Lo, now, the journeying sun,Another day's march done,Kindles his campfire at the edge of night!And in the twilight paleAbove his crimson trail,The stars move out their cordons still and bright.
Now in the darkening hushA solitary thrushSings on in silvery rapture to the deep;While brooding on her best,The wandering soul has rest,And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep.
All day long beneath the sunShining through the fields they run,
Singing in a cadence knownTo the seraphs round the throne.
And the traveller drawing nearThrough the meadow, halts to hear
Anthems of a natural joyNo disaster can destroy.
All night long from set of sunThrough the starry woods they run,
Singing through the purple darkSongs to make a traveller hark.
All night long, when winds are low,Underneath my window go
The immortal happy streams,Making music through my dreams.
Here all the forces of the woodAs one converge,To make the soul of solitudeWhere all things merge.
The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain,The visiting moon,The hurrying cloud by peak and plain,Each with its boon.
Here power attains perfection stillIn mighty ease,That the great earth may have her willOf joy and peace.
And so through me, the mortal bornOf plasmic clay,Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn,And glad, have sway.
Eternal passions, ardors fine,And monstrous fears,Rule and rebel, serene, malign,Or loosed in tears;
Until at last they shall evolveFrom griefs and joysSome steady light, some firm resolve,Some Godlike poise.
Now the stars have fadedIn the purple chill,Lo, the sun is kindlingOn the eastern hill.
Tree by tree the forestTakes the golden tinge,As the shafts of gloryPierce the summit's fringe.
Rock by rock the ledgesTake the rosy sheen,As the tide of splendorFloods the dark ravine.
Like a shining angelAt my cabin door,Shod with hope and silence,Day is come once more.
Then, as if in sorrowThat you are not here,All his magic beautiesGray and disappear.
Now the fire is lightedOn the chimney stone,Day goes down the valley,I am left alone.
Now the misty purpleFloods the darkened vale,And the stars come outOn the twilight trail.
The mountain river murmursIn his rocky bed,And the stealthy shadowsFill the house with dread.
Then I hear your laughterAt the open door,—Brightly burns the fire,I need fear no more.
At the end of the road through the woodI see the great moon rise.The fields are flooded with shine,And my soul with surmise.
What if that mystic orbWith her shadowy beams,Should be the revealer at lastOf my darkest dreams!
What if this tender fireIn my heart's deep holdShould be wiser than all the loreOf the sages of old!
Mortal, mortal, have you seenIn the scented summer night,Great Astarte, clad in greenWith a veil of mystic light,Passing on her silent way,Pale and lovelier than day?
Mortal, mortal, have you heard,On an odorous summer eve,Rumors of an unknown wordBidding sorrow not to grieve,—Echoes of a silver voiceBidding every heart rejoice?
Mortal, when the slim new moonHangs above the western hill,When the year comes round to JuneAnd the leafy world is still,Then, enraptured, you shall hearSecrets for a poet's ear.
Mortal, mortal, come with me,When the moon is rising large,Through the wood or from the sea,Or by some lone river marge.There, entranced, you shall beholdBeauty's self, that grows not old.
In the world's far edgesFaint and blue,Where the rocky ledgesStand in view,
Fades the rosy, tenderEvening light;Then in starry splendorComes the night.
So a stormy lifetimeComes to close,Spirit's mortal strifetimeFinds repose.
Faith and toil and visionCrowned at last,Failure and derisionOverpast,—
All the daylight splendorFar above,Calm and sure and tenderComes thy love.
When all the stars are sownAcross the night-blue space,With the immense unknown,In silence face to face.
We stand in speechless aweWhile Beauty marches by,And wonder at the LawWhich wears such majesty.
How small a thing is manIn all that world-sown vast,That he should hope or planOr dream his dream could last!
O doubter of the light,Confused by fear and wrong,Lean on the heart of nightAnd let love make thee strong!
The Good that is the TrueIs clothed with Beauty still.Lo, in their tent of blue,The stars above the hill!
The sleeping tarn is darkBelow the wooded hill.Save for its homing sounds,The twilit world grows still.
And I am left to museIn grave-eyed mystery,And watch the stars come outAs sandalled dusk goes by.
