I love daffodils.I love Narcissus when he bends his head.I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodilsOut of my rhyme of song.Do you know anything about the springWhen it comes again?God knows about it while winter is lasting.Flowers bring him power in the spring,And birds bring it, and children.He is sometimes sad and aloneUp there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.I bring him songsWhen he is in his sadness, and weary.I tell him how I used to wander outTo study stars and the moon he made,And flowers in the dark of the wood.I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,And that snowdrops are up.What can I say to make him listen?"God," I say,"Don't you care!Nobody must be sad or sorryIn the spring-time of flowers."
The world turns softlyNot to spill its lakes and rivers.The water is held in its armsAnd the sky is held in the water.What is water,That pours silver,And can hold the sky?
When the clouds come deep against the skyI sit alone in my room to think,To remember the fairy dreams I made,Listening to the rustling out of the trees.The stories in my fairy-tale bookCome new to me every day.But at my farm on the hill-topI have the wind for a fairy,And the shapes of things:Shady Bronn is the name of my little farm:It is the name of a dream I haveWhere leaves move,And the wind rings them like little bells.
The chickadee in the appletreeTalks all the time very gently.He makes me sleepy.I rock away to the sea-lights.Far off I hear him talkingThe way smooth bright pebblesDrop into water . . .Chick-a-dee-dee-dee . . .
The Sandman comes pattering across the Bay:His hair is silver,His footstep soft.The moon shines on his silver hair,On his quick feet.The Sandman comes searching across the Bay:He goes to all the houses he knowsTo put sand in little girls' eyes.That is why I go to my sleepy bed,And why the lake-gull leaves the moon alone.There are no wings to moonlight any more,Only the Sandman's hair.
Little Rose-moss beside the stone,Are you lonely in the garden?There are no friends of you,And the birds are gone.Shall I pick you?""Little girl up by the hollyhock,I am not lonely.I feel the sun burning,I hold light in my cup,I have all the rain I want,I think things to myself that you don't know,And I listen to the talk of crickets.I am not lonely,But you may pick meAnd take me to your mother."
Now the flowers are all foldedAnd the dark is going by.The evening is arising . . .It is time to rest.When I am sleepingI find my pillow full of dreams.They are all new dreams:No one told them to meBefore I came through the cloud.They remember the sky, my little dreams,They have wings, they are quick, they are sweet.Help me tell my dreamsTo the other children,So that their bread may taste whiter,So that the milk they drinkMay make them think of meadowsIn the sky of stars.Help me give bread to the other childrenSo that their dreams may come back:So they will remember what they knewBefore they came through the cloud.Let me hold their little hands in the dark,The lonely children,
The babies that have no mothers any more.Dear God, let me hold up my silver cupFor them to drink,And tell them the sweetnessOf my dreams.
I made a ring of leavesOn the autumn grass:I was a fairy queen all day.Inside the ring, the wind wore sandalsNot to make a noise of going.The caterpillars, like little snow men,Had wound themselves in their winter coats.The hands of the trees were bareAnd their fingers fluttered.I was a queen of yellow leaves and brown,And the redness of my fairy ringKept me warm.For the wind blew near,Though he made no noise of going,And I hadn't a close-made wrapLike the caterpillars.Even a queen of fairies can be coldWhen summer has forgotten and gone!Keep me warm, red leaves;Don't let the frost tiptoe into my ringOn the magic grass!
When I slept, I thought I was upon the mountain-tops,And this is my dream.I saw the little people come out into the night,I saw their wings glittering under the stars.Crickets played all the tunes they knew.It was so comfortable with light . . .Stars, a rainbow, the moon!The fairies had shiny crownsOn their bright hair.The bottoms of their little gowns were roses!It was musical in the moony light,And the fairy queen,Oh, it was all golden where she cameWith tiny pages on her trail.She walked slowly to her high throne,Slowly, slowly to music,And watched the dancing that went onAll night long in star-glitterOn the mountain-tops.
Butterfly,I like the way you wear your wings.Show me their colors,For the light is going.Spread out their edges of gold,Before the Sandman puts me to sleepAnd evening murmurs by.
Now it is dusky,And the hermit thrush and the black and white warblerAre singing and answering together.There is sweetness in the tree,And fireflies are counting the leaves.I like this country,I like the way it has,But I cannot forget my dream I had of the sea,The gulls swinging and calling,And the foamy towers of the waves.
The dark cloud raged.Gone was the morning light.The big drops darted down:The storm stood tall on the rose-trees:And the bees that were getting honeyOut of wet roses,The hiding bees would not come out of the flowersInto the rain.
