Does the snow fall at sea?Yes, when the north winds blow,When the wild clouds fly low,Out of each gloomy wing,Silently glimmering,Over the stormy seaFalleth the snow.
Does the snow hide the sea?Nay, on the tossing plainsNever a flake remains;Drift never resteth there;Vanishing everywhere,Into the hungry seaFalleth the snow.
What means the snow at sea?Whirled in the veering blast,Thickly the flakes drive past;Each like a childish ghostWavers, and then is lost;In the forgetful seaFadeth the snow.
1875.
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divineThe art that reared thy costly shrine!Thy carven columns must have grownBy magic, like a dream in stone.
Yet not within thy storied wallWould I in adoration fall,So gladly as within the glenThat leads to lovely Hawthornden.
A long-drawn aisle, with roof of greenAnd vine-clad pillars, while between,The Esk runs murmuring on its way,In living music night and day.
Within the temple of this woodThe martyrs of the covenant stood,And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,From Nature's solemn altar-stair.
Edinburgh, 1877.
The heavenly hills of Holland,—How wondrously they riseAbove the smooth green pasturesInto the azure skies!With blue and purple hollows,With peaks of dazzling snow,Along the far horizonThe clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has troddenThe summits of that range,Nor walked those mystic valleysWhose colours ever change;Yet we possess their beauty,And visit them in dreams,While ruddy gold of sunsetFrom cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weatherThey melt into the light;When fog and mist surround usThey're hidden from our sight;But when returns a seasonClear shining after rain,While the northwest wind is blowing,We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them,Their pictures show them fair,—Old Hobbema and Ruysdael,Van Goyen and Vermeer.Above the level landscape,Rich polders, long-armed mills,Canals and ancient cities,—Float Holland's heavenly hills.
The Hague, November, 1916.
The laggard winter ebbed so slowWith freezing rain and melting snow,It seemed as if the earth would stayForever where the tide was low,In sodden green and watery gray.
But now from depths beyond our sight,The tide is turning in the night,And floods of colour long concealedCome silent rising toward the light,Through garden bare and empty field.
And first, along the sheltered nooks,The crocus runs in little brooksOf joyance, till by light made boldThey show the gladness of their looksIn shining pools of white and gold.
The tiny scilla, sapphire blue,Is gently seeping in, to strewThe earth with heaven; and sudden rillsOf sunlit yellow, sweeping through,Spread into lakes of daffodils.
The hyacinths, with fragrant heads,Have overflowed their sandy beds,And fill the earth with faint perfume,The breath that Spring around her sheAnd now the tulips break in bloom!
A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea,A splendour and a mystery,Floods o'er the fields of faded gray:The roads are full of folks in glee,For lo,—to-day is Easter Day!
April, 1916.
Many a tree is found in the woodAnd every tree for its use is good:Some for the strength of the gnarled root,Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit;Some for shelter against the storm,And some to keep the hearth-stone warm;Some for the roof, and some for the beam,And some for a boat to breast the stream;—In the wealth of the wood since the world beganThe trees have offered their gifts to man.
But the glory of trees is more than their gifts:'Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts,From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod,A column, an arch in the temple of God,A pillar of power, a dome of delight,A shrine of song, and a joy of sight!Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth;Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth;They shelter the dwellings of man; and they bendO'er his grave with the look of a loving friend.
I have camped in the whispering forest of pines,I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines;In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palmI have found good rest and slumber's balm.And now, when the morning gilds the boughsOf the vaulted elm at the door of my house,I open the window and make salute:"God bless thy branches and feed thy root!Thou hast lived before, live after me,Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree."
February, 1920.
What makes the lingering Night so cling tothee?Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-placeOf ancient secrets,—gray and ghostly gulfCleft in the green of this high forest land,And crowded in the dark with giant forms!Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?
A stillness deeper than the dearth of soundBroods over thee: a living silence breathesPerpetual incense from thy dim abyss.The morning-stars that sang above the bowerOf Eden, passing over thee, are dumbWith trembling bright amazement; and theDawnSteals through the glimmering pines with nakedfeet,Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!
