sunset’s glow—But one, the builder of the bridge,Lay silent, far below!
THE sweet west wind, the prairie school a break in the yellow wheat,The prairie trail that wanders by to the place where the four winds meet—A trail with never an end at all to the children’s eager feet.
The morning scents, the morning sun, a morning sky so blueThe distance melts to meet it till both are lost to viewIn a little line of glory where the new day beckons through—
And out of the glow, the children: a whoop and a calling gay,A clink of lunch-pails swinging as they clash in mimic fray,A shout and a shouting echo from a world as young as they!
The prairie school! The well-tramped earth, so ugly and so dear,The piney steps where teacher stands, a saucy gopher near,A rough-cut pole where the flag flies up to a shrill voiced children’s cheer.
So stands the outpost! Time and change will crowd its widening door,Big with the dreams we visioned and the hopes we battled for—A legacy to those who come from those who come no more.
DAZZLED by sun and drugged by space they wait,These homeless peoples, at our prairie gate;Dumb with the awe of those whom fate has hurled,Breathless, upon the threshold of a world!
From near-horizoned, little lands they come,From barren country-side and deathly slum,From bleakest wastes, from lands of aching drouth,From grape-hung valleys of the smiling South,From chains and prisons, ay, from horrid fear,(Mark you the furtive eye, the listening ear!)And all amazed and silent, scared and shy—An alien group beneath an alien sky!
See—on that bench beside the busy door—There sleeps a Roman born: upon the floorHis wife, dark-haired and handsome, takes her rest,Their black-eyed baby tugging at her breast.Her hands lie still. Her brooding glances roamAbove the pushing crowd to her far home,And slow she smiles to think how fine ’twill beWhen they (so rich!) return to Italy.
Yonder, with stolid face and tragic eye,Sits a lone Russian; as we pass him byHe neither stirs nor looks; his inner gazeSees not the future fair, but, troubled, straysTo the dark land he left but can’t forget,Whose bonds, though broken, hold him prisoner yet.
Here is a Pole—a worker; though so slimHis muscle is of steel—no fear for him;He is the breed which conquers; he is nervedTo fight and fight again. Too long he served,Man of a subject race! His fierce, blue eyeRoams like a homing eagle o’er the sky,So limitless, so deep! for such as heLife has no higher bliss than to be free.
This little Englishman with jaunty airAnd tweed cap perched awry on close-trimmed hair—He, with his faded wife and noisy band,Has come from Home to seek a promised land—He feels himself aggrieved, for no one saidThat things would be so big and so—outspread!He thinks of London with a pang of grief;His wife is sobbing in her handkerchief.But all his children stare with eager eyes.This is their land. Already they surmiseTheir heritage, their chance to live and grow,Won for them by their fathers, long ago!
Another generation, and this Scot,Whose longing for the hills is ne’er forgot,Shall rear a son whose eye will never beDim with a craving for that distant sea,Those barren rocks, that heather’s purple glow—The ache, the burn that only exiles know!
This Irishman, who, when he sees the Green,Turns that his shaking lips may not be seen,He, too, shall bear a son who, blythe and gay,Sings the old songs but in a cheerier way!Who has the love, without the anguish sharp,For Erin dreamingly by her golden harp!
All these and many others, patient, waitBefore our ever-open prairie gateAnd, filing through with laughter or with tears,Take what their hands can glean of fruitful years.Here some find home who knew not home before;Here some seek peace and some wage glorious war.Here some who lived in night see morning dawnAnd some drop out and let the rest go on.And of them all the years take toll; they passAs shadows flit above the prairie grass.
From every land they come to know but one—The kindly earth that hides them from the sun—But, in their places, children live, and theyTurn with glad faces to a common day.Of every land, they too, but one land claim—The land that gives them place and hope and name—Canadians, they, and proud and glad to beA part of Canada’s sure destiny!What if within their hearts deep memories hideOf lands their fathers grieved for, till they died?The bitterness is gone and in its steadNew understanding and new hopes are bred,With wider vision which may show the worldIts cannon dumb, its battle-flags close furled!—Dreams? We may dream indeed, with heart elate,While a new Nation clamors at our gate!
LONE Voyager! Thy Ship of DreamsSpreads its free sail and slips awayInto the distant visioningThat lies behind the end of day.
The restless tide’s impatient waveIn from the broad Pacific rollsAnd sunset marks a mystic wayTo the far-shining Port of Souls.
