At evening and at morningBy an enchanted wayI walk the world in wonder,And have no word to say.
It is the path we traversedOne twilight, thou and I;Thy beauty all a rapture,My spirit all a cry.
The red leaves fall upon it,The moon and mist and rain,But not the magic footfallThat made its meaning plain.
There is a world of beingWe range from pole to pole,Through seasons of the spiritAnd weather of the soul.
It has its new-born Aprils,With gladness in the air,Its golden Junes of rapture,Its winters of despair.
And in its tranquil autumnsWe halt to re-enforceOur tattered scarlet pennonsWith valor and resource.
From undiscovered regionsOnly the angels know,Great winds of aspirationPerpetually blow,
To free the sap of impulseFrom torpor of distrust,And into flowers of joyanceQuicken the sentient dust.
From nowhere of a suddenLoom sudden clouds of fault,With thunders of oppressionAnd lightnings of revolt.
With hush of apprehensionAnd quaking of the heart,There breed the storms of anger,And floods of sorrow start.
And there shall fall,—how gently!—To make them fertile yet,The rain of absolutionOn acres of regret.
Till snows of mercy coverThe dream that shall come true,When time makes all things wondrous,And life makes all things new.
Where is Heaven? Is it notJust a friendly garden plot,Walled with stone and roofed with sun,Where the days pass one by one,Not too fast and not too slow,Looking backward as they goAt the beauties left behindTo transport the pensive mind!
Is it not a greening groundWith a river for its bound,And a wood-thrush to prolongFragrant twilights with his song,When the peonies in JuneWait the rising of the moon,And the music of the streamVoices its immortal dream!
There each morning will renewThe miracle of light and dew,And the soul may joy to praiseThe Lord of roses and of days;There the caravan of noonHalts to hear the cricket's tune,Fifing there for all who passThe anthem of the summer grass!
Does not Heaven begin that dayWhen the eager heart can say,Surely God is in this place,I have seen Him face to faceIn the loveliness of flowers,In the service of the showers,And His voice has talked to meIn the sunlit apple tree.
I can feel Him in my heart,When the tears of knowledge startFor another's joy or woe,Where the lonely soul must go.Yea, I learned His very look,When we walked beside the brook,And you smiled and touched my hand.God is love... I understand.
There is no grief for meNor sadness any more;For since I first knew theeGreat Joy has kept my door.
That angel of the calmAll-comprehending smile,No menace can dismay,No falsity beguile.
Out of the house of lifeBefore him fled awayLanguor, regret, and strifeAnd sorrow on that day.
Grim fear, unmanly doubt,And impotent despairWent at his bidding forthAmong the things that were,—
Leaving a place all clean,Resounding of the seaAnd decked with forest green,To be a home for thee.
Here we came when love was young.Now that love is old,Shall we leave the floor unsweptAnd the hearth acold?
Here the hill-wind in the dusk.Wandering to and fro,Moves the moonflowers, like a ghostOf the long ago.
Here from every doorway looksA remembered face,Every sill and panel wearsA familiar grace.
Let the windows smile againTo the morning light,And the door stand open wideWhen the moon is bright.
Let the breeze of twilight blowThrough the silent hall,And the dreaming rafters hearHow the thrushes call.
Oh, be merciful and fondTo the house that gaveAll its best to shelter love,Built when love was brave!
Here we came when love was young,Now that love is old,Never let its day be lone,Nor its heart acold!
The starry midnight whispers,As I muse before the fireOn the ashes of ambitionAnd the embers of desire,
"Life has no other logic,And time no other creed,Than: 'I for joy will follow.Where thou for love dost lead!'"
Oh, once I could not understandThe sob within the throat of spring,—The shrilling of the frogs, nor whyThe birds so passionately sing.
That was before your beauty cameAnd stooped to teach my soul desire,When on these mortal lips you laidThe magic and immortal fire.
I wondered why the sea should seemSo gray, so lonely, and so old;The sigh of level-driving snowsIn winter so forlornly cold.