And now the light is gone,The drowsy murmurs cease,And through the still unknownI wonder whence comes peace.
Then softly falls the wordOf one beyond a name,"Peace only comes to himWho guards his life from shame,—
"Who gives his heart to love,And holding truth for guide,Girds him with fearless strength,That freedom may abide."
Time out of mind I have stoodFronting the frost and the sun,That the dream of the world might endure,And the goodly will be done.
Did the hand of the builder guess,As he laid me stone by stone,A heart in the granite lurked,Patient and fond as his own?
Lovers have leaned on meUnder the summer moon,And mowers laughed in my shadeIn the harvest heat at noon.
Children roving the fieldsWith early flowers in spring,Old men turning to look,When they heard a bluebird sing,
Have seen me a thousand timesStanding here in the sun,Yet never a moment dreamedWhose likeness they gazed upon.
Ah, when will ye understand,Mortals who strive and plod,—Who rests on this old gray wallLays a hand on the shoulder of God!
If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon allthings laid,The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hushof its glory now,That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift andthe head to bow.
I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness,too,—The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping fromline and hue;I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earthof ours,Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit withall her powers.
See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillsideof hardwood trees,A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilionand dun,Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenueof the sun!
The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leavesare Etruscan gold,And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue fora signal bold;The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches massIn festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of springis brought to pass.
Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another andsofter picture lies,As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dreamof paradise,—Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense andluring the mindWith the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sapare left behind.
So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge andendless joy,Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divineemploy,Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides—ourprivilege here.
Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that ishere and now,Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-bysomewhere, somehow?I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare fora journey henceWho waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all madefor spirit and sense.
"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruitfilled from a blighted flower?Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busybeatified hour?Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at ourcommand,Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom ofheaven at hand."
So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty tofeed my soul.With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue fora further dole?In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gainof truth,Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardorof dreamful youth.
The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sunshall lend me poise.I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earthand all her joys.Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in myveins like wine;While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall mergewith the life divine.
Now come the rosy dogwoods,The golden tulip-tree,And the scarlet yellow maple,To make a day for me.
The ash-trees on the ridges,The alders in the swamp,Put on their red and purpleTo join the autumn pomp.
The woodbine hangs her crimsonAlong the pasture wall,And all the bannered sumacsHave heard the frosty call.
Who then so dead to valorAs not to raise a cheer,When all the woods are marchingIn triumph of the year?
"He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restorethmy soul."
"My tent stands in a gardenOf aster and goldenrod,Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,And sown by the hand of God,—An old New England pastureAbandoned to peace and time,And by the magic of beautyReclaimed to the sublime.
About it are golden woodlandsOf tulip and hickory;On the open ridge behind itYou may mount to a glimpse of sea,—The far-off, blue, HomericRim of the world's great shield,A border of boundless glamorFor the soul's familiar field.
In purple and gray-wrought lichenThe boulders lie in the sun;Along its grassy footpathThe white-tailed rabbits run.The crickets work and chirrupThrough the still afternoon;And the owl calls from the hillsideUnder the frosty moon.
The odorous wild grape clambersOver the tumbling wall,And through the autumnal quietThe chestnuts open and fall.Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,Part of the earth's great soul,Here man's spirit may ripenTo wisdom serene and whole.
Shall we not grow with the asters—Never reluctant nor sad,Not counting the cost of being,Living to dare and be glad?Shall we not lift with the cricketsA chorus of ready cheer,Braving the frost of oblivion,Quick to be happy here?
Is my will as sweet as the wild grape,Spreading delight on the airFor the passer-by's enchantment,Subtle and unaware?Have I as brave a spirit,Sprung from the self-same mould,As this weed from its own contentmentLifting its shaft of gold?
The deep red cones of the sumachAnd the woodbine's crimson's spraysHave bannered the common roadsideFor the pageant of passing days.These are the oracles NatureFills with her holy breath,Giving them glory of color,Transcending the shadow of death.