We, watching on the darkening shore,Wave you farewell, and strain our eyesTill that bright speck which is your sailIs lost in the enfolding skies.
Brave Heart, Sweet Singer! Speed you wellTo those dim islands of the blest,Far—far—and ever farther, tillThe end of distance brings you rest!
* For Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake.)
O WHETHER by the lonesome road that lies across the leaOr whether by the hill that stoops, rock-shadowed, to the sea,Or by a sail that blows from far, my love returns to me!
No fear is hidden in my heart to make my face less fair,No tear is hidden in my eye to dim the brightness there—I wear upon my cheek the rose a happy bride should wear.
For should he come not by the road, and come not by the hillAnd come not by the far seaway, yet come he surely will—Close all the roads of all the world, love’s road is open still!
My heart is light with singing (though they pity me my fateAnd drop their merry voices as they pass the garden gate)For love that finds a way to come, can find a way to wait!
WE are as children in a field at playBeside a road whose way we do not know,Save that somewhere it meets the end of day.
Upon the road there is a Passer-ByWho, pausing, beckons one of us—and lo!Quickly he goes, nor stays to tell us why.
One day I shall look up and see him thereBeckoning me, and with the Passer-ByI, too, shall take the road—I wonder where?
BY the pulse that beats in my throatBy my heart like a birdI know who passed through the duskThough he spoke no word!
I cannot move in my place,I am chained and still;I pray that the moon pause notBy my window-sill.
I have hidden my face in my hairAnd my eyes are veiled—Not even a star must knowHow my lips have paled—
Was ever a night so quick’Neath a moon so round?I hear the earth as it turns—And my heart’s low sound!
“SAD one, must you weep alway?Youth’s ill wedded with despair;Ringless hand and robe of greyMock the charms which they declare.”
Sad and sweetly answered she,“What are comely robes to me?I would wear a grass green dress,Dew pearls for my gems—no lessNow can comfort me.”
“Sweet, the shining of your hair(All forgotten and undone)Squanders ’neath the veil you wearGold whose loss bereaves the sun.”
Very sad and low said she,“What is shining hair to me?When from out the rain-wet moldKingcups borrow of its goldSweet and sweet ’twill be.”
“Love, O Love! your hand is chillAs a snowflake lost in spring,Wild it flutters—then lies stillAs a bird with prisoned wing!”
Sad and patient answered she,“As a bird I would be free;As the spring I would find birthIn the sweet, forgetful earth—Pray you, let it be!”
NEVER in all her sweet and holy youthSeemed she so beautiful! The tired linesEtch her white face with look so wholly pureI tremble—dare I speak to her of aught?—She is so wrapt in silence. Yet her lipsPart on a word whose honey she doth tasteAnd fears to lose by uttering too soon.I know the word; its meaning is plain writIn the wide eyes she turns upon the Child.I dare not speak. No word of mine could findIts way into a soul close sealed with GodAnd busy with the thousand mysteriesRevealed to every mother. The soft hairVeiling her placid brow is all unbound,Ungentle hands are mine but, trained by love,She might conceive them gentle—yet, I pause—I’ll not disturb her thought . . . . .
What meant those men,Far-famed and wise, who came to see the Child?Their gifts lie by forgotten, though the BabeSmiled on the shining treasure in his hands.(Those tiny hands like crumpled bits of gauze)Their sayings were mysterious to me.“A King!” they said. What King?
The mother smiledAs one who knew; and it is true they kneltAs to a King. The thing disturbs me much!I’ll ask—but no . . . . .
The breathless shepherds, too;Plain men, blank-eyed with awe, in broken speechStumbling some strange, glad tale of midnight skyA-shine with angel wings! And at their wordAgain the mother smiled, as one who seesNo wonder but what well might happen sinceA child is born to her. Are mothers so?And are they prone to dream the careless earthAnd distant heaven wait upon their joy?I’ll speak to her . . . . .
What is that in her lookWhich answers me—yet leaves me wondering still,With wonder so like rapture that I seemCaught up a breathless second into Heaven?She turns deep eyes upon me, and she smiles,Always she smiles! Ah, Mary! could I knowThe source of that glad smile—what would I know?I dare not dream, save that the mysteryIs not yet given . . . one day I may know!
SHE came to me at Christmas time and made me mother, and it seemedThere was a Christ indeed and He had given me the joy I’d dreamed.
She nestled to me, and I kept her near and warm, surprised to findThe arms that held my babe so close were opened wider to her kind.