When I heard the bees humming in the hive,They were so busy about their honey,I said to my mother,What can I give,What can I give to help the Red Cross?And Mother said to me:You can give honey too!Honey of smiles!Honey of love!
It isn't alone the astersIn my garden,It is the butterflies gleamingLike crowns of kings and queens!It isn't alone purpleAnd blue on the edge of purple,It is what the sun does,And the air moving clearly,The petals moving and the wings,In my queer little garden!
Soldier drop that golden spear!Wait till the fires arise!Wait till the sky drops down and touches the spear,Crystal and mother-of-pearl!The sunlight droops forwardLike wings.The birds sing songs of sun-drops.The sky leans down where the spear stands upward. . .I hear music . . .It is the end . . .
On trees of fairylandGrow peacock feathers of daylight colorsLike an Austrian fan.But there is a strange thing!I have heard that night gathers these feathersFor her cloak;I have heard that the stars, the moon,Are the eyes of peacock feathersFrom fairy trees.It is a thing that may be,But I should not be sure of it, my dear,If I were you!
Red rooster in your gray coop,O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue,Yellow and black,You have a comb gay as a paradeOn your head:You have pearl trinketsOn your feet:The short feathers smooth along your backAre the dark color of wet rocks,Or the rippled green of shipsWhen I look at their sides through water.I don't know how you happened to be madeSo proud, so foolish,Wearing your coat of many colors,Shouting all day long your crooked words,Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!
Tree-toad is a small gray personWith a silver voice.Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadowThat sings.Tree-toad is never seenUnless a star squeezes through the leaves,Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.How would it be, I wonder,To sing patiently all night,Never thinking that people are asleep?Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,The moon, the dew, the other little singers,Cricket . . . toad . . . leaf rustling . . .They would listen:It would be music like weatherThat gets into all the cornersOf out-of-doors.Every night I see little shadowsI never saw before.Every night I hear little voicesI never heard before.When night comes trailing her starry cloak,I start out for slumberland,With tree-toads calling along the roadside.Good-night, I say to one, Good-by, I say to another:I hope to find you on the wayWe have traveled before!I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!
There is an islandIn the middle of my heart,And all day comes lapping on the shoreA long silver wave.It is the lonesome wave;I cannot see the other side of it.It will never go awayUntil it meets the glad gold waveOf happiness!Wandering over the monstrous rocks,Looking into the caves,I see my island dark, all cold,Until the gold wave sweeps inFrom a sea deep blue,And flings itself on the beach.Oh, it is joy, then!No more whispers like sorrow,No more silvery lonesome lapping of the long wave . . .
Have you seen red-cap mossIn the woods?Have you looked under the trembling capsFor faces?Have you seen wonder on those facesBecause you are so big?
Rambler Rose in great clusters,Looking at me, at my mother with meUnder this apple-tree,Your faces watch us from outside the shade.The wind blows on you,The rain drops on you,The sun shines on you,You are brighter than before.You turn your faces to the windAnd watch my mother and me,Thinking of things I cannot mentionOutside of my mind.Rambler Rose in the shining wind,You smile at me,Smile at my mother!
This is mint and here are three pinksI have brought you, Mother.They are wet with rainAnd shining with it.The pinks smell like more of themIn a blue vase:The mint smells like summerIn many gardens.
There are many cloudsBut not like the one I see,For mine floats like a swan in featherinessOver the River of the Broken Pine.There are many cloudsBut not like the one that goes sailingLike a ship full of gold that shines,Like a ship leaning above blue water.There are many cloudsBut not like the one I wait for,For mine will have a strangenessWhiter than anything your eyes remember.
The moon is thinking of the riverWinding through the mountains far away,Because she has a river in her heartFull of the same silver.
The old bridge has a wrinkled face.He bends his backFor us to go over.He moans and weepsBut we do not hear.Sorrow stands in his faceFor the heavy weight and worryOf people passing.The trees drop their leaves into the water;The sky nods to him.The leaves float down like small shipsOn the blue surfaceWhich is the sky.He is not always sad:He smiles to see the ships go downAnd the little childrenPlaying on the river banks.
Small ferns up-coming through the mossy green,Up-curling and springing,See trees circling round them,And the straight brook like a lily-stem:Hear the water laughingAt the stern old pine-treeWho keeps sighing to himself all day longWhat's the use! What's the use!
I wander mountain to mountain,From sea to sea,I wander into a countryWhere everyone is asleep.There in the Land of NodI never think of home,For home is there,With sleeping doves and silvery girls,Sleeping boys and drowsy roses.There I find people whose eyes are heavy,And trees with folded wings.
