The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMatinsThis 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: MatinsCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: May 8, 2013 [eBook #42668]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATINS ***MATINSFrancis Sherman[image]Title page decorationBOSTONCOPELAND AND DAYMDCCCXCVICOPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAYTOMY FATHERCONTENTSAt the GateA LifeAt MatinsAveThe ForeignerCadencesEaster-SongThe RainA MemoryAmong the HillsTo SummerThe PathThe Last FlowerAfter HarvestHeat in SeptemberOn the HillsideSummer DyingA November VigilNunc DimittisBetween the BattlesThe Quiet ValleyThe KingfisherThe ConquerorThe King's HostelBetween the Winter and the SpringThe MotherThe Window of DreamsThe Relief of Wet WillowsThe BuilderTe Deum LaudamusAT THE GATESwing open wide, O Gate,That I may enter inAnd see what lies in waitFor me who have been born!Her word I only scornWho spake of death and sin.I know what is behindYour heavy brazen bars;I heard it of the windWhere I dwelt yesterday:The wind that blows alwayAmong the ancient stars.Life is the chiefest thingThe wind brought knowledge of,As it passed, murmuring:Life, with its infinite strength,And undiminished lengthOf years fulfilled with love.The wind spake not of sinThat blows among the stars;And so I enter in(Swing open wide, O Gate!)Fearless of what may waitBehind your heavy bars.A LIFEI.Let us rise up and live!Behold, each thingIs ready for the moulding of our hand.Long have they all awaited our command;None other will they ever own for king.Until we come no bird dare try to sing,Nor any sea its power may understand;No buds are on the trees; in every landYear asketh year some tidings of some Spring.Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!Simple indeed shall life be unto us.What part is ours?—To take what all things give;To feel the whole world growing for our sake;To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;To laugh and love.—Let us rise up and live!II.Let us rule well and long. We will build hereOur city in the pathway of the sun.On this side shall this mighty river run;Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,That from their sides our jewels may be won.Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;Under our sway all far things fall and near!All time is ours!Let us rule long and well!So we have reigned for many a long, long day.No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,Who dares to stop us on our royal way?"O King, last night within thy garden fell,From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."III.Let us lie down and sleep!All things are still,And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.No more is heard the sound of hurrying feetAthrough the land their echoes once did fill.Even the wind knows not its ancient will,For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet:Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greetHis handmaiden, the utmost western hill.Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.We too have lived.Let us lie down and sleep!IV.Nay, let us kneel and pray!The fault was ours,O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.We built us many ships, and mighty towers,And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.All things we had for slave. We knew no God;We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,O Unknown God,—Let us kneel down and pray!AT MATINSBecause I ever have gone down Thy waysWith joyous heart and undivided praise,I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindnessLay still upon the unawakened land;But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:I knew that it was one might never falterAlthough the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:Send out Thy rapid messengers to bringMe to the shadows which about Thine altarAre ever born and always gathering."For I am weary now, and would lie deadWhere I may not behold my old days shedLike withered leaves around me and above me;Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!""O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love meAlthough I sin, and lead me who am blind;Because of all these things, hear me who pray!Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more dayTo worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;And though I knew this day had in its givingUnnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,I counted it a sad and bitter thingThat this weak, drifting Soul must alway clingUnto this Body—wrought in such a fashionIt must have set the gods, even, marvelling.And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passionFor this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonderAs they beheld the glorious eastern land;I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,Go down into the day that had begun;I knew, as they, that night might never sunderThis Body from the Soul that it had won.)AVE!To-morrow, and a year is born again!(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)Will it bring joys the old year did not know,Or will it burthen us with the old pain?Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?(The memories of the old year yet remain.)To-morrow, and another year is born!(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,Following bravely on where Hope hath led.(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!THE FOREIGNERHe walked by me with open eyes,And wondered that I loved it so;Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.Before us slept a dark, dark wood.Hemlocks were there, and little pinesAlso; and solemn cedars stoodIn even and uneven lines.The branches of each silent treeBent downward, for the snow's hard weightWas pressing on them heavily;They had not known the sun of late.(Except when it was afternoon,And then a sickly sun peered inA little while; it vanished soonAnd then they were as they had been.)There was no sound (I thought I heardThe axe of some man far away)There was no sound of bee, or bird,Or chattering squirrel at its play.And so he wondered I was glad.—There was one thing he could not see;Beneath the look these dead things hadI saw Spring eyes agaze at me.CADENCES(Mid-Lent)The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,Silent and all untenanted;From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,Save for the little wind that moaneth stillBecause it deemeth Earth is surely dead.For many days no woman hath gone by,Her gold hair knowing, as of old,The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;—Perchance even she hath thought it best to dieBecause all things are sad things to behold.(Easter Morning)She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shineOn face and limbs and hair!Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fairA Lady ever as this one is of mine?Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleetPast the thrush-haunted trees,How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!How glad the grasses underneath her feet!And how even I am yet more glad than these!EASTER-SONGMaiden, awake! For Christ is born again!And let your feet disdainThe paths whereby of late they have been led.Now Death itself is dead,And Love hath birth,And all things mournful find no place on earth.This morn ye all must go another wayThan ye went yesterday.Not with sad faces shall ye silent goWhere He hath suffered so;But where there beFull many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,As if the ended nightWere but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.And ye must also singIn angel-wise:So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.Maidens, arise! I know where many flowersHave grown these many hoursTo make more perfect this glad Easter-day;Where tall white lilies swayOn slender stem,Waiting for you to come and garner them;Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,Which will Him well delight;And yellow buttercups, and growing grassThrough which the Spring winds pass;And mosses wet,Well strown with many a new-born violet.All these and every other flower are here.Will ye not draw anearAnd gather them for Him, and in His name,Whom all men now proclaimTheir living King?Behold how all these wait your harvesting!Moreover, see the darkness of His house!Think ye that He allowsSuch glory of glad color and perfume,But to destroy the gloomThat hath held fastHis altar-place these many days gone past?For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—To show His perfect worth!Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apaceTo that strange garden-placeAnd gather allThese living flowers for His high festival.For now hath come the long-desired day,Wherein Love hath full sway!Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,His handmaidens are come!Open them wide,That all may enter in this Easter-tide!Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,And all your wild flowers bringAnd strew them on His altar; while the sun—Seeing what hath been done—Shines strong once more,Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.THE RAINO ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;Ye who find nothing worthy of your loveBut the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;Who, when the day is done,Are all uncomfortedUnless the night be crowned with many a star,Or mellow light be shedFrom the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;O ye to whom the skiesMust be forever fair to free your eyesFrom mortal pain;—Have ye not known the great exceeding worthOf that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?Behold! the wisest of you knows no thingThat hath such title to man's worshippingAs the first sudden dayThe slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;When heavy clouds and grayCome up the southern way,And their bold challenge throwIn the face of the frightened snowThat covereth the ground.What need they now the armies of the SunWhose trumpets now do sound?Alas, the powerless Sun!Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,Each morning drawing up his cohorts vastAnd leading them with slow and even pacesTo assault once more the impenetrable places,Where, crystal-bound,The river moveth on with silent sound?O puny, powerless Sun!On the pure white snow where are the lightest tracesOf what thy forces' ordered ways have done?On these large spacesNo footsteps are imprinted anywhere;Still the white glareIs perfect; yea, the snows are drifted stillOn plain and hill;And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy faceThis day beneath the cloud's gray covering;Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgraceIn which thy name is holden of the Spring.She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;Knowing that with the clouds will come apaceThe Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.A king?—Nay, queen!For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throneWhen first she cometh in the young Spring-season;Gentle and mild,Yet with no dread of any revolution,And fearing not a land unreconciled,And unafraid of treason.In her dark hairLieth the snow's most certain dissolution;And in her glance is knownThe freeing of the rivers from their chainings;And in her bosom's strainingsEarth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.Behold her coming surely, calmly down,Where late the clear skies were,With gray clouds for a gown;Her fragile draperiesCaught by the little breezeWhich loveth her!She weareth yet no crown,Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;Yea, in all lands,Whatever Spring she cometh, men know wellThat it is right and good for her to come;And that her least commandsMust be fulfilled, however wearisome;And that they all must guard the citadelWherein she deigns to dwell!And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly overThe impressionable snowThat vanisheth as woeDoth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,Who, after doubting nights, hath come to knowHis lady loves him so!(Yet not like himDoth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!It is all gray in places, and looks wornWith some most bitter pain;As he shall look, perchance,Some early mornWhile yet the dawn is dim,When he awakens from the enraptured tranceIn which he, blind, hath lain,And knows that also he hath loved in vainThe lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.And though her utter worthlessness is plainHe hath no joy of his deliverance,But only asketh God to let him die,—And getteth no reply.)Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!And while the rain is unabated,Well-heads are born and streams createdOn the hillsides, and set a-flowingAcross the fields. The river, knowingThat there hath surely come at lastIts freedom, and that frost is past,Gathereth force to break its chains;The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!See where the shores even now were firmly boundThe slowly widening water showeth black,As from the fields and meadows all aroundCome rushing over the dark and snowless groundThe foaming streams!Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tideLift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crackStarts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,Glad to be free.And now the uneven rift is growing wide;The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,And moveth on its way.Surely at last the work of the rain is done!Surely the Spring at last is well begun,O unavailing Sun!O ye who worship only at the noon,When will ye learn the glory of the rain?Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grassUplooking piteous at the burnished sky,And all in vain?Even in JuneHave ye not seen the yellow flowers swoonAlong the roadside, where the dust, alas,Is hard to pass?Have ye not heardThe song cease in the throat of every birdAnd know the thing all these were stricken by?Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,O pitiless and uncompassionate!Yet should the sweepingOf Death's wide wings across your face unsleepingBe felt of you to-night,And all your hairKnow the soft stirring of an alien breathFrom out the mouth of Death,Would ye not then have memory of theseAnd how their pain was great?Would ye not wish to hear among the treesThe wind in his great might,And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?For when could death be more desired by us(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)Than when the nightIs heavy with the wet wind born of rain?When flowers are yellow, and the growing grassIs not yet tall,Or when all living things are harvestedAnd with bright gold the hills are glorious,Or when all colors have faded from our sightAnd all is gray that late was gold and red?Have ye not lain awake the long night throughAnd listened to the falling of the rainOn fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?Have none of you,Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comfortedAnd made forgetful of the day's live pain?EvenThou, who wept because the dark was greatOnce, and didst pray that dawn might come again,Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thingAnd night a thing not wholly desolateAnd Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?Did not thy hearing strainTo catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,Where great tides be,And swift, white rain?Did not its far exulting teach thy soulThat of all things the sea alone is freeAnd under no control?Its liberty,—Was it not most desired by thy soul?I say,The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the seaIs glad alwayWhen the rain cometh; either tranquillyAs at the first dawn of a summer dayOr in late autumn wildly passionate,Or when all things are all disconsolateBecause that Winter has been long their king,Or in the Spring.—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgivingBe heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,When ye seek out your homes because the night—The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,Will ye not cry aloud with that new mightOne dying with great things unfinished hath,"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"A MEMORYYou are not with me though the Spring is here!And yet it seemed to-day as if the SpringWere the same one that in an ancient yearCame suddenly upon our wandering.You must remember all that chanced that day.Can you forget the shy awaking callOf the first robin?—And the foolish wayThe squirrel ran along the low stone wall?The half-retreating sound of water breaking,Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breezeTold us the tumult many crows were makingAmid innumerable distant trees;The certain presence of the birth of thingsAround, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;The soft return of immemorial SpringsThrilling with life the fragrant forest air;All these were with us then. Can you forget?Or must you—even as I—remember well?To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yetThey seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to waitOne's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;Till, seeing me alone and desolate,They learned how vain was strong desire of you.AMONG THE HILLSFar off, to eastward, I see the wide hill slopingUp to the place where the pines and sky are one;All the hill is gray with its young budding birchesAnd red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadowOf a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,Born where the ploughed fields border on the riverAnd melting into space where the pines are black and high.There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.And yet, should I go down beside the swollen riverWhere the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,With the mind and the will to cross the new-born watersAnd to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-feverAnd touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.