I hid her safe within my heart. “My heart” I said, “is all for you,”But lo! She left the door ajar and all the world came flocking through.
She needed me. I learned to know the royal joy that service brings,She was so helpless that I grew to love all little helpless things.
She trusted me, and I who ne’er had trusted, save in self, grew coldWith panic lest this precious life should know no stronger, surer hold.
She lay and smiled and in her eyes I watched my narrow world grow broad,Within her tiny, crumpled hand I touched the mighty hand of God!
“THE Spring is come!” a shepherd saith;Sing, sweet Mary,“The Spring is come to NazarethAnd swift the Summer hurrieth.”Sing low, the barley and the corn!
Across the field a path is set—Sing, sweet Mary,Green shadow in a golden net—The tears of night have left it wet.Sing low, the barley and the corn!
The Babe forsakes His mother’s knee,Haste, sweet Mary—See how He runneth merrily,One foot upon the path hath He—Green, green, the barley and the corn!
The mother calls with mother-fear—Hush, sweet Mary!Another sound is in His ear,A sound he cannot choose but hear—Hush, hush, the barley and the corn!
Far and still far—through years yet dimList, sweet Mary!From o’er the waking earth’s green rimAnother Springtime calleth Him!Bend low, the barley and the corn!
Call low, call high, and call again,Ah, poor Mary!Know, by thy heart’s prophetic pain,That one day thou shalt call in vain—Moan, moan, the barley and the corn!
O mother! make thine arms a shield,Sing, sweet Mary!While love still holds what love must yieldHide well the path across the field!—Sing low, the barley and the corn!
. . . . .
“The Spring is come!” a shepherd saith;Rest thee, Mary—The passing years are but a breathAnd Spring still comes to Nazareth—Green, green, the barley and the corn!
THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said,“I will be great!”And through a long, long life he bravely knockedAt Fame’s closed gate.
A son he left who, like his sire, stroveHigh place to win;—Worn out, he died and, dying, left no traceThat he had been.
He also left a son, who, without careOr planning how,Bore the fair letters of a deathless fameUpon his brow.
“Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!”The people cried;Not knowing that to make him what he wasTwo men had died.
SLEEPER rest quietlyDeep underground!Lord of your kingdomOf murmurous sound.Hear the grass growingSweet for the mowing;Hear the stars singAs they travel around—Grass blade and star dust,You, I, and all of us,One with the cause of us,Deep underground!
Murmur not, sleeper!Yours is the keyTo all things that were andTo all things that be—While the lark’s trilling,While the grain’s filling,Laugh with the windAt Life’s Riddle-me-ree!How you were born of it?Why was the thorn of it?Where the new morn of it?Yours is the Key!
Sleep deeper, brother!Sleep and forgetRed lips that trembledEyes that were wet—Though love be weeping,Turn to your sleeping,Life has no givingThat death need regret.Here at the end of allHear the Beginning call,Life’s but death’s seneschal—Sleep and forget!
ONE comes with foot insistent to my door,Calling my name;Nor voice nor footstep have I heard before,Yet clear the calling sounds and o’er and o’er—It seems the sunlight burns along the floorWith paler flame!
“’Tis vain to call with morning on the wing,With noon so near,With Life a dancer in the masque of SpringAnd Youth new wedded with a golden ring—When falls the night and birds have ceased to singMy heart may hear!
“’Tis vain to pause. Pass, friend, upon your way!I may not heed;Too swift the hours; too sweet, too brief the day:Only one life, one spring, one perfect May—I crush each moment, with its sweets to stayLife’s joyous greed!
“Call not again! The wind is roaming byAcross the heath—The Wind’s a tell-tale and will bear your sighTo dim the smiling gladness of the skyOr kill the spring’s first violets that lieIn purple sheath—
“If you must call, call low! My heart grows still,Still as my breath,Still as your smile, O Ancient One! A chillStrikes through the sun upon the window-sill—I know you now—I follow where you will,O tyrant Death!”
I GIVE you Life, O child, a garden fair;I give you Love, a rose that blossoms there—I give a day to pluck it and to wear!
I give you Death, O child—a boon more great—That, when your Rose has withered and ’tis late,You may pass out and, smiling, close the gate!
A WALL impregnable surroundsThe Town wherein I dwell;No man may scale it and it hasTwo gates that guard it well.
One opened long ago, and IA vagrant soul, slipped through,Bewildered and forgetting allThe wider world I knew.
