I took a day to search for God,And found Him not. But as I trodBy rocky ledge, through woods untamed,Just where one scarlet lily flamed,I saw His footprint in the sod.
Then suddenly, all unaware,Far off in the deep shadows, whereA solitary hermit thrushSang through the holy twilight hush—I heard His voice upon the air.
And even as I marvelled howGod gives us Heaven here and now,In a stir of wind that hardly shookThe poplar leaves beside the brook—His hand was light upon my brow.
At last with evening as I turnedHomeward, and thought what I had learnedAnd all that there was still to probe—I caught the glory of His robeWhere the last fires of sunset burned.
Back to the world with quickening startI looked and longed for any partIn making saving Beauty be....And from that kindling ecstasyI knew God dwelt within my heart.
Here in lovely New EnglandWhen summer is come, a sea-turnFlutters a page of remembranceIn the volume of long ago.
Soft is the wind over Grand Pré,Stirring the heads of the grasses,Sweet is the breath of the orchardsWhite with their apple-blow.
There at their infinite businessOf measuring time forever,Murmuring songs of the sea,The great tides come and go.
Over the dikes and the uplandsWander the great cloud shadows,Strange as the passing of sorrow,Beautiful, solemn, and slow.
For, spreading her old enchantmentOf tender ineffable wonder,Summer is there in the Northland!How should my heart not know?
When I was just a little boy,Before I went to school,I had a fleet of forty sailI called the Ships of Yule;
Of every rig, from rakish brigAnd gallant barkentine,To little Fundy fishing boatsWith gunwales painted green.
They used to go on trading tripsAround the world for me,For though I had to stay on shoreMy heart was on the sea.
They stopped at every port to callFrom Babylon to Rome,To load with all the lovely thingsWe never had at home;
With elephants and ivoryBought from the King of Tyre,And shells and silk and sandal-woodThat sailor men admire;
With figs and dates from Samarcand,And squatty ginger-jars,And scented silver amuletsFrom Indian bazaars;
With sugar-cane from Port of Spain,And monkeys from Ceylon,And paper lanterns from PekinWith painted dragons on;
With cocoanuts from Zanzibar,And pines from Singapore;And when they had unloaded theseThey could go back for more.
And even after I was bigAnd had to go to school,My mind was often far awayAboard the Ships of Yule.
Where are the ships I used to know,That came to port on the Fundy tideHalf a century ago,In beauty and stately pride?
In they would come past the beacon light,With the sun on gleaming sail and spar,Folding their wings like birds in flightFrom countries strange and far.
Schooner and brig and barkentine,I watched them slow as the sails were furled,And wondered what cities they must have seenOn the other side of the world.
Frenchman and Britisher and Dane,Yankee, Spaniard and Portugee,And many a home ship back againWith her stories of the sea.
Calm and victorious, at restFrom the relentless, rough sea-play,The wild duck on the river's breastWas not more sure than they.
The creatures of a passing race,The dark spruce forests made them strong,The sea's lore gave them magic grace,The great winds taught them song.
And God endowed them each with life—His blessing on the craftsman's skill—To meet the blind unreasoned strifeAnd dare the risk of ill.
Not mere insensate wood and paintObedient to the helm's command,But often restive as a saintBeneath the Heavenly hand.
All the beauty and mysteryOf life were there, adventure bold,Youth, and the glamour of the seaAnd all its sorrows old.
And many a time I saw them goOut on the flood at morning brave,As the little tugs had them in tow,And the sunlight danced on the wave.
There all day long you could hear the soundOf the caulking iron, the ship's bronze bell,And the clank of the capstan going roundAs the great tides rose and fell.
The sailors' songs, the Captain's shout,The boatswain's whistle piping shrill,And the roar as the anchor chain runs out,—I often hear them still.
I can see them still, the sun on their gear,The shining streak as the hulls careen,And the flag at the peak unfurling,—clearAs a picture on a screen.
The fog still hangs on the long tide-rips,The gulls go wavering to and fro,But where are all the beautiful shipsI knew so long ago?
My heart is a garden of dreamsWhere you walk when day is done,Fair as the royal flowers,Calm as the lingering sun.