Here in the sifted sunlightA spirit seems to broodOn the beauty and worth of being,In tranquil, instinctive mood;And the heart, filled full of gladnessSuch as the wise earth knows,Wells with a full thanksgivingFor the gifts that life bestows:
For the ancient and virile nurtureOf the teeming primordial ground,For the splendid gospel of color,The rapt revelations of sound;For the morning-blue above usAnd the rusted gold of the fern,For the chickadee's call of valorBidding the faint-heart turn;
For fire and running water,Snowfall and summer rain;For sunsets and quiet meadows,The fruit and the standing grain;For the solemn hour of moonriseOver the crest of trees,When the mellow lights are kindledIn the lamps of the centuries;
For those who wrought aforetime,Led by the mystic strainTo strive for the larger freedom,And live for the greater gain;For plenty of peace and playtime,The homely goods of earth,And for rare immaterial treasuresAccounted of little worth;
For art and learning and friendship,Where beneficent truth is supreme,—Those everlasting citiesBuilt on the hills of dream;For all things growing and goodlyThat foster this life, and breedThe immortal flower of wisdomOut of the mortal seed.
But most of all for the spiritThat cannot rest nor bideIn stale and sterile convenience,Nor safety proven and tried,But still inspired and driven,Must seek what better may be,And up from the loveliest gardenMust climb for a glimpse of sea.
When the leaves are flyingAcross the azure sky,Autumn on the hill topTurns to say good-by;
In her gold-red tunic,Like an Eastern queen,With untarnished courageIn her wilding mien.
All the earth below herAnswers to her gaze,And her eyes are pensiveWith remembered days.
Yet, with cheek ensanguined,Gay at heart she goesOn the great adventureWhere the north wind blows.
I love the stony pastureThat no one else will have.The old gray rocks so friendly seem,So durable and brave.
In tranquil contemplationIt watches through the year.Seeing the frosty stars arise,The slender moons appear.
Its music is the rain-wind,Its choristers the birds,And there are secrets in its heartToo wonderful for words.
It keeps the bright-eyed creaturesThat play about its walls,Though long ago its milking herdsWere banished from their stalls.
Only the children come there,For buttercups in May,Or nuts in autumn, where it liesDreaming the hours away.
Long since its strength was givenTo making good increase,And now its soul is turned againTo beauty and to peace.
There in the early springtimeThe violets are blue,And adder-tongues in coats of goldAre garmented anew.
There bayberry and asterAre crowded on its floors,When marching summer halts to praiseThe Lord of Out-of-doors.
And there October passesIn gorgeous livery,—In purple ash, and crimson oak,And golden tulip tree.
And when the winds of winterTheir bugle blasts begin,The snowy hosts of heaven arriveAnd pitch their tents therein.
Now when the time of fruit and grain is come,When apples hang above the orchard wall,And from the tangle by the roadside streamA scent of wild grapes fills the racy air,Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan,Like a long gypsy train with trappings gayAnd tattered colors of the Orient,Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills.The woods of Wilton at her coming wearTints of Bokhara and of Samarcand:The maples glow with their Pompeian red,The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold;And while the crickets fife along her march,Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.
Now Winter at the end of dayAlong the ridges takes her way,
Upon her twilight round to lightThe faithful candles of the night.
As quiet as the nun she goesWith silver lamp in hand, to close
The silent doors of dusk that keepThe hours of memory and sleep.
She pauses to tread out the firesWhere Autumn's festal train retires.
The last red embers smoulder downBehind the steeples of the town.
Austere and fine the trees stand bareAnd moveless in the frosty air,
Against the pure and paling lightBefore the threshold of the night.
On purple valley and dim woodThe timeless hush of solitude
Is laid, as if the time for someTranscending mystery were come,
That shall illumine and consoleThe penitent and eager soul,
Setting her free to stand beforeSupernal beauty and adore.
Dear Heart, in heaven's high porticoIt is the hour of prayer. And lo,
Above the earth, serene and still,One star—our star—o'er Lonetree Hill!
When the first silent frost has trodThe ghost-yard of the goldenrod,
And laid the blight of his cold handUpon the warm autumnal land,
And all things wait the subtle changeThat men call death, is it not strange
That I—without a care or need,Who only am an idle weed—
Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,The coming of the final cold!
Now soon, ah, very soon, I knowThe trumpets of the north will blow,And the great winds will come to bringThe pale, wild riders of the snow.