I love the Town, the narrow ways,The common, yellow sun,The handclasp and the jesting andThe work that must be done!
I shun the other gate that standsBeyond the crowded mart—I need but glance that way to feelCold fingers on my heart!
It stands alone and somberlyWithin a shaded place,And every man who turns that wayHas quiet on his face.
And every man must rise and leaveHis pleasant homely doorTo vanish through this silent gateAnd enter in no more—
Yet—once—I saw its opening throwA brighter light aboutAnd glimpsed strange glory on the browOf someone passing out!
I wonder if Outside may beOne fair and great demesneWhere both gates open, careless ofThe Town that lies between?
THE top of the world and an empty morning,Mist sweeping in from the dim Outside,The door of day just a little bit open—The wind’s great laugh as he flings it wide!
O wind, here’s one who would travel with youTo the far bourne you alone may know—There would I seek what some one is hiding,There would I find where my longings go!
To some deep calm would I drift and nestleClose to the heart of the Great Surprise.O strong wind, do you laugh to see us?We are so little and oh, so wise!
HE trod upon the heights; the rarer airWhich common people seek, yet cannot bear,Fed his high soul and kindled in his eyeThe fire of one who cries “I prophesy!”
“Look up!” he said. They looked but could not see.“Help us!” they cried. He strove, but uselessly—The very clouds which veiled the heaven they soughtHid from his eyes the hearts of them he taught!
GIVE me a day, beloved, that I may setA jewel in my heart—I’ll brave regret,If, on the morrow, you shall say “forget”!
One golden day when dawn shall blush to noonAnd noon incline to dark, and, oversoon,My joy lie buried ’neath a rounded moon.
Only a day—it’s worth you scarce could tellFrom other days; but in my life ’twill dwellAn oasis with palm trees and a well!
O LITTLE brown bird in the rain,In the sweet rain of spring,How you carry the youth of the worldIn the bend of your wing!For you the long day is for songAnd the night is for sleep—With never a sunrise too soonOr a midnight too deep!
For you every pool is the sky,Breaking clouds chasing through,—A heaven so instant and nearThat you bathe in its blue!—And yours is the freedom to riseTo some song-haunted starOr sink on soft wing to the woodWhere your brown nestlings are.
So busy, so strong and so glad,So care-free and young,So tingling with life to be livedAnd with songs to be sung,O little brown bird!—with your heartThat’s the heart of the Spring—How you carry the hope of the worldIn the bend of your wing!
THE long road and the low shore, a sail against the sky,The ache in my heart’s core, and hope so hard to die—Ah me, but the day’s long—and all the sails go by!
The long road and the dark shore, pools with stars aflame,The ache in my heart’s core, the hope I dare not name—Ah, me, but the night’s long—and every night the same!
A YOUTH sat down on a wayside stone,A pack on his back and a staff at his knee.He whistled a tune which he called his own,“It’s a fine new tune, that tune!” said he.
In his pack he carried a crust of bread,And he drank from his hands at a brook hard by;“Spring water is wonderful cool,” he said,“And wonderful soft is the summer sky!”
He looked to the hill which his steps had passed,He looked to the slope where a brooklet purled,He looked to the distance blue and vastAnd “Ah,” cried he, “what a fine, wide world!”
The youth passed on down the winding trackThat led to the beckoning distance dim,And though he carried but staff and pack,The world and its giving belonged to him.
“TELL me, Singer, of the wayWinding down to Arcady?Of the world’s roads I am weary—You, with song so brave and cheery,Happy troubadour must beOn the way to Arcady?”
Pausing on a muted note,Song forsook the Singer’s throat,“Friend,” sighed he, “you come too late,Once I could the way relate,Once—but long ago; Ah me,Far away is Arcady!”
“Tell me, Poet, of the wayWinding down to Arcady?Haunting is your verse and airyWith the grace and gleam of faery—Dweller you must surely beIn the land of Arcady?”
Slow the Poet raised his eyes,Sad were they as winter skies,“Once, I sojourned there,” he said;Then, no more—but with bent headWhispered low, “Ask not of meThat lost road to Arcady!”
Tell me, Lover, of the wayWinding down to Arcady?Some sweet bourne your haste confesses—Know you paths no other guesses?Does your gaze, so far away,See the road to Arcady?
In the Lover’s eyes there gleamedRadiance of all things dreamed—“Nay, detain me not,” he cried“I am hasting to my bride;What have roads to do with me,Love’s at home in Arcady!”