I wondered what it was could giveThe scarlet autumn pomps their pride.And paint with colors not of earthThe glory of the mountainside.
I could not tell why youth should dreamAnd worship at the evening star,And yet must go with eager feetWhere danger and where splendor are.
I could not guess why men at times,Beholding beauty, should go madWith joy or sorrow or despairOr some unknown delight they had.
I wondered what they had receivedFrom Time's inexorable handSo full of loveliness and doom.But now, ah, now I understand!
April now in morning cladLike a gleaming oread,With the south wind in her voice,Comes to bid the world rejoice.
With the sunlight on her brow,Through her veil of silver showers,April o'er New England nowTrails her robe of woodland flowers,—
Violet and anemone;While along the misty sea,Pipe at lip, she seems to blowHaunting airs of long ago.
What do men give thanks for?I give thanks for one,Lovelier than morning,Dearer than the sun.
Such a head the victorsMust have praised and known,With that breast and bearing,Nike's very own—
As superb, untrammeled,Rhythmed and poised and freeAs the strong pure sea-windWalking on the sea;
Such a hand as BeautyUses with full heart,Seeking for her freedomIn new shapes of art;
Soft as rain in April,Quiet as the daysOf the purple astersAnd the autumn haze;
With a soul more subtleThan the light of stars,Frailer than a moth's wingTo the touch that mars;
Wise with all the silenceOf the waiting hills,When the gracious twilightWakes in them and thrills;
With a voice more tenderThan the early moonHears among the thrushesIn the woods of June;
Delicate as grassesWhen they lift and stir—One sweet lyric woman—I give thanks for her.
We travelled empty-handedWith hearts all fear above,For we ate the bread of friendship,We drank the wine of love.
Through many a wondrous autumn,Through many a magic spring,We hailed the scarlet banners,We heard the blue-bird sing.
We looked on life and natureWith the eager eyes of youth,And all we asked or cared forWas beauty, joy, and truth.
We found no other wisdom,We learned no other way,Than the gladness of the morning,The glory of the day.
So all our earthly treasureShall go with us, my dears,Aboard the Shadow Liner,Across the sea of years.
Over the hills of AprilWith soft winds hand in hand,Impassionate and dreamy-eyed,Spring leads her saraband.Her garments float and gatherAnd swirl along the plain,Her headgear is the golden sun,Her cloak the silver rain.
With color and with music,With perfumes and with pomp,By meadowland and upland,Through pasture, wood, and swamp,With promise and enchantmentLeading her mystic mime,She comes to lure the world anewWith joy as old as time.
Quick lifts the marshy chorusTo transport, trill on trill;There's not a rod of stony groundUnanswering on the hill.The brooks and little riversDance down their wild ravines,And children in the city squaresKeep time, to tambourines.
The bluebird in the orchardIs lyrical for her,The blackbird with his meadow pipeSets all the wood astir,The hooded white spring-beautiesAre curtsying in the breeze,The blue hepaticas are outUnder the chestnut trees.
The maple buds make glamor,Viburnum waves its bloom,The daffodils and tulipsAre risen from the tomb.The lances of NarcissusHave pierced the wintry mold;The commonplace seems paradiseThrough veils of greening gold.
O heart, hear thou the summons,Put every grief away,When all the motley masques of earthAre glad upon a day.Alack, that any mortalShould less than gladness bringInto the choral joy that soundsThe saraband of spring!
Soul, art thou sad againWith the old sadness?Thou shalt be glad againWith a new gladness,When April sun and rainMount to the teeming brainWith the earth madness.
When from the mould again,Spurning disaster,Spring shoots unfold again,Follow thou fasterOut of the drear domainOf dark, defeat, and pain,Praising the Master.
Hope for thy guide again,Ample and splendid;Love at thy side again,All doubting ended;(Ah, by the dragon slain,For nothing small or vainMichael contended!)
Thou shalt take heart again,No more despairing;Play thy great part again,Loving and caring.Hark, how the gold refrainRuns through the iron strain,Splendidly daring!
