*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78129 *** THE NATURE LOVER’S KNAPSACK POCKET SIZE BOOKS OF VALUE EMERSON’S ESSAYS. _By_ RALPH WALDO EMERSON. “First Series” and “Second Series” complete in one volume. THE RING AND THE BOOK. _By_ ROBERT BROWNING. Walter Hampden Edition. With introduction by Montrose J. Moses, and notes by Charlotte Porter and Helen A Clarke. OPERA SYNOPSES. _By_ J. WALKER MCSPADDEN. Fourth Edition. Revised and enlarged. Over one hundred and fifty operas. NATURE LOVER’S KNAPSACK. _By_ EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. A delightful collection of out-door poems by over one hundred different authors. THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK [Illustration] THE NATURE LOVER’S KNAPSACK AN ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS FOR LOVERS OF THE OPEN ROAD _Edited by_ EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER _Professor of Books, Rollins College_ NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1927 BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY Third Printing MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y. [Illustration] _To_ M. L. G. _Who has shared with me the Joys of “Knapsack Carrying” along Life’s road_ [Illustration] _On Knapsack Carrying_ We are all knapsack carriers. And none of us travels far on the road of Life without discovering certain things which we would not be without,--things that seem indispensable to our happiness. These indispensable things we put, often unconsciously, into our knapsack to carry with us during the remainder of the journey. The kinds of things we “tote” in our knapsack vary with the different stages of our journey. We begin by collecting pebbles for our sling shot, and in lieu of a literal knapsack we hide them in our boy’s pocket. A little farther along the journey we discover that marbles, or stamps, or arrowheads are the things that are indispensable to our happiness, and we gradually shift our knapsack load to meet the newer need. Still later in life some of us accumulate coins and bank notes, stocks and mortgages, and other passing trifles that for the moment seem the only indispensable things to our happiness. We work ourselves sick, we sacrifice our friends, we succeed so well that soon our knapsack is too full for us to carry, and we go to some friendly banker and ask him to put it in his safety deposit vault where we may worry about it to our hearts’ content. And there it rests until we come to die, and the only joy it has brought us is the cheap joy of accumulation. Some of us, however, by force of circumstance or by deliberate choice, begin early in life to collect in our knapsacks beautiful memories of sunsets, of cloud-capped hills and wind-swept plains, of deep-flowing rivers and talking brooks, memories of the infinite sky and the eternal sea, of bird songs and blossoms, of trembling trees and all the lovely things of nature. And after the first ecstasy of discovery, these things gradually become the indispensable things of our happiness and of our lives. Every spring these joys are reborn in us, and every autumn they flare up with the first reddening tree. Each month in the cycle of the year holds its unforgettable thrill, its reminder of ancient glories and happy memories. Next to the recollection of beauties we have seen with our own eyes and carried long in the knapsack of our memory, there is no joy greater than walking afield with the poets, and spending an afternoon discovering new beauties and new meanings in Nature. Soon or late every nature lover makes a collection of those poems that remind him of his own memories. These he treasures in his knapsack, and as the seasons come and go he takes them out to feed his soul and to refresh his spirit as he travels hopefully along the road of Life. I would not for the world deprive any one of this pleasure. I only hope that this knapsack of nature poetry will be found a worthy travelling companion for every nature lover. It cannot be exhaustive, and it is in no sense a reference book. Its only purpose is to serve as a friendly guide to many of the most beautiful nature poems by English and American authors. They lead one over an unknown trail with here a glimpse of sea, there a racing cloud, now the patter of April rain, and the smell of apple blossoms. Open the book where you will, and it leads you off through field or forest, by babbling brook or singing sea. An anthology necessarily implies an