April again! the willow wands are yellowRose-red the brambles that the passing wind knows,Comes a robin's note like the note of a 'cello,And across the valley, the calling of the crows,—"April again!"
April again! and the marsh birds swingingOver the rushes that belong to yester-year;Silver shines the river, and young lips are singingSongs as old as Eden—as old and as dear;"April again!"
April again! with a wet wind blowing,And along the western sky a pathway of gold;Sounds a call to follow the road we're not knowing,A new road—a wild road—o'er fairy lands unrolled,—"April again!"
April again! with its wonder of gladness,April with its haunting joy, and swift-stinging tears,—Month of mist and music, and the old moon-madness,Month of magic fluting, the spirit only hears,—"April again!"
I weary of the histories of men—The garnered store of books in grim array;Life's bitter salvage, leather-bound, and thenLeft to the silence and a bloom of gray.
I weary of the stories that they hold;The clash of arms sounds through them like a knell;I weary of the Kings in crowns of gold,The Kings victorious, and the Kings who fell.
There are too many tears on every page;Too red a tide sweeps every chapter in;There is no word of peace in any age,Except the peace that death rode forth to win.
And old unhappiness, long wrapped in sleep,And thrice-armed feud that passed in wrath and woe,And white despair from many a dungeon keep,Arise to haunt us still, where'er we go.
Yet through the years the sun was warm and sweet,And pipers piped at morn, and night and noon,—And there was carnival with dancing feet,And love and joyance always came in June,—
O, to remember when the pages close—Linked with the vision of the deathless brave,—The nightingale, the moonlight, and the rose,And all the beauty that the lost years gave!
(From an old Italian Legend)
True lovers' words are deathless things;Eros, the little god, and wise,Catches them all,—gives to them wings,And turns them into fireflies!
Words that are sweet as a caress,And wild, bright words no will can tame;Soft words of haunting tenderness,—Words that are like a blue-white flame.
The magic word, the jewelled word,The word that hides a thousand fears,—These all the perfumed winds have heard,Through all the immemorial years!
Not one is lost;—by old sea walls,And over beds of mignonette,And through lost lanes,—when darkness falls,In loveliness they sparkle yet.
*****
Then down the velvet sea of night,Like little lighted ships asail,They pass away, and out of sight,—Companioned by the nightingale.
I grieve to think the little gods have vanished,—The half-gods with the vine-leaves in their hair;I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished,And that the Dryads are not anywhere.
The shrine of Flora has no need of flowers,—Diana seeks her arrows in the sky;Apollo's beauty was a thing of hours—And Artemis, herself, learned how to die.
I think Endymion released from sleeping,Walks through the star-dust at the heaven's rim,For he is gone—though still the Moon is keepingHer tireless and beloved watch for him.
On river banks the purple grapes are growing,But Bacchus and his merry train have passed.Where are the little Fauns—I would be knowing?In all the world who heard and saw them last?
If but the small grey elfs were still astraying,Where shadows lace the golden forest ways,What joy to meet them, and be long delayingThe sombre tasks that fill the working days!
*****
I grieve to think the little gods have vanished,—The half-gods with the vine-leaves in their hair;—I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished,And that the Dryads are not anywhere.
These were the men of the restless heart;—The brothers to wind and tide;—They followed the lure of the far away,And they saw a vision by night and day,Of lands that were free and wide.
They blazed the long and desolate trail,And set their mark on the trees;And sometimes only the star of the North,Guided their little, lone ships that set forthUpon the uncharted seas.
They marked a road through the shifting sandWhere never a road had led,—And beneath the pavilions of the sky,In a deep and abiding peace they lieWith the world forgotten dead.
The ice of the Arctic shut them inAnd locked its crystalline doors;—Or it may be a tide that was hot, and slow,Drifted them in where sea-grasses grow,On sun-bleached tropical shores.
They journeyed beyond the shadow of fear,And past the ghost of despair;—On the coasts of coral they made their bed,Or they fell asleep where the ground was red,And grey wings shadowed the air.
High adventurers! Gentlemen all!Knights of the golden code;—That we might ride softly, you rode hard,—That we might go safely,—you without guardFollowed the perilous road!
Come to me out of the night,In any way that you will,As a radiance, unspeakably bright—Or a shadow, close-hooded and still;Nothing will touch me of fear—Harken! I make thee my vow!—Out of the darkness, my dear,Come to me now!
This is the old haunted place,—Haunted by ghosts of spent hours:Decked by the ivy's green lace,Sweet with the dusk-opened flowers;This is the garden you know,Moon-touched, and tranquil and dear,—I, alone, walk to and fro,—Come to me here!
In that one darkest hour, before the dawn is here,Each soul of us goes sailing, close to the coast of Fear.
There in the windless quiet, from out the folded black,The things we have forgotten—or would forget—come back.
Old sorrows, long abandoned, or kept with lock and key,Steal from their prison places to bear us company.
All softly come our little sins—our scarlet sins—and gray.To keep with us a vigil till breaking of the day.