Darkening the sun with level flight,At arrowy speed, they will alight,Unnumbered as the desert sands,To bivouac on the edge of night.
Then I, within their somber ring,Shall hear a voice that seems to sing,Deep, deep within my tranquil heart,The valiant prophecy of spring.
When winter comes along the river lineAnd Earth has put away her green attire,With all the pomp of her autumnal pride,The world is made a sanctuary old,Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray,And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crestStand like carved screens before a crimson shrine,Showing the sunset glory through the chinks.There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul,Uplift in adoration, sees the worldTransfigured to a temple of her Lord;While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snowNight, like a sacristan with silent step,Passes to light the tapers of the stars.
Over the rim of a lacquered bowl,Where a cold blue water-color stands,I see the wintry breakers rollAnd heave their froth up the freezing sands.
Here in immunity safe and dull,Soul treads her circuit of trivial things.There soul's brother, a shining gull,Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings.
Now the little rivers goMuffled safely under snow,
And the winding meadow streamsMurmur in their wintry dreams,
While a tinkling music wellsFaintly from there icy bells,
Telling how their hearts are boldThough the very sun be cold.
Ah, but wait until the rainComes a-sighing once again,
Sweeping softly from the SoundOver ridge and meadow ground!
Then the little streams will hearApril calling far and near,—
Slip their snowy bands and runSparkling in the welcome sun.
Along the wintry skyline,Crowning the rocky crest,Stands the bare screen of hardwood treesAgainst the saffron west,—Its gray and purple networkOf branching traceryOutspread upon the lucent air,Like weed within the sea.
The scarlet robe of autumnRenounced and put away,The mystic Earth is fairer still,—A Puritan in gray.The spirit of the winter,How tender, how austere!Yet all the ardor of the springAnd summer's dream are here.
Fear not, O timid lover,The touch of frost and rime!This is the virtue that sustainedThe roses in their prime.The anthem of the northwindShall hallow thy despair,The benediction of the snowBe answer to thy prayer.
And now the star of eveningThat is the pilgrim's sign,Is lighted in the primrose dusk,—A lamp before a shrine.Peace fills the mighty minster,Tranquil and gray and old,And all the chancel of the westIs bright with paling gold.
A little wind goes siftingAlong the meadow floor,—Like steps of lovely penitentsWho sighingly adore.Then falls the twilight curtain,And fades the eerie light,And frost and silence turn the keysIn the great doors of night.
It is the bitter time of yearWhen iron is the ground,With hasp and sheathing of black iceThe forest lakes are bound,The world lies snugly under snow,Asleep without a sound.
All the night long in trooping squaresThe sentry stars go by,The silent and unwearying hostsThat bear man company,And with their pure enkindling firesKeep vigils lone and high.
Through the dead hours before the dawn,When the frost snaps the sill,From chestnut-wooded ridge to seaThe earth lies dark and still,Till one great silver planet shinesAbove the eastern hill.
It is the star of Gabriel,The herald of the WordIn days when messengers of GodWith sons of men conferred,Who brought the tidings of great joyThe watching shepherds heard;
The mystic light that moved to leadThe wise of long ago,Out of the great East where they dreamedOf truths they could not know,To seek some good that should assuageThe world's most ancient woe.
O well, believe, they loved their dream,Those children of the star,Who saw the light and followed it,Prophetical, afar,—Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior,And eager Balthasar.
Another year slips to the void,And still with omen brightAbove the sleeping doubting worldThe day-star is alight,—The waking signal flashed of oldIn the blue Syrian night.
But who are now as wise as theyWhose faith could read the signOf the three gifts that shall sufficeTo honor the divine,And show the tread of common lifeIneffably benign?
Whoever wakens on a dayHappy to know and be,To enjoy the air, to love his kind,To labor, to be free,—Already his enraptured soulLives in eternity.
For him with every rising sunThe year begins anew;The fertile earth receives her lord,And prophecy comes true,Wondrously as a fall of snow,Dear as a drench of dew.
Who gives his life for beauty's need,King Caspar could no more;Who serves the truth with single mindShall stand with Melchior;And love is all that BalthasarIn crested censer bore.