Sun-flowers, stop growing!If you touch the sky where those clouds are passingLike tufts of dandelion gone to seed,The sky will put you out!You know it is blue like the sea . . .Maybe it is wet, too!Your gold faces will be gone foreverIf you brush against that blueEver so softly!
For a Dutch pictureWhen light comes creeping through theThat shine with mist,When winds blow soft,Windmills wake and whirl.In Holland, in Holland,Everything is cheerfulAcross the sea:White nets are beside the waterWhere ships sail by.The mountains begin to get blue,The Dutch girls begin to sing,The windmills begin to whirl.Then night comesThe mountains turn dark grayAnd faint away into night.Not a bird chirps his song.All is drowsy,All is strange,With the moon and stars shining round the world:The wind stops,The windmills stopIn Holland . . .
Said the fountain to its clear bed,"You might flow faster!I am sprinkling my best, every day,But ice is holding you fast.Can't you get out?Can't you lift yourself with sun?I am tired waiting for slow cold waterTo fling about the air:Can't you wake yourself up?"But the fountain-basin murmured softly"Sleep . . . sleep . . .Sleep . . . sleep . . .You with your talking and talking!Hush . . . hush . . .I hear the bird-sandman!"
The poplars bow forward and back;They are like a fan waving very softly.They tremble,For they love the wind in their feathery branches.They love to look down at the shallows,At the mermaidsOn the sandy shore;They love to look into morning's faceCool in the water.
There was a tower, once,In a London street.It was the highest, widest, thickest tower,The proudest, roundest, finest towerOf all towers.English men passed it by:They could not see it allBecause it went above tree-tops and clouds.It was lonely up there where the trees stoppedUntil one dayA blue falcon came flying.He cried:"Tower! Do you know you are the highest, finest, roundest,The tallest, proudest, greatest,Of all the towersIn all the world?"He went away.That night the tower made a new songAbout himself.
My thoughts keep going far awayInto another country under a different sky:My thoughts are sea-foam and sand;They are apple-petals fluttering.
(Made for the picture on the jacket of theNorwegian book, The Great Hunger, by Johan Bojer)I
It was night when the sky was dark blueAnd the water came in with a wavy lookLike a spider's web.The point of the slope came down to the water's edge;It was green with a fairy ring of forget-me-not and fern.The white foam licked the side of the slopeAs it came up and bent backward;It curled up like a beautiful cinder-treeBending in the wind.
A boy was watching the waterAs it came lapping the edge of fern.Little ships passed himAs the moon came leaning across dark blue rays of light.The spruce trees saw the white ships sailing away,And the moon bending up the blue skyWhere stars were twinkling like fairy lamps;The boy was looking toward foreign landsAs the ships passed,Their white sails glittering in the moonlight.He was thinking how he wished to seeForeign lands, strange people,When suddenly a bird came flying!It swooped down upon the slopeAnd spoke to him:"Do you want to go across the deep blue sea?Get on my back; I will take you.""Oh," cried the little boy, "who sent you?Who knew my thoughts of foreign lands?"
They flew as the night-wind flowed, very softly,They heard sweet singing that the water sang,They came to a place where the sea was shallowAnd saw treasure hidden there.There was one poplar treeOn the lonely island,Swaying for sadness.The clouds went over their headsLike a fleet of drifting ships.And there they sank down out of the airInto the dream.
The Dew-man comes over the mountains wide,Over the deserts of sand,With his bag of clear dropsAnd his brush of feathers.He scatters brightness.The white bunnies beg him for dew.He sprinkles their fur,They shake themselves.All the time he is singingThe unknown world is beautiful!He polishes flowers,Humming "Oh, beautiful!"He sings in the soft lightThat grows out of the dew,Out of the misty dew-light that leans over himHe makes his song . . .It is beautiful, the unknown world!
Yellow summer-throat sat singingIn a bending spray of willow tree.Thin fine green-y lines on his throat,The ruffled outside of his throat,Trembled when he sang.He kept saying the same thing;The willow did not mind.I knew what he said, I knew,But how can I tell you?I have to watch the willow bend in the wind.
Come dear Pegasus, I said,Let me ride on your back;I have often seen your shadow in the glittering creek;Pegasus, beautiful Pegasus,Let me sit on your back!He was away,But I was on his back,So I went with him.We had a castle in a mountain cloud.So quickly was he away,I had no time to look or speak!That was the last I saw of father or mother.We went far from the shining creek,Farther than I know how to tell you:It was good-by.