She peers into thy depths with silent prayerFor light, more light, to part thy purple veil.O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,—Turn to the East, and show upon thy breastThe mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!'Tis done,—the morning miracle of light,—The resurrection of the world of huesThat die with dark, and daily rise againWith every rising of the splendid Sun!
Be still, my heart! Now Nature holds her breathTo see the solar flood of radiance leapAcross the chasm, and crown the western rimOf alabaster with a far-awayRampart of pearl, and flowing down by wallsOf changeful opal, deepen into goldOf topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline,Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade,Purple of amethyst, and ruby red,Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry;Until the cataract of colour breaksUpon the blackness of the granite floor.
How far below! And all between is cleftAnd carved into a hundred curving milesOf unimagined architecture! Tombs,Temples, and colonnades are neighboured thereBy fortresses that Titans might defend,And amphitheatres where Gods might strive.Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered tiersOf ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire skyA single spire of marble pure as snow;And huge aerial palaces ariseLike mountains built of unconsuming flame.Along the weathered walls, or standing deepIn riven valleys where no foot may tread,Are lonely pillars, and tall monumentsOf perished aeons and forgotten things.My sight is baffled by the wide arrayOf countless forms: my vision reels and swimsAbove them, like a bird in whirling winds.Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm;But spacious order and a sense of peaceBrood over all. For every shape that loomsMajestic in the throng, is set apartFrom all the others by its far-flung shade,Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there.
How still it is! Dear God, I hardly dareTo breathe, for fear the fathomless abyssWill draw me down into eternal sleep.
What force has formed this masterpiece of awe?What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste?O river, gleaming in the narrow riftOf gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep,—Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil,And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,—Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springsAmid the Utah hills, have carved this roadOf glory to the California Gulf.But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost,'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves,Too far away to make their fury heard!
At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slaveOf gravitation,—yellow torrent pouredFrom distant mountains by no will of thine,Through thrice a hundred centuries of slowFallings and liftings of the crust of Earth,—At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails.Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blindUnconscious power that drew thee dumbly downTo cut this gash across the layered globe,The sole creative cause of all I see?Are force and matter all? The rest a dream?
Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair,A prison for the soul of man, a graveOf all his dearest daring hopes! The worldWherein we live and move is meaningless,No spirit here to answer to our own!The stars without a guide: The chance-bornEarthAdrift in space, no Captain on the ship:Nothing in all the universe to proveEternal wisdom and eternal love!And man, the latest accident of Time,—Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand,Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave,Who dupes his heart with immortality,—Man is a living lie,—a bitter jestUpon himself,—a conscious grain of sandLost in a desert of unconsciousness,Thirsting for God and mocked by his own thirst.
Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight,Thou fairest offspring of OmnipotenceInhabiting this lofty lone abode,Speak to my heart again and set me freeFrom all these doubts that darken earth andheaven!Who sent thee forth into the wildernessTo bless and comfort all who see thy face?Who clad thee in this more than royal robeOf rainbows? Who designed these jewelledthronesFor thee, and wrought these glittering palaces?Who gave thee power upon the soul of manTo lift him up through wonder into joy?God! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, God!Let all the shining pillars signal, God!He only, on the mystic loom of light,Hath woven webs of loveliness to clotheHis most majestic works: and He aloneHath delicately wrought the cactus-flowerTo star the desert floor with rosy bloom.
O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High,Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man,And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!
Now, far beyond all language and all artIn thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous,The secret of thy stillness lies unveiledIn worldless worship! This is holy ground;Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine.Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise,If God were blind thy Beauty could not be!
February 24-26, 1913.
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fairWith flowers below, above with starry lightsAnd set thine altars everywhere,—On mountain heights,In woodlands dim with many a dream,In valleys bright with springs,And on the curving capes of every stream:Thou who hast taken to thyself the wingsOf morning, to abideUpon the secret places of the sea,And on far islands, where the tideVisits the beauty of untrodden shores,Waiting for worshippers to come to theeIn thy great out-of-doors!To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer,God of the open air.