Halleluja!What sound is this across the darkWhile all the earth is sleeping? Hark!Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why are thy tender eyes so bright,Mary, Mary?On the prophetic deep of nightJoseph, Joseph,I see the borders of the light,And in the day that is to beAn aureoled man-child I see,Great love's son, Joseph.
Halleluja!He hears not, but she hears afar,The Minstrel Angel of the star.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy gentle smile so deep,Mary, Mary?It is the secret I must keep,Joseph, Joseph,—The joy that will not let me sleep,The glory of the coming days,When all the world shall turn to praiseGod's goodness, Joseph.
Halleluja!Clear as the bird that brings the mornShe hears the heavenly music borne.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy radiant face so calm,Mary, Mary?His strength is like a royal palm,Joseph, Joseph;His beauty like the victor's psalm.He moves like morning o'er the landsAnd there is healing in his handsFor sorrow, Joseph.
Halleluja!Tender as dew-fall on the earthShe hears the choral of love's birth.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
What is the message come to thee,Mary, Mary?I hear like wind within the tree,Joseph, Joseph,Or like a far-off melodyHis deathless voice proclaiming peace,And bidding ruthless wrong to cease,For love's sake, Joseph.
Halleluja!Moving as rain-wind in the springShe hears the angel chorus ring.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why are thy patient hands so still,Mary, Mary?I see the shadow on the hill,Joseph, Joseph,And wonder if it is God's willThat courage, service, and glad youthShall perish in the cause of truthForever, Joseph.
Halleluja!Her heart in that celestial chimeHas heard the harmony of time.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!
Why is thy voice so strange and far,Mary, Mary?I see the glory of the star,Joseph, Joseph;And in its light all things that are,Made glad and wise beyond the swayOf death and darkness and dismay,In God's time Joseph.
Halleluja!To every heart in love 'tis givenTo hear the ecstasy of heaven.Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja.
Above the weary waiting world,Asleep in chill despair,There breaks a sound of joyous bellsUpon the frosted air.And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo,A star is dancing on the snow.
What makes the yellow star to danceUpon the brink of night?What makes the breaking dawn to glowSo magically bright,—And all the earth to be renewedWith infinite beatitude?
The singing bells, the throbbing star,The sunbeams on the snow,And the awakening heart that leapsNew ecstasy to know,—They all are dancing in the mornBecause a little child is born.
Why were the Wise Men three,Instead of five or seven?"They had to match, you see,The archangels in Heaven.
God sent them, sure and swift,By his mysterious presage,To bear the threefold giftAnd take the threefold message.
Thus in their hands were seenThe gold of purest Beauty,The myrrh of Truth all-clean,The frankincense of Duty.
And thus they bore awayThe loving heart's great treasure,And knowledge clear as day,To be our life's new measure.
They went back to the EastTo spread the news of gladness.There one became a priestTo the new word of sadness;
And one a workman, skilledBeyond the old earth's fashion;And one a scholar, filledWith learning's endless passion.
God sent them for a signHe would not change nor alterHis good and fair design,However man may falter.
He meant that, as He choseHis perfect plan and willed it,They stood in place of thoseWho elsewhere had fulfilled it;
Whoso would mark and reachThe height of man's election,Must still achieve and teachThe triplicate perfection.
For since the world was made,One thing was needed ever,To keep man undismayedThrough failure and endeavor—
A faultless trinityOf body, mind, and spirit,And each with its own threeStrong angels to be near it;
Strength to arise and goWherever dawn is breaking,Poise like the tides that flow,Instinct for beauty-making;
Imagination boldTo cross the mystic border,Reason to seek and hold,Judgment for law and order;
Joy that makes all things well,Faith that is all-availingEach terror to dispel,And Love, ah, Love unfailing.
These are the flaming NineWho walk the world unsleeping,Sent forth by the DivineWith manhood in their keeping.
These are the seraphs strongHis mighty soul had need of,When He would right the wrongAnd sorrow He took heed of.
And that, I think, is whyThe Wise Men knelt before Him,And put their kingdoms byTo serve Him and adore Him;
So that our Lord, unknown,Should not be unattended,When He was here aloneAnd poor and unbefriended;
That still He might have three(Rather than five or seven)To stand in their degree,Like archangels in Heaven.