Never a drouth comes there,Nor any frost that mars,Only the wind of loveUnder the early stars,—
The living breath that movesWhispering to and fro,Like the voice of God in the duskOf the garden long ago.
Within my stone-walled garden(I see her standing now,Uplifted in the twilight,With glory on her brow!)
I love to walk at eveningAnd watch, when winds are low,The new moon in the tree-tops,Because she loved it so!
And there entranced I listen,While flowers and winds confer,And all their conversationIs redolent of her.
I love the trees that guard it,Upstanding and serene,So noble, so undaunted,Because that was her mien.
I love the brook that bounds it,Because its silver voiceIs like her bubbling laughterThat made the world rejoice.
I love the golden jonquils,Because she used to say,If soul could choose a colorIt would be clothed as they.
I love the blue-gray iris,Because her eyes were blue,Sea-deep and heaven-tenderIn meaning and in hue.
I love the small wild roses,Because she used to standAdoringly above themAnd bless them with her hand.
These were her boon companions.But more than all the restI love the April lilac,Because she loved it best.
Soul of undying rapture!How love's enchantment clings,With sorcery and fragrance,About familiar things!
Gold are the great trees overhead,And gold the leaf-strewn grass,As though a cloth of gold were spreadTo let a seraph pass.And where the pageant should go by,Meadow and wood and stream,The world is all of lacquered gold,Expectant as a dream.
Against the sunset's burning gold,Etched in dark monotoneBehind its alley of grey treesAnd gateposts of grey stone,Stands the Old Manse, about whose eavesAn air of mystery clings,Abandoned to the lonely peaceOf bygone ghostly things.
In molten gold the river windsWith languid sweep and turn,Beside the red-gold wooded hillYellowed with ash and fern.The streets are tiled with gold-green shadeAnd arched with fretted gold,Ecstatic aisles that richly threadThis minster grim and old.
The air is flecked with filtered gold,—The shimmer of romanceWhose ageless glamour still must holdThe world as in a trance,Pouring o'er every time and placeLight of an amber sea,The spell of all the gladsome thingsThat have been or shall be.
When April came with sunshineAnd showers and lilac bloom,My heart with sudden gladnessWas like a fragrant room.
Her eyes were heaven's own azure,As deep as God's own truth.Her soul was made of raptureAnd mystery and youth.
She knew the sorry burdenOf all the ancient years,Yet could not dwell with sadnessAnd memory and tears.
With her there was no shadowOf failure nor despair,But only loving joyance.O Heart, how glad we were!
When the dawn winds whisperTo the standing corn,And the rose of morningFrom the dark is born,All my shadowy gardenSeems to grow awareOf a fragrant presence,Half expected there.
In the golden shimmerOf the burning noon,When the birds are silentAnd the poppies swoon,Once more I behold herSmile and turn her face,With its infinite regard,Its immortal grace.
When the twilight silversEvery nodding flower,And the new moon hallowsThe first evening hour,Is it not her footfallDown the garden walks,Where the drowsy blossomsSlumber on their stalks?
In the starry quiet,When the soul is free,And a vernal messageStirs the lilac tree,Surely I have felt herPass and brush my cheek,With the eloquence of loveThat does not need to speak!
In the day of battle,In the night of dread,Let one hymn be lifted,Let one prayer be said.
Not for pride of conquest,Not for vengeance wrought,Nor for peace and safetyWith dishonour bought!
Praise for faith in freedom,Our fighting fathers' stay,Born of dreams and daring,Bred above dismay.
Prayer for cloudless vision,And the valiant hand,That the right may triumphTo the last demand.
In the Garden of Eden, planted by God,There were goodly trees in the springing sod,—
Trees of beauty and height and grace,To stand in splendor before His face.
Apple and hickory, ash and pear,Oak and beech and the tulip rare,
The trembling aspen, the noble pine,The sweeping elm by the river line;
Trees for the birds to build and sing,And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;
Trees to turn at the frosty callAnd carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall;
Trees for fruitage and fire and shade,Trees for the cunning builder's trade;
Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail,The keel and the mast of the daring sail;
He made them of every grain and girthFor the use of man in the Garden of Earth.