Thou shalt grow strong again,Confident, tender,—Battle with wrong again,Be truth's defender,—Of the immortal train,Born to attempt, attain,Never surrender!
Now the lengthening twilights holdTints of lavender and gold,And the marshy places ringWith the pipers of the spring.
Now the solitary starLays a path on meadow streams,And I know it is not farTo the open door of dreams.
Lord of April, in my hourMay the dogwood be in flower,And my angel through the domeOf spring twilight lead me home.
Over the wintry thresholdWho comes with joy to-day,So frail, yet so enduring,To triumph o'er dismay?
Ah, quick her tears are springing,And quickly they are dried,For sorrow walks before her,But gladness walks beside.
She comes with gusts of laughter,—The music as of rills;With tenderness and sweetness,—The wisdom of the hills.
Her hands are strong to comfort,Her heart is quick to heed.She knows the signs of sadness,She knows the voice of need.
There is no living creature,However poor or small,But she will know its trouble,And hasten to its call.
Oh, well they fare forever,By mighty dreams possessed,Whose hearts have lain a momentOn that eternal breast.
Once more in misted AprilThe world is growing green.Along the winding riverThe plumey willows lean.
Beyond the sweeping meadowsThe looming mountains rise,Like battlements of dreamlandAgainst the brooding skies.
In every wooded valleyThe buds are breaking through,As though the heart of all thingsNo languor ever knew.
The golden-wings and bluebirdsCall to their heavenly choirs.The pines are blued and driftedWith smoke of brushwood fires.
And in my sister's gardenWhere little breezes run,The golden daffodilliesAre blowing in the sun.
I heard the spring wind whisperAbove the brushwood fire,"The world is made foreverOf transport and desire.
I am the breath of being,The primal urge of things;I am the whirl of star dust,I am the lift of wings.
"I am the splendid impulseThat comes before the thought,The joy and exaltationWherein the life is caught.
"Across the sleeping furrowsI call the buried seed,And blade and bud and blossomAwaken at my need.
"Within the dying ashesI blow the sacred spark,And make the hearts of loversTo leap against the dark."
I heard the spring light whisperAbove the dancing stream,"The world is made foreverIn likeness of a dream.
"I am the law of planets,I am the guide of man;The evening and the morningAre fashioned to my plan.
"I tint the dawn with crimson,I tinge the sea with blue;My track is in the desert,My trail is in the dew.
"I paint the hills with color,And in my magic domeI light the star of eveningTo steer the traveller home.
"Within the house of being,I feed the lamp of truthWith tales of ancient wisdomAnd prophecies of youth."
I heard the spring rain murmurAbove the roadside flower,"The world is made foreverIn melody and power.
"I keep the rhythmic measureThat marks the steps of time,And all my toil is fashionedTo symmetry and rhyme.
"I plow the untilled upland,I ripe the seeding grass,And fill the leafy forestWith music as I pass.
"I hew the raw, rough graniteTo loveliness of line,And when my work is finished,Behold, it is divine!
"I am the master-builderIn whom the ages trust.I lift the lost perfectionTo blossom from the dust."
Then Earth to them made answer,As with a slow refrainBorn of the blended voicesOf wind and sun and rain,
"This is the law of beingThat links the threefold chain:The life we give to beautyReturns to us again."
Lo, now comes the April pageantAnd the Easter of the year.Now the tulip lifts her chalice,And the hyacinth his spear;All the daffodils and jonquilsWith their hearts of gold are here.Child of the immortal vision,What hast thou to do with fear?
When the summons wakes the impulse,And the blood beats in the vein,Let no grief thy dream encumber,No regret thy thought detain.Through the scented bloom-hung valleys,Over tillage, wood and plain,Comes the soothing south wind ladenWith the sweet impartial rain.
All along the roofs and pavementsPass the volleying silver showers,To unfold the hearts of humansAnd the frail unanxious flowers.Breeding fast in sunlit places,Teeming life puts forth her powers,And the migrant wings come northwardOn the trail of golden hours.