The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMatinsThis 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: MatinsCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: May 8, 2013 [eBook #42668]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATINS ***
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: MatinsCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: May 8, 2013 [eBook #42668]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Matins
Creator: Francis Sherman
Creator: Francis Sherman
Release date: May 8, 2013 [eBook #42668]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATINS ***
MATINSFrancis Sherman[image]Title page decorationBOSTONCOPELAND AND DAYMDCCCXCVI
MATINS
Francis Sherman
[image]Title page decoration
[image]
[image]
Title page decoration
BOSTONCOPELAND AND DAYMDCCCXCVI
COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY
COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY
TOMY FATHER
TOMY FATHER
CONTENTS
At the GateA LifeAt MatinsAveThe ForeignerCadencesEaster-SongThe RainA MemoryAmong the HillsTo SummerThe PathThe Last FlowerAfter HarvestHeat in SeptemberOn the HillsideSummer DyingA November VigilNunc DimittisBetween the BattlesThe Quiet ValleyThe KingfisherThe ConquerorThe King's HostelBetween the Winter and the SpringThe MotherThe Window of DreamsThe Relief of Wet WillowsThe BuilderTe Deum Laudamus
AT THE GATE
Swing open wide, O Gate,That I may enter inAnd see what lies in waitFor me who have been born!Her word I only scornWho spake of death and sin.I know what is behindYour heavy brazen bars;I heard it of the windWhere I dwelt yesterday:The wind that blows alwayAmong the ancient stars.Life is the chiefest thingThe wind brought knowledge of,As it passed, murmuring:Life, with its infinite strength,And undiminished lengthOf years fulfilled with love.The wind spake not of sinThat blows among the stars;And so I enter in(Swing open wide, O Gate!)Fearless of what may waitBehind your heavy bars.
Swing open wide, O Gate,That I may enter inAnd see what lies in waitFor me who have been born!Her word I only scornWho spake of death and sin.
Swing open wide, O Gate,
That I may enter in
And see what lies in wait
For me who have been born!
Her word I only scorn
Who spake of death and sin.
I know what is behindYour heavy brazen bars;I heard it of the windWhere I dwelt yesterday:The wind that blows alwayAmong the ancient stars.
I know what is behind
Your heavy brazen bars;
I heard it of the wind
Where I dwelt yesterday:
The wind that blows alway
Among the ancient stars.
Life is the chiefest thingThe wind brought knowledge of,As it passed, murmuring:Life, with its infinite strength,And undiminished lengthOf years fulfilled with love.
Life is the chiefest thing
The wind brought knowledge of,
As it passed, murmuring:
Life, with its infinite strength,
And undiminished length
Of years fulfilled with love.
The wind spake not of sinThat blows among the stars;And so I enter in(Swing open wide, O Gate!)Fearless of what may waitBehind your heavy bars.
The wind spake not of sin
That blows among the stars;
And so I enter in
(Swing open wide, O Gate!)
Fearless of what may wait
Behind your heavy bars.
A LIFE
I.
Let us rise up and live!Behold, each thingIs ready for the moulding of our hand.Long have they all awaited our command;None other will they ever own for king.Until we come no bird dare try to sing,Nor any sea its power may understand;No buds are on the trees; in every landYear asketh year some tidings of some Spring.Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!Simple indeed shall life be unto us.What part is ours?—To take what all things give;To feel the whole world growing for our sake;To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;To laugh and love.—Let us rise up and live!
Let us rise up and live!Behold, each thingIs ready for the moulding of our hand.Long have they all awaited our command;None other will they ever own for king.Until we come no bird dare try to sing,Nor any sea its power may understand;No buds are on the trees; in every landYear asketh year some tidings of some Spring.Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!Simple indeed shall life be unto us.What part is ours?—To take what all things give;To feel the whole world growing for our sake;To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;To laugh and love.—Let us rise up and live!
Let us rise up and live!Behold, each thing
Is ready for the moulding of our hand.
Long have they all awaited our command;
None other will they ever own for king.
Until we come no bird dare try to sing,
Nor any sea its power may understand;
No buds are on the trees; in every land
Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring.
Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!
Simple indeed shall life be unto us.
What part is ours?—To take what all things give;
To feel the whole world growing for our sake;
To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;
To laugh and love.—Let us rise up and live!
II.
Let us rule well and long. We will build hereOur city in the pathway of the sun.On this side shall this mighty river run;Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,That from their sides our jewels may be won.Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;Under our sway all far things fall and near!All time is ours!Let us rule long and well!So we have reigned for many a long, long day.No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,Who dares to stop us on our royal way?"O King, last night within thy garden fell,From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."
Let us rule well and long. We will build hereOur city in the pathway of the sun.On this side shall this mighty river run;Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,That from their sides our jewels may be won.Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;Under our sway all far things fall and near!All time is ours!Let us rule long and well!So we have reigned for many a long, long day.No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,Who dares to stop us on our royal way?"O King, last night within thy garden fell,From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."
Let us rule well and long. We will build here
Our city in the pathway of the sun.
On this side shall this mighty river run;
Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.
Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,
That from their sides our jewels may be won.
Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;
Under our sway all far things fall and near!
All time is ours!Let us rule long and well!
So we have reigned for many a long, long day.
No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,
Who dares to stop us on our royal way?
"O King, last night within thy garden fell,
From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."
III.
Let us lie down and sleep!All things are still,And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.No more is heard the sound of hurrying feetAthrough the land their echoes once did fill.Even the wind knows not its ancient will,For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet:Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greetHis handmaiden, the utmost western hill.Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.We too have lived.Let us lie down and sleep!