Then lest the soul should not lift her eyesFrom the gift to the Giver of Paradise,
On the crown of a hill, for all to see,God planted a scarlet maple tree.
Who called us forth out of darkness and gave us the gift of life,Who set our hands to the toiling, our feet in the field of strife?
Darkly they mused, predestined to knowledge of viewless things,Sowing the seed of wisdom, guarding the living springs.
Little they reckoned privation, hunger or hardship or cold,If only the life might prosper, and the joy that grows not old.
With sorceries subtler than music, with knowledge older than speech,Gentle as wind in the wheat-field, strong as the tide on the beach,
Out of their beauty and longing, out of their raptures and tears,In patience and pride they bore us, to war with the warring years.
Who looked on the world before them, and summoned and choseour sires,Subduing the wayward impulse to the will of their deep desires?
Sovereigns of ultimate issues under the greater laws,Theirs was the mystic mission of the eternal cause;
Confident, tender, courageous, leaving the low for the higher,Lifting the feet of the nations out of the dust and the mire;Luring civilization on to the fair and new,Given God's bidding to follow, having God's business to do.
Who strengthened our souls with courage, and taught us the waysof Earth?Who gave us our patterns of beauty, our standards of flawless worth?
Mothers, unmilitant, lovely, moulding our manhood then,Walked in their woman's glory, swaying the might of men.
They schooled us to service and honor, modest and clean and fair,—The code of their worth of living, taught with the sanctionof prayer.They were our sharers of sorrow, they were our makers of joy,Lighting the lamp of manhood in the heart of the lonely boy.
Haloed with love and with wonder, in sheltered ways they trod,Seers of sublime divination, keeping the truce of God.
Who called us from youth and dreaming, and set ambition alight,And made us fit for the contest,—men, by their tender rite?
Sweethearts above our merit, charming our strength and skillTo be the pride of their loving, to be the means of their will.
If we be the builders of beauty, if we be the masters of art,Theirs were the gleaming ideals, theirs the uplift of the heart.
Truly they measure the lightness of trappings and ease and fame,For the teeming desire of their yearning is ever and ever the same:
To crown their lovers with gladness, to clothe their sonswith delight,And see the men of their making lords in the best man's right.
Lavish of joy and labor, broken only by wrong,These are the guardians of being, spirited, sentient and strong.
Theirs is the starry vision, theirs the inspiriting hope,Since Night, the brooding enchantress, promised that dayshould ope.
Lo, we have built and invented, reasoned, discovered and planned,To rear us a palace of splendor, and make us a heaven by hand.
We are shaken with dark misgiving, as kingdoms rise and fall;But the women who went to found them are never counted at all.
Versed in the soul's traditions, skilled in humanity's lore,They wait for their crown of rapture, and weep for the sins of war.
And behold they turn from our triumphs, as it was in the firstof days,For a little heaven of ardor and a little heartening of praise.
These are the rulers of kingdoms beyond the domains of state,Martyrs of all men's folly, over-rulers of fate.These we will love and honor, these we will serve and defend,Fulfilling the pride of nature, till nature shall have an end.
This is the code unwritten, this is the creed we hold,Guarding the little and lonely, gladdening the helpless and old,—
Apart from the brunt of the battle our wondrous women shall bide,For the sake of a tranquil wisdom and the need of a spirit's guide.
Come they into assembly, or keep they another door,Our makers of life shall lighten the days as the years of yore.
The lure of their laughter shall lead us, the lilt of their wordsshall sway.Though life and death should defeat us, their solace shall beour stay.
Veiled in mysterious beauty, vested in magical grace,They have walked with angels at twilight and looked upon glory's face.
Life we will give for their safety, care for their fruitful ease,Though we break at the toiling benches or go down in the smoky seas.
This is the gospel appointed to govern a world of men.Till love has died, and the echoes have whispered the last Amen.
Once I walked the world enchantedThrough the scented woods of spring,Hand in hand with Love, in raptureJust to hear a bluebird sing.
Now the lonely winds of autumnMoan about my gusty eaves,As I sit beside the fireListening to the flying leaves.
As the dying embers settleAnd the twilight falls apace,Through the gloom I see a visionFull of ardor, full of grace.