Over intervale and uplandSounds the robin's interludeFrom his tree-top spire at eveningWhere no unbeliefs intrude.Every follower of beautyFinds in the spring solitudeSanctuary and persuasionWhere the mysteries still brood.
Now the bluebird in the orchard,A warm sighing at the door,And the soft haze on the hillside,Lure the houseling to exploreThe perennial enchantedLovely world and all its lore;While the early tender twilightBreathes of those who come no more.
By full brimming river marginsWhere the scents of brush fires blow,Through the faint green mist of springtime,Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go,Touched with such immortal madnessNot a thing they care to knowMore than those who caught life's secretCountless centuries ago.
In old Egypt for Osiris,Putting on the green attire,With soft hymns and choric dancingThey went forth to greet the fireOf the vernal sun, whose ardorHis earth children could inspire;And the ivory flutes would lead themTo the slake of their desire.
In remembrance of AdonisDid the Dorian maidens singLinus songs of joy and sorrowFor the coming back of spring,—Sorrow for the wintry deathOf each irrevocable thing,Joy for all the pangs of beautyThe returning year could bring.
Now the priests and holy womenWith sweet incense, chant and prayer,Keep His death and resurrectionWhose new love bade all men shareImmortality of kindness,Living to make life more fair.Wakened to such wealth of being,Who would not arise and dare?
Seeing how each new fulfilmentIssues at the call of needFrom infinitudes of purposeIn the core of soul and seed,Who shall set the bounds of puissanceOr the formulas of creed?Truth awaits the test of beauty,Good is proven in the deed.
Therefore, give thy spring renascence,—Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,—To make perfect and replenishAll the sorry fault and dearthOf the life from whose enrichmentThine aspiring will had birth;Take thy part in the redemptionOf thy kind from bonds of earth.
So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty,Even in this mortal climeShare the life that is eternal,Brother to the lords of time,—Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,—Builders of the world sublime.Yesterday was not earth's eveningEvery morning is our prime.
All that can be worth the rescueFrom oblivion and decay,—Joy and loveliness and wisdom,—In thyself, without dismayThou shalt save and make enduringThrough each word and act, to swayThe hereafter to a likenessOf thyself in other clay.
Still remains the peradventure,Soul pursues an orbit hereLike those unreturning comets,Sweeping on a vast career,By an infinite directrix,Focussed to a finite sphere,—Nurtured in an earthly April,In what realm to reappear?
If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallowsof Silvermine,Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon beganto shine;Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walkingin Ponus Street;You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want ofenough red meat!"
Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skatingon Wampanaw,Among the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard blackice I sawAn old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his houseto rights,Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to preparefor the winter nights.
And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calmas you please.But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden,who kept the keys?Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with thelily roots,And then in the first warm days of April—out to the sunwith the greening shoots?
By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trailsof air,The spring express—but who despatched it, equipped with speedand cunning care?Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chantof the happy heart,As full of light as a theme of Mozart's—but where did he learnthat more than art?
Where the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure as thesouth wind brings the rain,Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes backto his nest again.Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the proseof natural fact;Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures,that bids them act."
Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as thatof the beasts and birds,Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic,too vague for words.No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beautyis somewhere born;No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must growas the growing corn.
Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing daysof earth.To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting importand lovely worth.If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limitof will and power,To fashion after some form ideal the instant task and thewaiting hour,
It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray meand sorrows scar,Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and theevening star.The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; thewind, my friend.Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fareill in the end?
Now is the time of yearWhen all the flutes begin,—The redwing bold and clear,The rainbird far and thin.
In all the waking landsThere's not a wilding thingBut knows and understandsThe burden of the spring.
Now every voice aliveBy rocky wood and streamIs lifted to reviveThe ecstasy, the dream.
For Nature, never old,But busy as of yore,From sun and rain and mouldIs making spring once more.
She sounds her magic noteBy river-marge and hill,And every woodland throatRe-echoes with a thrill.