Let us lie down and sleep!All things are still,And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.No more is heard the sound of hurrying feetAthrough the land their echoes once did fill.Even the wind knows not its ancient will,For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet:Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greetHis handmaiden, the utmost western hill.Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.We too have lived.Let us lie down and sleep!
Let us lie down and sleep!All things are still,
And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.
No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet
Athrough the land their echoes once did fill.
Even the wind knows not its ancient will,
For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet:
Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet
His handmaiden, the utmost western hill.
Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!
Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;
We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!
O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!
Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.
We too have lived.Let us lie down and sleep!
IV.
Nay, let us kneel and pray!The fault was ours,O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.We built us many ships, and mighty towers,And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.All things we had for slave. We knew no God;We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,O Unknown God,—Let us kneel down and pray!
Nay, let us kneel and pray!The fault was ours,O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.We built us many ships, and mighty towers,And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.All things we had for slave. We knew no God;We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,O Unknown God,—Let us kneel down and pray!
Nay, let us kneel and pray!The fault was ours,
O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.
The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;
We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.
We built us many ships, and mighty towers,
And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:
Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!
The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.
All things we had for slave. We knew no God;
We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—
This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,
Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.
We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,
O Unknown God,—Let us kneel down and pray!
AT MATINS
Because I ever have gone down Thy waysWith joyous heart and undivided praise,I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindnessLay still upon the unawakened land;But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:I knew that it was one might never falterAlthough the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:Send out Thy rapid messengers to bringMe to the shadows which about Thine altarAre ever born and always gathering."For I am weary now, and would lie deadWhere I may not behold my old days shedLike withered leaves around me and above me;Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!""O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love meAlthough I sin, and lead me who am blind;Because of all these things, hear me who pray!Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more dayTo worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;And though I knew this day had in its givingUnnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,I counted it a sad and bitter thingThat this weak, drifting Soul must alway clingUnto this Body—wrought in such a fashionIt must have set the gods, even, marvelling.And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passionFor this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonderAs they beheld the glorious eastern land;I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,Go down into the day that had begun;I knew, as they, that night might never sunderThis Body from the Soul that it had won.)
Because I ever have gone down Thy waysWith joyous heart and undivided praise,I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"
Because I ever have gone down Thy ways
With joyous heart and undivided praise,
I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,
Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"
(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindnessLay still upon the unawakened land;
(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,
Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:
The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindness
Lay still upon the unawakened land;
But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:I knew that it was one might never falterAlthough the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)
But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,
Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:
I knew that it was one might never falter
Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)
"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:Send out Thy rapid messengers to bringMe to the shadows which about Thine altarAre ever born and always gathering.
"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:
Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring
Me to the shadows which about Thine altar
Are ever born and always gathering.
"For I am weary now, and would lie deadWhere I may not behold my old days shedLike withered leaves around me and above me;Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!"
"For I am weary now, and would lie dead
Where I may not behold my old days shed
Like withered leaves around me and above me;
Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!"
"O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love meAlthough I sin, and lead me who am blind;
"O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"
(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);
"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me
Although I sin, and lead me who am blind;
Because of all these things, hear me who pray!Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more dayTo worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."
Because of all these things, hear me who pray!
Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day
To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.
Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."
(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;And though I knew this day had in its givingUnnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,
(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;
And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;
And though I knew this day had in its giving
Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,
I counted it a sad and bitter thingThat this weak, drifting Soul must alway clingUnto this Body—wrought in such a fashionIt must have set the gods, even, marvelling.
I counted it a sad and bitter thing
That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling
Unto this Body—wrought in such a fashion
It must have set the gods, even, marvelling.
And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passionFor this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!
And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,
As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)
"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion
For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!
"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!
"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,
This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—
Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,
And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!
"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"
"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—
O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!
O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,
And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"
(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonderAs they beheld the glorious eastern land;
(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,
Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,
Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder
As they beheld the glorious eastern land;
I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,Go down into the day that had begun;I knew, as they, that night might never sunderThis Body from the Soul that it had won.)
I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,
Go down into the day that had begun;
I knew, as they, that night might never sunder
This Body from the Soul that it had won.)
AVE!
To-morrow, and a year is born again!(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)Will it bring joys the old year did not know,Or will it burthen us with the old pain?Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?(The memories of the old year yet remain.)To-morrow, and another year is born!(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,Following bravely on where Hope hath led.(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!
To-morrow, and a year is born again!(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)Will it bring joys the old year did not know,Or will it burthen us with the old pain?Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?(The memories of the old year yet remain.)
To-morrow, and a year is born again!
(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)
Will it bring joys the old year did not know,
Or will it burthen us with the old pain?
Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?
Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?
Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?
(The memories of the old year yet remain.)
To-morrow, and another year is born!(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,Following bravely on where Hope hath led.(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!
To-morrow, and another year is born!
(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)
Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,
Following bravely on where Hope hath led.
(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)
O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!
THE FOREIGNER
He walked by me with open eyes,And wondered that I loved it so;Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.Before us slept a dark, dark wood.Hemlocks were there, and little pinesAlso; and solemn cedars stoodIn even and uneven lines.The branches of each silent treeBent downward, for the snow's hard weightWas pressing on them heavily;They had not known the sun of late.(Except when it was afternoon,And then a sickly sun peered inA little while; it vanished soonAnd then they were as they had been.)There was no sound (I thought I heardThe axe of some man far away)There was no sound of bee, or bird,Or chattering squirrel at its play.And so he wondered I was glad.—There was one thing he could not see;Beneath the look these dead things hadI saw Spring eyes agaze at me.
He walked by me with open eyes,And wondered that I loved it so;Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.
He walked by me with open eyes,
And wondered that I loved it so;
Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;
Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.
Before us slept a dark, dark wood.Hemlocks were there, and little pinesAlso; and solemn cedars stoodIn even and uneven lines.
Before us slept a dark, dark wood.
Hemlocks were there, and little pines
Also; and solemn cedars stood
In even and uneven lines.
The branches of each silent treeBent downward, for the snow's hard weightWas pressing on them heavily;They had not known the sun of late.