When the Architect of BeautyBreathed the lyric soul in man,Lo, the being that he fashionedWas of such a mould and plan!
Bravely through the deepening shadowsMoves that figure half divine,With its tenderness of bearing,With its dignity of line.
Eyes more wonderful than eveningWith the new moon on the hill,Mouth with traces of God's humorIn its corners lurking still.
Ah, she smiles, in recollection;Lays a hand upon my brow;Rests this head upon Love's bosom!Surely it is April now!
There's a picture in my roomLightens many an hour of gloom,—
Cheers me under fortune's frownAnd the drudgery of town.
Many and many a winter dayWhen my soul sees all things gray,
Here is veritable June,Heart's content and spirit's boon.
It is scarce a hand-breadth wide,Not a span from side to side,
Yet it is an open doorLooking back to joy once more,
Where the level marshes lie,A quiet journey of the eye,
And the unsubstantial blueMakes the fine illusion true.
So I forth and travel thereIn the blessed light and air,
Miles of green tranquillityDown the river to the sea.
Here the sea-birds roam at will,And the sea-wind on the hill
Brings the hollow pebbly roarFrom the dim and rosy shore,
With the very scent and draftOf the old sea's mighty craft.
I am standing on the dunes,By some charm that must be June's,
When the magic of her handLays a sea-spell on the land.
And the old enchantment fallsOn the blue-gray orchard walls
And the purple high-top boles,While the orange orioles
Flame and whistle through the greenOf that paradisal scene.
Strolling idly for an hourWhere the elder is in flower,
I can hear the bob-white callDown beyond the pasture wall.
Musing in the scented heat,Where the bayberry is sweet,
I can see the shadows runUp the cliff-side in the sun.
Or I cross the bridge and reachThe mossers' houses on the beach,
Where the bathers on the sandLie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.
Thus I pass the gates of timeAnd the boundaries of clime,
Change the ugly man-made streetFor God's country green and sweet.
Fag of body, irk of mind,In a moment left behind,
Once more I possess my soulWith the poise and self-control
Beauty gives the free of heartThrough the sorcery of art.
Not in the ancient abbey,Nor in the city ground,Not in the lonely mountains,Nor in the blue profound,Lay him to rest when his time is comeAnd the smiling mortal lips are dumb;
But here in the decent quietUnder the whispering pines,Where the dogwood breaks in blossomAnd the peaceful sunlight shines,Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold,When spring comes back in her green and gold.
And when that mortal likenessHas been dissolved by fire,Say not above the ashes,"Here ends a man's desire."For every year when the bluebirds sing,He shall be part of the lyric spring.
Then dreamful-hearted loversShall hear in wind and rainThe cadence of his music,The rhythm of his refrain,For he was a blade of the April sodThat bowed and blew with the whisper of God.
This cosmic dust beneath our feetRising to hurry down the street,
Borne by the wind and blown astrayIn its erratic, senseless way,
Is the same stuff as you and I—With knowledge and desire put by.
Thousands of times since time beganIt has been used for making man,
Freighted like us with every senseOf spirit and intelligence,
To walk the world and know the fineLarge consciousness of things divine.
These wandering atoms in their dayPerhaps have passed this very way,
With eager step and flowerlike face,With lovely ardor, poise, and grace,
On what delightful errands bent,Passionate, generous, and intent,—
An angel still, though veiled and gloved,Made to love us and to be loved.
Friends, when the summons comes for meTo turn my back (reluctantly)
On this delightful play, I claimOnly one thing in friendship's name;
And you will not decline a taskSo slight, when it is all I ask:
Scatter my ashes in the streetWhere avenue and crossway meet.
I beg you of your charity,No granite and cement for me,
To needlessly perpetuateAn unimportant name and date.
Others may wish to lay them downOn some fair hillside far from town,
Where slim white birches wave and gleamBeside a shadowy woodland stream,
Or in luxurious beds of fern,But I would have my dust return
To the one place it loved the bestIn days when it was happiest.
The marching years go byAnd brush your garment's hem.The bandits by and byWill bid you go with them.
Trust not that caravan!Old vagabonds are they;They'll rob you if they can,And make believe it's play.