Seeking for thee, the heart of manLonely and longing ran,In that first, solitary hour,When the mysterious powerTo know and love the wonder of the mornWas breathed within him, and his soul was born;And thou didst meet thy child,Not in some hidden shrine,But in the freedom of the garden wild,And take his hand in thine,—There all day long in Paradise he walked,And in the cool of evening with thee talked.
Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure,Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure,And lost the child-like love that worshippedand was sure!For men have dulled their eyes with sin,And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt,And built their temple walls to shut thee in,And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.But not for thee the closing of the door,O Spirit unconfined!Thy ways are freeAs is the wandering wind,And thou hast wooed thy children, to restoreTheir fellowship with thee,In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.
Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by,Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky;And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night,For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier,Built up a secret stairway to the heightWhere stars like angel eyes were shining clear.From mountain-peaks, in many a land andage,Disciples of the Persian seerHave hailed the rising sun and worshippedthee;And wayworn followers of the Indian sageHave found the peace of God beneath a spreadingtree.
But One, but One,—ah, Son most dear,And perfect image of the Love Unseen,—Walked every day in pastures green,And all his life the quiet waters by,Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye.To him the desert was a place preparedFor weary hearts to rest;The hillside was a temple blest;The grassy vale a banquet-roomWhere he could feed and comfort many aguest.With him the lily sharedThe vital joy that breathes itself in bloom;And every bird that sang beside the nestTold of the love that broods o'er every livingthing.
He watched the shepherd bringHis flock at sundown to the welcome fold,The fisherman at daybreak flingHis net across the waters gray and cold,And all day long the patient reaper swingHis curving sickle through the harvest gold.So through the world the foot-path way he trod,Breathing the air of heaven in every breath;And in the evening sacrifice of deathBeneath the open sky he gave his soul to God.Him will I trust, and for my Master take;Him will I follow; and for his dear sake,God of the open air,To thee I make my prayer.
From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded,From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded,From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion,From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion,(Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!)I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air.By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me,By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me,By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion,Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean,(Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the eyes!)Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and skies.
While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading,And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading;While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under,Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder,(Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!)Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth.
By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom unbidden,By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden,By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation,By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migration,(Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast!)Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest.
For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces,For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places,For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers,For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers,For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,—I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!
These are the gifts I askOf thee, Spirit serene:Strength for the daily task,Courage to face the road,Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load,And, for the hours of rest that come between,An inward joy in all things heard and seen.These are the sins I fainWould have thee take away:Malice, and cold disdain,Hot anger, sullen hate,Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great,And discontent that casts a shadow grayOn all the brightness of the common day.These are the things I prizeAnd hold of dearest worth:Light of the sapphire skies,Peace of the silent hills,Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass,Music of birds, murmur of little rills,Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass,And, after showers,The smell of flowersAnd of the good brown earth,—And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth.So let me keepThese treasures of the humble heartIn true possession, owning them by love;And when at last I can no longer moveAmong them freely, but must partFrom the green fields and from the waters clear,Let me not creepInto some darkened room and hideFrom all that makes the world so bright and dear;But throw the windows wideTo welcome in the light;And while I clasp a well-belovèd hand,Let me once more have sightOf the deep sky and the far-smiling land,—Then gently fall on sleep,And breathe my body back to Nature's care,My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.
1904.
Blessed is the man that beholdeth the face of a friend in a far country,The darkness of his heart is melted by the dawning of day within him,
It is like the sound of a sweet music heard long ago and half forgotten:It is like the coming back of birds to a wood when the winter is ended.
I knew not the sweetness of the fountain till I found it flowing in thedesert,Nor the value of a friend till we met in a land that was crowded andlonely.
The multitude of mankind had bewildered me and oppressed me,And I complained to God, Why hast thou made the world so wide?
But when my friend came the wideness of the world had no more terror,Because we were glad together among men to whom we were strangers.
It seemed as if I had been reading a book in a foreign language,And suddenly I came upon a page written in the tongue of my childhood.
This was the gentle heart of my friend who quietly understood me,The open and loving heart whose meaning was clear without a word.