And there are velvet footsteps; or oft we seem to hearLight garments brush against the dark; so near—so very near!
From out the red confusion where men long watches keep,New shadows come—we know they come—and in the dark we weep.
Then heavily, as weighed by tears, each haunted moment goes,For dawn steps down the morning sky, in robes of gray and rose.
O fairies of the forest-ring, and little men in green,And pixies of the moonlight, and elves no eye hath seen,Brew us a magic potion, of deep and fairy power,A draught of Lethe—for one night—to tide us past that hour.
Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play?Tell me when the sun will set—tiny globe of silver-grey?
It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn;—Oft I wondered, when I met any souls who seemed forlorn;And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.
Mayhap I have loved too well all the merry fleeting things;Run too lightly with the wind,—chased too many shining wings;Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.
Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun;All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun;—In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.
And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas!Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass,Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass.
Silver-clock! O Silver-clock! It was only yesterdayDandelions flecked the field, starry-bright and gold and gay;You are but the ghost of one—little globe of silver-grey!
Tell me—tell me of the hour,—for there is so much to do!Is it early? Is it late? Fairy-clock! O tell me true,As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue!
Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands!Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean,Beneath the blue it stands,And no cathedral anywhereSeemeth so holy or so fair.
It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key;No window-bars shut out the stars,The aisles are wide and free;—Here through the night each altar-lightIs but a moon-beam, silver-white.
Silently as the temple grew at Solomon's command,—Still as things seem within a dream,This rose from out the land;—And all the pillars, grey and high,Lifted their arches to the sky.
Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines,—The magic scent, that hath been pent,Within the tangled vines:No censor filled with spices rareE'er swung such sweetness on the air!
And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear,For it is blessed, and giveth restTo those who enter here;—Here in the evening—who can knowBut God Himself walks to and fro!
And music past all mastering within the chancel rings;None could desire a sweeter choir,Than this—that soars and sings,—Till far the scented shadows creep,—And quiet darkness bringeth sleep.
Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way;—Oh, high and low, and gay and sweet,The melody rang down the street,Till all the weary, old and grey,Smiled at their work, or stopped to say,"Now God be thanked that youth is fair,—And light of heart, and free from care."
What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by;—Then clarion clear on every sideThe song was scattered far and wide!Like birds above a storm that fly,The silver notes soared to the sky;"O soul, whose courage does not failBut with a song can meet the gale."
And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he passed;—A little tune the whole world knew,—A song of love, of love most true;On through the mist it came at lastTo one by sorrow overcast;"Dear Christ," she said, "by night and dayThey serve who praise, as well as pray."
Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night;—The sky was spangled all with gold,The bitter wind was keen and cold,Yet, dear musician, out of sight,You still put wintry thoughts to flight,For summer follows where you fare,O Whistler, so debonair!
And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way;—The little children in his trainWith rosy lips caught up the strain.Then I, to hear what he might say,Followed with them, that sombre day."Is it for joy of life," quoth I,"Good sir, you go awhistling by?"He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head,"I cheer my own sad heart," he said.
Windy March weather, with a lone crow flying,A little ebony airship careening down the blue,And high, high above him a wild goose crying,The leading cry, the clarion cry, that guides his grey lines through!
Windy March weather, with the pine trees singing,Silver-red the brambles show and silver-green the birch,And silver-grey a squirrel on a top branch swinging,—A friendly elf who nods to me from his far perilous perch.
Windy March weather, with the tawny brook that hurriesEager for the outward rush of rivers to the sea;A tiny brook sun-dappled, that frets and sings and worries,A rough adventurous little brook that calls and calls to me!
Windy March weather, and the old spring madnessTempting us to take the trail that wanders free and far,—Whispering of magic roads that wind to lands of gladness,Where vanished joys and lost delights and garnered treasures are!
On silver nights I cannot sleep;—The ancient moon from far above,Bids me arise, and run and keepA rendezvous with one I love.
And in my heart a little songSwings to and fro its clear refrain,While down the stairs I haste alongAs though the past were mine again.
Then is my spirit so beguiledBy all the night's white witchery,That I am kin to all things wild,And part of all things that are free!—
Then he comes back,—who long agoLeft these green paths his steps had trod;Yes—he comes back,—I know!—I know!—Light-footed from the fields of God.
So through the garden and the lane,And where the lovely grass is deep,We two go walking once again,—On silver nights, that banish sleep.
Whate'er betides, all beauty still is mine,I drink—as did the old gods—of its wine!Though Times should dim my eyes, yet I have seenThe hills and hollows gay with gold and green:Roses have charmed me with a dear delight,And Iris brought me joy in cups of white:—For me the fairies hung on bush and treeThe marvel of the frost's bright filagreeAnd well I know where at the grey of mornThey threaded dew on cob-web, weed and thorn!Lights of the Northern skies—and dancing flames,And flowing seas—your colors have no names!Day-shine across the uplands how you passChased by the filmy shadows on the grass!Oh, I have watched the little swallows flyDown silver reaches of the twilight sky—While through the Western gates another dayIn sweeping golden garments passed away,—I know how morning hastening from afarCatches upon her rose-edged robes a star;And often I have seen at Midnight's hourThe blooming of the Moon's gold wonder-flower.O look, look, out upon the lovely earthAnd take the gift she gave thee at thy birth!Whate'er betides—all beauty still is thine,—Drink deep—as did the old gods—of its wine!