The branches of each silent tree
Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight
Was pressing on them heavily;
They had not known the sun of late.
(Except when it was afternoon,And then a sickly sun peered inA little while; it vanished soonAnd then they were as they had been.)
(Except when it was afternoon,
And then a sickly sun peered in
A little while; it vanished soon
And then they were as they had been.)
There was no sound (I thought I heardThe axe of some man far away)There was no sound of bee, or bird,Or chattering squirrel at its play.
There was no sound (I thought I heard
The axe of some man far away)
There was no sound of bee, or bird,
Or chattering squirrel at its play.
And so he wondered I was glad.—There was one thing he could not see;Beneath the look these dead things hadI saw Spring eyes agaze at me.
And so he wondered I was glad.
—There was one thing he could not see;
Beneath the look these dead things had
I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.
CADENCES
(Mid-Lent)
The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,Silent and all untenanted;From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,Save for the little wind that moaneth stillBecause it deemeth Earth is surely dead.For many days no woman hath gone by,Her gold hair knowing, as of old,The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;—Perchance even she hath thought it best to dieBecause all things are sad things to behold.
The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,Silent and all untenanted;From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,Save for the little wind that moaneth stillBecause it deemeth Earth is surely dead.
The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,
Silent and all untenanted;
From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,
Save for the little wind that moaneth still
Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead.
For many days no woman hath gone by,Her gold hair knowing, as of old,The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;—Perchance even she hath thought it best to dieBecause all things are sad things to behold.
For many days no woman hath gone by,
Her gold hair knowing, as of old,
The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;
—Perchance even she hath thought it best to die
Because all things are sad things to behold.
(Easter Morning)
She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shineOn face and limbs and hair!Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fairA Lady ever as this one is of mine?Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleetPast the thrush-haunted trees,How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!How glad the grasses underneath her feet!And how even I am yet more glad than these!
She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shineOn face and limbs and hair!Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fairA Lady ever as this one is of mine?Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?
She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shine
On face and limbs and hair!
Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair
A Lady ever as this one is of mine?
Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?
See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleetPast the thrush-haunted trees,How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!How glad the grasses underneath her feet!And how even I am yet more glad than these!
See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet
Past the thrush-haunted trees,
How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!
How glad the grasses underneath her feet!
And how even I am yet more glad than these!
EASTER-SONG
Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again!And let your feet disdainThe paths whereby of late they have been led.Now Death itself is dead,And Love hath birth,And all things mournful find no place on earth.This morn ye all must go another wayThan ye went yesterday.Not with sad faces shall ye silent goWhere He hath suffered so;But where there beFull many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,As if the ended nightWere but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.And ye must also singIn angel-wise:So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.Maidens, arise! I know where many flowersHave grown these many hoursTo make more perfect this glad Easter-day;Where tall white lilies swayOn slender stem,Waiting for you to come and garner them;Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,Which will Him well delight;And yellow buttercups, and growing grassThrough which the Spring winds pass;And mosses wet,Well strown with many a new-born violet.All these and every other flower are here.Will ye not draw anearAnd gather them for Him, and in His name,Whom all men now proclaimTheir living King?Behold how all these wait your harvesting!Moreover, see the darkness of His house!Think ye that He allowsSuch glory of glad color and perfume,But to destroy the gloomThat hath held fastHis altar-place these many days gone past?For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—To show His perfect worth!Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apaceTo that strange garden-placeAnd gather allThese living flowers for His high festival.For now hath come the long-desired day,Wherein Love hath full sway!Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,His handmaidens are come!Open them wide,That all may enter in this Easter-tide!Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,And all your wild flowers bringAnd strew them on His altar; while the sun—Seeing what hath been done—Shines strong once more,Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.
Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again!And let your feet disdainThe paths whereby of late they have been led.Now Death itself is dead,And Love hath birth,And all things mournful find no place on earth.
Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again!
And let your feet disdain
The paths whereby of late they have been led.
Now Death itself is dead,
And Love hath birth,
And all things mournful find no place on earth.
This morn ye all must go another wayThan ye went yesterday.Not with sad faces shall ye silent goWhere He hath suffered so;But where there beFull many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.
This morn ye all must go another way
Than ye went yesterday.
Not with sad faces shall ye silent go
Where He hath suffered so;
But where there be
Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.
Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,As if the ended nightWere but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.And ye must also singIn angel-wise:So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.
Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,
As if the ended night
Were but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.
And ye must also sing
In angel-wise:
So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.
Maidens, arise! I know where many flowersHave grown these many hoursTo make more perfect this glad Easter-day;Where tall white lilies swayOn slender stem,Waiting for you to come and garner them;
Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers
Have grown these many hours
To make more perfect this glad Easter-day;
Where tall white lilies sway
On slender stem,
Waiting for you to come and garner them;
Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,Which will Him well delight;And yellow buttercups, and growing grassThrough which the Spring winds pass;And mosses wet,Well strown with many a new-born violet.
Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,
Which will Him well delight;
And yellow buttercups, and growing grass
Through which the Spring winds pass;
And mosses wet,
Well strown with many a new-born violet.
All these and every other flower are here.Will ye not draw anearAnd gather them for Him, and in His name,Whom all men now proclaimTheir living King?Behold how all these wait your harvesting!
All these and every other flower are here.
Will ye not draw anear
And gather them for Him, and in His name,
Whom all men now proclaim
Their living King?
Behold how all these wait your harvesting!
Moreover, see the darkness of His house!Think ye that He allowsSuch glory of glad color and perfume,But to destroy the gloomThat hath held fastHis altar-place these many days gone past?
Moreover, see the darkness of His house!
Think ye that He allows
Such glory of glad color and perfume,
But to destroy the gloom
That hath held fast
His altar-place these many days gone past?
For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—To show His perfect worth!Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apaceTo that strange garden-placeAnd gather allThese living flowers for His high festival.
For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—
To show His perfect worth!
Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace
To that strange garden-place
And gather all
These living flowers for His high festival.