O thou great Companion who carest for all thy pilgrims and strangers,I thank thee heartily for the comfort of a comrade on the distant road.
This is the thanksgiving of the weary,The song of him that is ready to rest.
It is good to be glad when the day is declining,And the setting of the sun is like a word of peace.
The stars look kindly on the close of a journey,The tent says welcome when the day's march is done.
For now is the time of the laying down of burdens,And the cool hour cometh to them that have borne the heat.
I have rejoiced greatly in labour and adventure;My heart hath been enlarged in the spending of my strength.
Now it is all gone, yet I am not impoverished,For thus only I inherit the treasure of repose.
Blessed be the Lord that teacheth my fingers to loosen,And cooleth my feet with water after the dust of the way.
Blessed be the Lord that giveth me hunger at nightfall,And filleth my evening cup with the wine of good cheer.
Blessed be the Lord that maketh me happy to be quiet,Even as a child that cometh softly to his mother's lap.
O God, thy strength is never worn away with labour:But it is good for us to be weary and receive thy gift of rest.
How wonderful are the cities that man hath builded:Their walls are compacted of heavy stones,And their lofty towers rise above the tree-tops.
Rome, Jerusalem, Cairo, Damascus,—Venice, Constantinople, Moscow, Pekin,—London, New York, Berlin, Paris, Vienna,—
These are the names of mighty enchantments,They have called to the ends of the earth,They have secretly summoned a host of servants.
They shine from far sitting beside great waters,They are proudly enthroned upon high hills,They spread out their splendour along the rivers.
Yet are they all the work of small patient fingers,Their strength is in the hand of man,He hath woven his flesh and blood into their glory.
The cities are scattered over the world like anthills,Every one of them is full of trouble and toil,And their makers run to and fro within them.
Abundance of riches is laid up in their treasuries,But they are tormented with the fear of want,The cry of the poor in their streets is exceeding bitter.
Their inhabitants are driven by blind perturbations,They whirl sadly in the fever of haste,Seeking they know not what, they pursue it fiercely.
The air is heavy-laden with their breathing,The sound of their coming and going is never still,Even in the night I hear them whispering and crying.
Beside every ant-hill I behold a monster crouching:This is the ant-lion Death,He thrusteth forth his tongue and the people perish.
O God of wisdom thou hast made the country:Why hast thou suffered man to make the town?
Then God answered, Surely I am the maker of man:And in the heart of man I have set the city.
I will sing of the bounty of the big trees,They are the green tents of the Almighty,He hath set them up for comfort and for shelter.
Their cords hath he knotted in the earth,He hath driven their stakes securely,Their roots take hold of the rocks like iron.
He sendeth into their bodies the sap of life,They lift themselves lightly toward the heavens.They rejoice in the broadening of their branches.
Their leaves drink in the sunlight and the air,They talk softly together when the breeze bloweth,Their shadow in the noon-day is full of coolness.
The tall palm-trees of the plain are rich in fruit,While the fruit ripeneth the flower unfoldeth,The beauty of their crown is renewed on high forever.
The cedars of Lebanon are fed by the snow,Afar on the mountain they grow like giants,In their layers of shade a thousand years are dreaming.
How fair are the trees that befriend the home of man,The oak, and the terebinth, and the sycamore,The broad-leaved fig-tree and the delicate silvery olive.
In them the Lord is loving to his little birds,The linnets and the finches and the nightingales,They people his pavilions with nests and with music.
The cattle also are very glad of a great tree,They chew the cud beneath it while the sun is burning,And there the panting sheep lie down around their shepherd.
He that planteth a tree is a servant of God,He provideth a kindness for many generations,And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him.
Lord, when my spirit shall return to thee,At the foot of a friendly tree let my body be buried,That this dust may rise and rejoice among the branches.
The rivers of God are full of water,They are wonderful in the renewal of their strength,He poureth them out from a hidden fountain.
They are born among the hills in the high places,Their cradle is in the bosom of the rocks,The mountain is their mother and the forest is their father.