Make the old robbers giveOf all the spoils they bear,—Their truth, to help you live,—Their joy, to keep you fair.
Ask not for gauds nor gold,Nor fame that falsely rings;The foolish world grows oldCaring for all these things.
Make all your sweet demandsFor happiness alone,And the years will fill your handsWith treasures rarely known.
I said to Life, "How comes it,With all this wealth in store,Of beauty, joy, and knowledge,Thy cry is still for more?
"Count all the years of strivingTo make thy burden less,—The things designed and fashionedTo gladden thy success!
"The treasures sought and gatheredThy lightest whim to please,—The loot of all the ages,The spoil of all the seas!
"Is there no end of labor,No limit to thy need?Must man go bowed foreverIn bondage to thy greed?"
With tears of pride and passionShe answered, "God above!I only wait the asking,To spend it all for love!"
I am homesick for the mountains—My heroic mother hills—And the longing that is on meNo solace ever stills.
I would climb to brooding summitsWith their old untarnished dreams,Cool my heart in forest shadowsTo the lull of falling streams;
Hear the innocence of aspensThat babble in the breeze,And the fragrant sudden showersThat patter on the trees.
I am lonely for my thrushesIn their hermitage withdrawn,Toning the quiet transportsOf twilight and of dawn.
I need the pure, strong mornings,When the soul of day is still,With the touch of frost that kindlesThe scarlet on the hill;
Lone trails and winding woodroadsTo outlooks wild and high,And the pale moon waiting sundownWhere ledges cut the sky.
I dream of upland clearingsWhere cones of sumac burn,And gaunt and gray-mossed bouldersLie deep in beds of fern;
The gray and mottled beeches,The birches' satin sheen,The majesty of hemlocksCrowning the blue ravine.
My eyes dim for the skylineWhere purple peaks aspire,And the forges of the sunsetFlare up in golden fire.
There crests look down unheedingAnd see the great winds blow,Tossing the huddled tree-topsIn gorges far below;
Where cloud-mists from the warm earthRoll up about their knees,And hang their filmy tattersLike prayers upon the trees.
I cry for night-blue shadowsOn plain and hill and dome,—The spell of old enchantments,The sorcery of home.
I know a vale where I would go one day,When June comes back and all the world once moreIs glad with summer. Deep in shade it liesA mighty cleft between the bosoming hills,A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart.
On either side the wooded slopes come down,Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and thereThrough the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams,Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness.Among the sunlit shadows I can seeThat still perfection from the world withdrawn,As if the wood-gods had arrested thereImmortal beauty in her breathless flight.
The road winds in from the broad river-lands,Luring the happy traveller turn by turnUp to the lofty mountains of the sky.And as he marches with uplifted face,Far overhead against the arching blueGray ledges overhang from dizzy heights,Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed.
And where the road runs in the valley's foot,Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down,Singing and dancing all its youth awayAmong the boulders and the shallow runs,Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hangDrenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray.
There light of heart and footfree, I would goUp to my home among the lasting hills.Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road,Turn to the left and take the steeper trailThat climbs among the hemlocks, and at lastIn my own cabin doorway sit me down,Companioned in that leafy solitudeBy the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace,While evening passes to absolve the dayAnd leave the tranquil mountains to the stars.
And in that sweet seclusion I should hear,Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk,The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn.So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure,They well might be, in wisdom and in joy,The seraphs singing at the birth of timeThe unworn ritual of eternal things.
How quiet is the morning in the hills!The stealthy shadows of the summer cloudsTrail through the cañon, and the mountain streamSounds his sonorous music far belowIn the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.
Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and firGo tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge,While in the hollows of the dark ravineSee the red road emerge, then disappearTowards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.
My forest cabin half-way up the glenIs solitary, save for one wise thrush,The sound of falling water, and the windMysteriously conversing with the leaves.
Here I abide unvisited by doubt,Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair,The race of men and love and fleeting time,What life may be, or beauty, caught and heldFor a brief moment at eternal poise.
What impulse now shall quicken and make liveThis outward semblance and this inward self?One breath of being fills the bubble world,Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change.
Surely some God contrived so fair a thingIn a vast leisure of uncounted days,And touched it with the breath of living joy,Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so.