For now hath come the long-desired day,Wherein Love hath full sway!Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,His handmaidens are come!Open them wide,That all may enter in this Easter-tide!
For now hath come the long-desired day,
Wherein Love hath full sway!
Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,
His handmaidens are come!
Open them wide,
That all may enter in this Easter-tide!
Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,And all your wild flowers bringAnd strew them on His altar; while the sun—Seeing what hath been done—Shines strong once more,Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.
Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,
And all your wild flowers bring
And strew them on His altar; while the sun—
Seeing what hath been done—
Shines strong once more,
Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.
THE RAIN
O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;Ye who find nothing worthy of your loveBut the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;Who, when the day is done,Are all uncomfortedUnless the night be crowned with many a star,Or mellow light be shedFrom the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;O ye to whom the skiesMust be forever fair to free your eyesFrom mortal pain;—Have ye not known the great exceeding worthOf that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?Behold! the wisest of you knows no thingThat hath such title to man's worshippingAs the first sudden dayThe slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;When heavy clouds and grayCome up the southern way,And their bold challenge throwIn the face of the frightened snowThat covereth the ground.What need they now the armies of the SunWhose trumpets now do sound?Alas, the powerless Sun!Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,Each morning drawing up his cohorts vastAnd leading them with slow and even pacesTo assault once more the impenetrable places,Where, crystal-bound,The river moveth on with silent sound?O puny, powerless Sun!On the pure white snow where are the lightest tracesOf what thy forces' ordered ways have done?On these large spacesNo footsteps are imprinted anywhere;Still the white glareIs perfect; yea, the snows are drifted stillOn plain and hill;And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy faceThis day beneath the cloud's gray covering;Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgraceIn which thy name is holden of the Spring.She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;Knowing that with the clouds will come apaceThe Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.A king?—Nay, queen!For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throneWhen first she cometh in the young Spring-season;Gentle and mild,Yet with no dread of any revolution,And fearing not a land unreconciled,And unafraid of treason.In her dark hairLieth the snow's most certain dissolution;And in her glance is knownThe freeing of the rivers from their chainings;And in her bosom's strainingsEarth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.Behold her coming surely, calmly down,Where late the clear skies were,With gray clouds for a gown;Her fragile draperiesCaught by the little breezeWhich loveth her!She weareth yet no crown,Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;Yea, in all lands,Whatever Spring she cometh, men know wellThat it is right and good for her to come;And that her least commandsMust be fulfilled, however wearisome;And that they all must guard the citadelWherein she deigns to dwell!And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly overThe impressionable snowThat vanisheth as woeDoth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,Who, after doubting nights, hath come to knowHis lady loves him so!(Yet not like himDoth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!It is all gray in places, and looks wornWith some most bitter pain;As he shall look, perchance,Some early mornWhile yet the dawn is dim,When he awakens from the enraptured tranceIn which he, blind, hath lain,And knows that also he hath loved in vainThe lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.And though her utter worthlessness is plainHe hath no joy of his deliverance,But only asketh God to let him die,—And getteth no reply.)Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!And while the rain is unabated,Well-heads are born and streams createdOn the hillsides, and set a-flowingAcross the fields. The river, knowingThat there hath surely come at lastIts freedom, and that frost is past,Gathereth force to break its chains;The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!See where the shores even now were firmly boundThe slowly widening water showeth black,As from the fields and meadows all aroundCome rushing over the dark and snowless groundThe foaming streams!Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tideLift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crackStarts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,Glad to be free.And now the uneven rift is growing wide;The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,And moveth on its way.Surely at last the work of the rain is done!Surely the Spring at last is well begun,O unavailing Sun!O ye who worship only at the noon,When will ye learn the glory of the rain?Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grassUplooking piteous at the burnished sky,And all in vain?Even in JuneHave ye not seen the yellow flowers swoonAlong the roadside, where the dust, alas,Is hard to pass?Have ye not heardThe song cease in the throat of every birdAnd know the thing all these were stricken by?Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,O pitiless and uncompassionate!Yet should the sweepingOf Death's wide wings across your face unsleepingBe felt of you to-night,And all your hairKnow the soft stirring of an alien breathFrom out the mouth of Death,Would ye not then have memory of theseAnd how their pain was great?Would ye not wish to hear among the treesThe wind in his great might,And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?For when could death be more desired by us(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)Than when the nightIs heavy with the wet wind born of rain?When flowers are yellow, and the growing grassIs not yet tall,Or when all living things are harvestedAnd with bright gold the hills are glorious,Or when all colors have faded from our sightAnd all is gray that late was gold and red?Have ye not lain awake the long night throughAnd listened to the falling of the rainOn fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?Have none of you,Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comfortedAnd made forgetful of the day's live pain?EvenThou, who wept because the dark was greatOnce, and didst pray that dawn might come again,Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thingAnd night a thing not wholly desolateAnd Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?Did not thy hearing strainTo catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,Where great tides be,And swift, white rain?Did not its far exulting teach thy soulThat of all things the sea alone is freeAnd under no control?Its liberty,—Was it not most desired by thy soul?I say,The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the seaIs glad alwayWhen the rain cometh; either tranquillyAs at the first dawn of a summer dayOr in late autumn wildly passionate,Or when all things are all disconsolateBecause that Winter has been long their king,Or in the Spring.—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgivingBe heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,When ye seek out your homes because the night—The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,Will ye not cry aloud with that new mightOne dying with great things unfinished hath,"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"
O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;Ye who find nothing worthy of your loveBut the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;Who, when the day is done,Are all uncomfortedUnless the night be crowned with many a star,Or mellow light be shedFrom the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;O ye to whom the skiesMust be forever fair to free your eyesFrom mortal pain;—Have ye not known the great exceeding worthOf that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?
O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;
Ye who find nothing worthy of your love
But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;
Who, when the day is done,
Are all uncomforted
Unless the night be crowned with many a star,
Or mellow light be shed
From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,
With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;
O ye to whom the skies
Must be forever fair to free your eyes
From mortal pain;—
Have ye not known the great exceeding worth
Of that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?