O mother of our days,Hearing thy music call.Teach us to know thy waysAnd fear no more at all!
I hear you, Brother, I hear you,Down in the alder swamp,Springing your woodland whistleTo herald the April pomp!
First of the moving vanguard,In front of the spring you come,Where flooded waters sparkleAnd streams in the twilight hum.
You sound the note of the chorusBy meadow and woodland pond,Till, one after one up-piping,A myriad throats respond.
I see you, Brother, I see you,With scarlet under your wing,Flash through the ruddy maples,Leading the pageant of spring.
Earth has put off her raimentWintry and worn and old,For the robe of a fair young sibyl.Dancing in green and gold.
I heed you, Brother. To-morrowI, too, in the great employ,Will shed my old coat of sorrowFor a brand-new garment of joy.
I hear a rainbird singingFar off. How fine and clearHis plaintive voice comes ringingWith rapture to the ear!
Over the misty wood-lots,Across the first spring heat,Comes the enchanted cadence,So clear, so solemn-sweet.
How often I have hearkenedTo that high pealing strainAcross wild cedar barrens,Under the soft gray rain!
How often I have wondered,And longed in vain to knowThe source of that enchantment,That touch of human woe!
O brother, who first taught theeTo haunt the teeming springWith that sad mortal wisdomWhich only age can bring?
When you hear the white-throat pealingFrom a tree-top far away,And the hills are touched with purpleAt the borders of the day;
When the redwing sounds his whistleAt the coming on of spring,And the joyous April pipersMake the alder marshes ring;
When the wild new breath of beingWhispers to the world once more,And before the shrine of beautyEvery spirit must adore;
When long thoughts come back with twilight,And a tender deepened moodShows the eyes of the belovedLike the hepaticas in the wood;
Ah, remember, when to nothingSave to love your heart gives heed,And spring takes you to her bosom,—So it was with Golden Weed!
Oh, well the world is dreamingUnder the April moon,Her soul in love with beauty,Her senses all a-swoon!
Pure hangs the silver crescentAbove the twilight wood,And pure the silver musicWakes from the marshy flood.
O Earth, with all thy transport,How comes it life should seemA shadow in the moonlight,A murmur in a dream?
I know a shining meadow streamThat winds beneath an Eastern hill,And all year long in sun or gloomIts murmuring voice is never still.
The summer dies more gently there,The April flowers are earlier,—The first warm rain-wind from the SoundSets all their eager hearts astir.
And there when lengthening twilights fallAs softly as a wild bird's wing,Across the valley in the duskI hear the silver flute of spring.
In the wondrous star-sown night,In the first sweet warmth of spring,I lie awake and listenTo hear the glad earth sing.
I hear the brook in the woodMurmuring, as it goes,The song of the happy journeyOnly the wise heart knows.
I hear the trilling noteOf the tree-frog under the hill,And the clear and watery trebleOf his brother, silvery shrill.
And then I wander awayThrough the mighty forest of Sleep,To follow the fairy musicTo the shore of an endless deep.
When April winds arriveAnd the soft rains are here,Some morning by the roadsideThese Fairy folk appear.
We never see their coming,However sharp our eyes;Each year as if by magicThey take us by surprise.
Along the ragged woodsideAnd by the green spring-run,Their small white heads are noddingAnd twinkling in the sun.
They crowd across the meadowIn innocence and mirth,As if there were no sorrowIn all this wondrous earth.
So frail, so unregarded,And yet about them clingsA sorcery of welcome,—The joy of common things.
Perhaps their trail of beautyAcross the pasture sodIn jubilant processionIs where an angel trod.
What matter if the sun be lost?What matter though the sky be gray?There's joy enough about the house,For Daffodil comes home to-day.
There's news of swallows on the air,There's word of April on the way,They're calling flowers within the street,And Daffodil comes home to-day.
O who would care what fate may bring,Or what the years may take away!There's life enough within the hour,For Daffodil comes home to-day.