They are nourished among the long grasses,They receive the tribute of a thousand springs,The rain and the snow provide their inheritance.
They are glad to be gone from their birthplace,With a joyful noise they hasten away,They are going forever and never departed.
The courses of the rivers are all appointed;They roar loudly but they follow the road,For the finger of God hath marked their pathway.
The rivers of Damascus rejoice among their gardens;The great river of Egypt is proud of his ships;The Jordan is lost in the Lake of Bitterness.
Surely the Lord guideth them every one in his wisdom,In the end he gathereth all their drops on high,And sendeth them forth again in the clouds of mercy.
O my God, my life floweth away like a river:Guide me, I beseech thee, in a pathway of good:Let me run in blessing to my rest in thee.
The lizard rested on the rock while I sat among the ruins,And the pride of man was like a vision of the night.
Lo, the lords of the city have disappeared into darkness,The ancient wilderness hath swallowed up all their work.
There is nothing left of the city but a heap of fragments;The bones of a vessel broken by the storm.
Behold the waves of the desert wait hungrily for man's dwellings,And the tides of desolation return upon his toil.
All that he hath painfully built up is shaken down in a moment,The memory of his glory is buried beneath the billows of sand.
Then a voice said, Look again upon the ruins,These broken arches have taught generations to build.
Moreover the name of this city shall be remembered,For here a poor man spoke a word that shall not die.
This is the glory that is stronger than the desert;God hath given eternity to the thought of man.
The ways of the world are full of haste and turmoil;I will sing of the tribe of the helpers who travel in peace.
He that turneth from the road to rescue another,Turneth toward his goal:He shall arrive in time by the foot-path of mercy,God will be his guide.
He that taketh up the burden of the fainting,Lighteneth his own load:The Almighty will put his arms underneath him,He shall lean upon the Lord.
He that speaketh comfortable words to mourners,Healeth his own hurt;In the time of grief they will come to his remembrance.God will use them for balm.
He that careth for a wounded brother,Watcheth not alone:There are three in the darkness together,And the third is the Lord.
Blessed is the way of the helpers,The companions of the Christ.
The Lord is my teacher,I shall not lose the way.
He leadeth me in the lowly path of learning,He prepareth a lesson for me every day;He bringeth me to the clear fountains of instruction,Little by little he showeth me the beauty of truth.
The world is a great book that he hath written,He turneth the leaves for me slowly;They are inscribed with images and letters,He poureth light on the pictures and the words.
He taketh me by the hand to the hill-top of vision,And my soul is glad when I perceive his meaning;In the valley also he walketh beside me,In the dark places he whispereth to my heart.
Even though my lesson be hard it is not hopeless,For the Lord is patient with his slow scholar;He will wait awhile for my weakness,And help me to read the truth through tears.
Thou hast taken me into thy tent of the world, O God,Beneath thy blue canopy I have found shelter,Therefore thou wilt not deny me the right of a guest.
Naked and poor I arrived at thy door before sunset:Thou hast refreshed me with beautiful bowls of milk,As a great chief thou hast set forth food in abundance.
I have loved the daily delights of thy dwelling,Thy moon and thy stars have lighted me to my bed,In the morning I have made merry with thy servants.
Surely thou wilt not send me away in the darkness?There the enemy Death is lying in wait for my soul:Thou art the host of my life and I claim thy protection.
Then the Lord of the tent of the world made answer:The right of a guest endureth for a certain time,After three days and nights cometh the day of departure.
Yet hearken to me since thou fearest to go in the dark:I will make with thee a new covenant of hospitality,Behold I will come unto thee as a stranger and be thy guest.
Poor and needy will I come that thou mayest entertain me,Meek and lowly will I come that thou mayest find a friend,With mercy and with truth will I come to give thee comfort.
Therefore open thy heart to me and bid me welcome,In this tent of the world I will be thy brother of the bread,And when thou farest forth I will be thy companion forever.
Then my soul rested in the word of the Lord;And I saw that the curtains of the world were shaken,But I looked beyond them to the stars,The camp-fires of my eternal friend.