For a paintingAway back in an old cityI saw a bridge.That bridge belonged to Venice.It was to the rainbow clearIt traveled,Over an old canal.You had to pass a cloudy gateTo reach the color . . .Bridges do sometimes begin on the earthAnd end in the sky.
Night goes hurrying overLike sweeping clouds;The birds are nested; their song is silent.The wind says oo—oo—oo—through the treesFor their lullaby.The moon shines down on the sleeping birds.My cottage roof is like a sheet of silkSpun like a cobweb.My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest;When the moon shinesI see no leaves.I am alone and very quietHoping the moon may say somethingBefore long.
O little soldier with the golden helmet,What are you guarding on my lawn?You with your green gunAnd your yellow beard,Why do you stand so stiff?There is only the grass to fight!
Down through the forest to the riverI wander.There are swans flying,Swans on the water,Duck, wild birds.Fairies live here;They know no sorrow.Birds, winds,They are the only people.If I could tell you the way to this place,You would sell your house and your landFor silver or a little gold,You would sail up the river,Tie your boat to the Black Stone,Build a leaf-hut, make a twig-fire,Gather mushrooms, drink spring-water,Live alone and sing to yourselfFor a year and a year and a year!
Petal with rosy cheeks,Petal with thoughts of your own,Petal of my crimson-white flower out of June,Little petal of my heart!
See the fur coats go by!The morning is like the inside of a snow-apple.I will curl myself cushion-shapeOn the window-seat;I will read poems by snow-light.If I cannot understand them so,I will turn them upside downAnd read them by the red candlesOf garden brambles.
I will return to youO stillest and dearest,To see the pearl of lightThat flashes in your golden hair;To hear you sing your songs of starlightAnd tell your stories of the wonderful landOf stars and fleecy sky;To say to you that Seagarde will soon be here,Seagarde the fairyWith her seagulls of hope!
On Easter mornUp the faint cloudy skyI hear the Easter bell,Ding dong . . . ding dong . . .Easter morning scatters liliesOn every doorstep;Easter morning says a glad thingOver and over.Poor people, beggars, old womenAre hearing the Easter bell . . .Ding dong . . . ding dong . . .
Oh bluebird with light red breast,And your blue back like a feathered sky,You have to go down southBefore biting winter comesAnd my flower-beds are covered with fluff out of the clouds.Before you go,Sing me one more songOf tree-tops down south,Of darkies singing their babies to sleep,Of sand and glittering stonesWhere rivers pass;Then . . . good-by!
I can tell balsam treesBy their grayish bluish silverish look of smoke.Pine trees fringe out.Hemlocks look like Christmas.The spruce tree is feathered and roughLike the legs of the red chickens in our poultry yard.I can study my geography from chickensNamed for Plymouth Rock and Rhode Island,And from trees out of Canada.No; I shall leave the chickens out.I shall make a new geography of my own.I shall have a hillside of spruce and hemlockLike a separate country,And I shall mark a walk of spires on my map,A secret road of balsam treesWith blue buds.Trees Fat smell like a wind out of fairy-landWhere little people liveWho need no geographyBut trees.
I am waiting for the flowersTo come back:I am alone,But I can wait for the birds.
There is a brook I must hearBefore I go to sleep.There is a birch tree I must visitEvery night of clearness.I have to do some dreaming,I have to listen a great deal,Before light comes backBy a silver arrow of cloud,And I rub my eyes and sayIt must be morning on this hill!
A scarlet bird went sailing away through the wood . . .It was only a mist of dreamThat floated by.Bare boughs of my apple-tree,Beautiful gray arms stretched out to me,Swaying to and fro like angels' wings . . .It was only a mist of dreamThat floated by.
Snowflakes come in fleetsLike ships over the sea.The moon shines down on the crusty snow:The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fishIn a glassy bowl.Bluebirds are gone now,But they left their song behind them.The moon seems to say:It is time for summer when the birds come backTo pick up their lonesome songs.
Snowflakes are dancing.They run down out of heaven.Coming home from somewhere down the long tired roadThey flake us sometimesThe way they do the grass,And the stretch of the world.The grass-blades are crowned with snowflakes.They make me think of daisiesWith white frills around their necksWith golden faces and green gowns;Poor little daisies,Tip-toe and shiveringIn the cold!
Oh big red poppy,You look stern and sturdy,Yet you bow to the windAnd sing a lullaby . . ."Sleep, little ones under my breastIn the moonshine . . ."You make this lullaby,Sweet, short,Slow, beautiful,And you thank the dew for giving you a drink.