Oh haste thee, Sweet! Impatient now I wait,The crescent moon swings low,—it groweth late,—A night-bird sings of Life, and Love, and Fate!—
Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes;Joy hath one summer time—like to the roseLove only, lives through all the winter's snows.
So haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own:But see!—A rose-leaf on the night-wind blown,—For thee I wait—for thee I wait alone!—So haste, my Sweet!
O heart of mine—if I were but a swallow—A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free—On wings unwearied I would find and followSome path that led to thee!
Were I a rose out in the garden growingMy sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze—For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing—Yet bring thee memories.
It is an old belief that on the night of All Saints, "Hallowe'en," the spirits of the dead return, so each year there is made a beloved feast.
He will come back across the roads unmeasured—Lit by old moons and flaming sun and star;There are so many things he loved and treasuredTo call him from afar.
Joy of the distant heaven, howe'er entrancing,Never could charm him from the earth he knew,Scent of the rose-leaves—music, mirth and dancing—He will come back to you.
He will come back—no golden bars can hold him—He will come back to fire and candle shine;He will be near, though you may not behold him,And though he gives no sign.
1918
We are forgetting all the old grey saints,—A bloom of dust lies on the martyrs' shrines;From storied windows that the sunlight paints,We rarely read the dear familiar lines;They seem a part of things so far away,These haloed ones—the saints of yesterday.
We are forgetting all the ancient loreOf time-dimmed battles, with their unnamed dead;All, all have vanished,—we will nevermoreIn dreams unfurl their banners stained with red;A tidal-wave has drifted them awayInto the limbo of Life's yesterday.
We are forgetting all the mighty men,—The knights in clanking armor of the past;We care not that by forest and by fen,Their fighting done, they soundly slept at last;They all belong to grief so far away;The long and bitter tears of yesterday.
We are forgetting all the hours of peace,The sweet sun-sprinkled hours of gold on green,—The careless hours we thought could never cease,—The merriest hours the world has ever seen.They are so very, very far away,—Those white untroubled hours of yesterday.
For Death goes to and fro upon the earth;—It follows in the wake of marching men;And we who knew the olden peace and mirth,Will never, never know the same again.The scented wind across the boughs of May,Brings but the memory of some yesterday.
The great grey ships! We saw them in our dreaming,The strong grey ships—the ships of our desire,Watched by the stars, and by the dawn's white gleaming,And followed by the winds that never tire.
O, but we trusted them through days of weeping,Blessed them each one, and bid each one departWith all the brave we gave into its keeping,The priceless, garnered treasure of the heart!
Long, long they haunted us when gales were blowing,—Dim wraiths of ships, like shadows in the rain;—Little we slept on winter nights of snowing,Thinking of those who might not sail again.
Yet—dear grey ships—the spirits of the fearless,Lost many a day beneath the deepest blue,—The souls of mighty sailors, bright and tearless,Arose from out the sea to sail with you.
And not alone you kept your banners flying,—And not alone you met each bitter day,—For dauntless ones,—unseen, and death-defying,Swept outward with you on your darkened way!
Now by every meadow-side the buttercups blow—(O June, you are spendthrift of your gold!)Green are the uplands where the little lambs go,Green and glad the forests that are old.
Once again the summer weaves on her magic loom,Cloth of clover,—fairy web of wheat;—Only Mary's alabaster box of perfumeEver made the passing wind more sweet.
Even through the city where the dusty roads run,Blue runs now the river to the sea.Tender is the twilight when the long day is done,—Infinite the stars' tranquillity.
Not forever are the rains or the winter snows,All these past—nor shall be overlong,—And with every lovely June cometh the rose,The sweet blue dusk,—a night-bird's wonder-song!
October goes, and its colors pass:At dawn there's a silver film on the grass,And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass,
But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolledDown a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold,Sailed the hunter's moon,—a galleon of gold!
And now in the very depth of the nightIt is just a little flame, blown and white,Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.
But the steadfast trees at the forest rim,And the pines in places scented and dim,Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.
And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?"And the yellow leaves that go rustling by,Say only, "Remember," and sigh,—and sigh.
On this little pool where the sun-beams lie,This tawny gold ring where the shadows dieGod doth enamel the blue of His sky.
Through the scented dark when the night wind sighsHe mirrors His stars where the ripples riseTill they glitter like prisoned fireflies.
'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl,And here the lilies uplift and unfurlTheir golden-lined goblets of carven pearl.
When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink,Through the silver sedge at the pool's low brinkThe little lone field-mouse creeps down to drink.
And creatures to whom only God is kind,The loveless small things, the slow, and the blind,Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find.
Oh, restless the river, restless the sea,Where the great ships go and the dead men be;The Lily-pond giveth but peace to me.