Behold! the wisest of you knows no thingThat hath such title to man's worshippingAs the first sudden dayThe slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;When heavy clouds and grayCome up the southern way,And their bold challenge throwIn the face of the frightened snowThat covereth the ground.What need they now the armies of the SunWhose trumpets now do sound?Alas, the powerless Sun!Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,Each morning drawing up his cohorts vastAnd leading them with slow and even pacesTo assault once more the impenetrable places,Where, crystal-bound,The river moveth on with silent sound?O puny, powerless Sun!On the pure white snow where are the lightest tracesOf what thy forces' ordered ways have done?On these large spacesNo footsteps are imprinted anywhere;Still the white glareIs perfect; yea, the snows are drifted stillOn plain and hill;And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.
Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing
That hath such title to man's worshipping
As the first sudden day
The slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;
When heavy clouds and gray
Come up the southern way,
And their bold challenge throw
In the face of the frightened snow
That covereth the ground.
What need they now the armies of the Sun
Whose trumpets now do sound?
Alas, the powerless Sun!
Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,
Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast
And leading them with slow and even paces
To assault once more the impenetrable places,
Where, crystal-bound,
The river moveth on with silent sound?
O puny, powerless Sun!
On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces
Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done?
On these large spaces
No footsteps are imprinted anywhere;
Still the white glare
Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still
On plain and hill;
And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.
Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy faceThis day beneath the cloud's gray covering;Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgraceIn which thy name is holden of the Spring.She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;Knowing that with the clouds will come apaceThe Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.A king?—Nay, queen!For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throneWhen first she cometh in the young Spring-season;Gentle and mild,Yet with no dread of any revolution,And fearing not a land unreconciled,And unafraid of treason.In her dark hairLieth the snow's most certain dissolution;And in her glance is knownThe freeing of the rivers from their chainings;And in her bosom's strainingsEarth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.
Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face
This day beneath the cloud's gray covering;
Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace
In which thy name is holden of the Spring.
She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,
And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;
Knowing that with the clouds will come apace
The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.
A king?—Nay, queen!
For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne
When first she cometh in the young Spring-season;
Gentle and mild,
Yet with no dread of any revolution,
And fearing not a land unreconciled,
And unafraid of treason.
In her dark hair
Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution;
And in her glance is known
The freeing of the rivers from their chainings;
And in her bosom's strainings
Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.
Behold her coming surely, calmly down,Where late the clear skies were,With gray clouds for a gown;Her fragile draperiesCaught by the little breezeWhich loveth her!She weareth yet no crown,Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;Yea, in all lands,Whatever Spring she cometh, men know wellThat it is right and good for her to come;And that her least commandsMust be fulfilled, however wearisome;And that they all must guard the citadelWherein she deigns to dwell!
Behold her coming surely, calmly down,
Where late the clear skies were,
With gray clouds for a gown;
Her fragile draperies
Caught by the little breeze
Which loveth her!
She weareth yet no crown,
Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;
Yea, in all lands,
Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well
That it is right and good for her to come;
And that her least commands
Must be fulfilled, however wearisome;
And that they all must guard the citadel
Wherein she deigns to dwell!
And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly overThe impressionable snowThat vanisheth as woeDoth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,Who, after doubting nights, hath come to knowHis lady loves him so!(Yet not like himDoth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!It is all gray in places, and looks wornWith some most bitter pain;As he shall look, perchance,Some early mornWhile yet the dawn is dim,When he awakens from the enraptured tranceIn which he, blind, hath lain,And knows that also he hath loved in vainThe lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.And though her utter worthlessness is plainHe hath no joy of his deliverance,But only asketh God to let him die,—And getteth no reply.)Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!
And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over
The impressionable snow
That vanisheth as woe
Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,
Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know
His lady loves him so!
(Yet not like him
Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!
It is all gray in places, and looks worn
With some most bitter pain;
As he shall look, perchance,
Some early morn
While yet the dawn is dim,
When he awakens from the enraptured trance
In which he, blind, hath lain,
And knows that also he hath loved in vain
The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.
And though her utter worthlessness is plain
He hath no joy of his deliverance,
But only asketh God to let him die,—
And getteth no reply.)
Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!
And while the rain is unabated,Well-heads are born and streams createdOn the hillsides, and set a-flowingAcross the fields. The river, knowingThat there hath surely come at lastIts freedom, and that frost is past,Gathereth force to break its chains;The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!
And while the rain is unabated,
Well-heads are born and streams created
On the hillsides, and set a-flowing
Across the fields. The river, knowing
That there hath surely come at last
Its freedom, and that frost is past,
Gathereth force to break its chains;
The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!
See where the shores even now were firmly boundThe slowly widening water showeth black,As from the fields and meadows all aroundCome rushing over the dark and snowless groundThe foaming streams!Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tideLift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crackStarts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,Glad to be free.And now the uneven rift is growing wide;The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,And moveth on its way.Surely at last the work of the rain is done!Surely the Spring at last is well begun,O unavailing Sun!
See where the shores even now were firmly bound
The slowly widening water showeth black,
As from the fields and meadows all around
Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground
The foaming streams!
Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide
Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack
Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,
Glad to be free.
And now the uneven rift is growing wide;
The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;
It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,
And moveth on its way.
Surely at last the work of the rain is done!
Surely the Spring at last is well begun,
O unavailing Sun!
O ye who worship only at the noon,When will ye learn the glory of the rain?Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grassUplooking piteous at the burnished sky,And all in vain?Even in JuneHave ye not seen the yellow flowers swoonAlong the roadside, where the dust, alas,Is hard to pass?Have ye not heardThe song cease in the throat of every birdAnd know the thing all these were stricken by?
O ye who worship only at the noon,
When will ye learn the glory of the rain?
Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass
Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky,
And all in vain?
Even in June
Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon
Along the roadside, where the dust, alas,
Is hard to pass?
Have ye not heard
The song cease in the throat of every bird
And know the thing all these were stricken by?
Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,O pitiless and uncompassionate!Yet should the sweepingOf Death's wide wings across your face unsleepingBe felt of you to-night,And all your hairKnow the soft stirring of an alien breathFrom out the mouth of Death,Would ye not then have memory of theseAnd how their pain was great?Would ye not wish to hear among the treesThe wind in his great might,And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?
Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,
O pitiless and uncompassionate!
Yet should the sweeping
Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping
Be felt of you to-night,
And all your hair
Know the soft stirring of an alien breath
From out the mouth of Death,
Would ye not then have memory of these
And how their pain was great?
Would ye not wish to hear among the trees
The wind in his great might,
And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?
For when could death be more desired by us(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)Than when the nightIs heavy with the wet wind born of rain?When flowers are yellow, and the growing grassIs not yet tall,Or when all living things are harvestedAnd with bright gold the hills are glorious,Or when all colors have faded from our sightAnd all is gray that late was gold and red?Have ye not lain awake the long night throughAnd listened to the falling of the rainOn fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?Have none of you,Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comfortedAnd made forgetful of the day's live pain?EvenThou, who wept because the dark was greatOnce, and didst pray that dawn might come again,Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thingAnd night a thing not wholly desolateAnd Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?Did not thy hearing strainTo catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,Where great tides be,And swift, white rain?Did not its far exulting teach thy soulThat of all things the sea alone is freeAnd under no control?Its liberty,—Was it not most desired by thy soul?
For when could death be more desired by us
(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)
Than when the night
Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?
When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass
Is not yet tall,
Or when all living things are harvested
And with bright gold the hills are glorious,
Or when all colors have faded from our sight
And all is gray that late was gold and red?
Have ye not lain awake the long night through
And listened to the falling of the rain
On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?
Have none of you,
Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted
And made forgetful of the day's live pain?
EvenThou, who wept because the dark was great
Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,
Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing
And night a thing not wholly desolate
And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?
Did not thy hearing strain
To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,
Where great tides be,
And swift, white rain?
Did not its far exulting teach thy soul
That of all things the sea alone is free
And under no control?
Its liberty,—
Was it not most desired by thy soul?
I say,The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the seaIs glad alwayWhen the rain cometh; either tranquillyAs at the first dawn of a summer dayOr in late autumn wildly passionate,Or when all things are all disconsolateBecause that Winter has been long their king,Or in the Spring.—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgivingBe heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,When ye seek out your homes because the night—The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,Will ye not cry aloud with that new mightOne dying with great things unfinished hath,"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"
I say,
The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea
Is glad alway
When the rain cometh; either tranquilly
As at the first dawn of a summer day
Or in late autumn wildly passionate,
Or when all things are all disconsolate
Because that Winter has been long their king,
Or in the Spring.
—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving
Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!
While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?
Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?
Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;
Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;
Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,
Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,
When ye seek out your homes because the night—
The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,
And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,
Will ye not cry aloud with that new might
One dying with great things unfinished hath,
"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"
A MEMORY
You are not with me though the Spring is here!And yet it seemed to-day as if the SpringWere the same one that in an ancient yearCame suddenly upon our wandering.You must remember all that chanced that day.Can you forget the shy awaking callOf the first robin?—And the foolish wayThe squirrel ran along the low stone wall?The half-retreating sound of water breaking,Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breezeTold us the tumult many crows were makingAmid innumerable distant trees;The certain presence of the birth of thingsAround, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;The soft return of immemorial SpringsThrilling with life the fragrant forest air;All these were with us then. Can you forget?Or must you—even as I—remember well?To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yetThey seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to waitOne's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;Till, seeing me alone and desolate,They learned how vain was strong desire of you.
You are not with me though the Spring is here!And yet it seemed to-day as if the SpringWere the same one that in an ancient yearCame suddenly upon our wandering.
You are not with me though the Spring is here!
And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring
Were the same one that in an ancient year
Came suddenly upon our wandering.
You must remember all that chanced that day.Can you forget the shy awaking callOf the first robin?—And the foolish wayThe squirrel ran along the low stone wall?
You must remember all that chanced that day.
Can you forget the shy awaking call
Of the first robin?—And the foolish way
The squirrel ran along the low stone wall?
The half-retreating sound of water breaking,Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breezeTold us the tumult many crows were makingAmid innumerable distant trees;
The half-retreating sound of water breaking,
Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze
Told us the tumult many crows were making
Amid innumerable distant trees;
The certain presence of the birth of thingsAround, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;The soft return of immemorial SpringsThrilling with life the fragrant forest air;
The certain presence of the birth of things
Around, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;
The soft return of immemorial Springs
Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air;
All these were with us then. Can you forget?Or must you—even as I—remember well?To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yetThey seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;
All these were with us then. Can you forget?
Or must you—even as I—remember well?
To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yet
They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;
They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to waitOne's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;Till, seeing me alone and desolate,They learned how vain was strong desire of you.
They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait
One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;
Till, seeing me alone and desolate,
They learned how vain was strong desire of you.
AMONG THE HILLS
Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill slopingUp to the place where the pines and sky are one;All the hill is gray with its young budding birchesAnd red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadowOf a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,Born where the ploughed fields border on the riverAnd melting into space where the pines are black and high.There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.And yet, should I go down beside the swollen riverWhere the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,With the mind and the will to cross the new-born watersAnd to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-feverAnd touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.
Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill slopingUp to the place where the pines and sky are one;All the hill is gray with its young budding birchesAnd red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.
Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill sloping
Up to the place where the pines and sky are one;
All the hill is gray with its young budding birches
And red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.
Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadowOf a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,Born where the ploughed fields border on the riverAnd melting into space where the pines are black and high.
Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadow
Of a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,
Born where the ploughed fields border on the river
And melting into space where the pines are black and high.
There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.
There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,
Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;
The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—
I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.
And yet, should I go down beside the swollen riverWhere the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,With the mind and the will to cross the new-born watersAnd to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,
And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river
Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,
With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters
And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,
—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-feverAnd touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.
—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever
And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;
Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,
And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.