individual choice, and the selections within have been chosen almost without exception for the pleasure they have given me. Because I believe that Lyric poetry is the highest form of poetic expression, I have given the preference to poems that possess this singing quality. In spite of the fact that in much of the poetry of the last twenty-five years the lyric note has been sadly absent, yet the book contains many exquisite lyrics by the “younger generation” which shows the persistence of this timeless quality of all great poetry. I wish to acknowledge frankly my indebtedness to many who have preceded me in the making of anthologies; and to scores of authors and their publishers who have so generously given permission for me to include their poems. It is a goodly fellowship. If, after all, I have left out your favorite nature poem, please tell me so. EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER [Illustration] _What the Knapsack Holds_ _The Lure of the Road_ A Wanderer’s Song _John Masefield_ 3 The Singer’s Quest _Odell Shepherd_ 3 The Toil of the Trail _Hamlin Garland_ 4 Two Old Men _Louise Driscoll_ 5 The Best Road of All _Charles Hanson Towne_ 6 The Cry of the Dreamer _John Boyle O’Reilly_ 7 Highways _Leslie Nelson Jennings_ 8 Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_ 9 The Path that Leads to Nowhere _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 9 City-Weary _Edgar A. Guest_ 10 The Faun _Richard Hovey_ 12 The Call of the Wild _Robert W. Service_ 13 A City Voice _Theodosia Garrison_ 15 Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 16 Camping Song _Bliss Carman_ 17 The Green Inn _Theodosia Garrison_ 18 Wanderlust _Isabel Ecclestine Mackay_ 19 Song _Georgiana Goddard King_ 19 In City Streets _Ada Smith_ 20 Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books _William Wordsworth_ 21 Road Song _James Stewart Montgomery_ 22 Walking at Night _Amory Hare_ 23 Road Song _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 24 A Song of the Open Road _Louis J. McQuilland_ 25 A Maine Trail _Gertrude H. McGiffert_ 27 The Spell of the Pool _L. Burton Crane, Jr._ 28 The Lake _Eleanour Norton_ 29 The Great Outdoors _Maud Russell_ 29 Come, Spur Away! _Thomas Randolph_ 30 Hunting Song _Richard Hovey_ 31 The Call _Cora D. Fenton_ 31 The King’s Highway _John Steven McGroarty_ 32 God Made This Day For Me _Edgar A. Guest_ 34 The Country Faith _Norman Gale_ 35 _Green Things Growing_ Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 39 Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_ 40 My Garden _Thomas E. Brown_ 41 April _John Vance Cheney_ 41 A Song the Grass Sings _Charles G. Blanden_ 42 The Young Dandelion _Dinah Mulock Craik_ 42 Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_ 43 Wishing _William Allingham_ 44 Rain _Lucy Larcom_ 44 To the Dandelion _James Russell Lowell_ 45 The Grass _Walt Whitman_ 47 Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_ 47 The Lilac _Humbert Wolfe_ 48 The Hollyhocks _Ray Laurance_ 48 The Ragged Regiment _Alice Williams Brotherton_ 49 Marigolds _Bliss Carman_ 49 In a Garden _Theda Kenyon_ 50 The Dandelions _Helen Gray Cone_ 51 Rhodora _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 52 Daisies _Bliss Carman_ 53 Out in the Fields with God _Elizabeth Browning_ 53 The Blackbird _Humbert Wolfe_ 54 The Robin _Emily Dickinson_ 54 Clover _John B. Tabb_ 55 A Conversation _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 55 A Yellow Pansy _Helen Gray Cone_ 56 The Answer _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 57 A Prayer _Edwin Markham_ 57 _The Kinship of the Trees_ Tree Feelings _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_ 61 A B C’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_ 62 O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees! _Herbert Trench_ 62 God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree _Unknown_ 63 The House of the Trees _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ 64 Trees _Bliss Carman_ 65 The Trees and the Master _Sidney Lanier_ 66 The Trees _Samuel Valentine Cole_ 67 Three Trees _Christopher Morley_ 68 What Do We Plant? _Henry Abbey_ 69 Trees _Henry van Dyke_ 70 The Trees _Lucy Larcom_ 71 Good Company _Karl Wilson Baker_ 71 The Green Tree in the Fall _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ 72 _The Call of the Sea_ Sea-Fever _John Masefield_ 75 A Son of the Sea _Bliss Carman_ 75 Dreams of the Sea _William H. Davies_ 76 Going Down in Ships _Harry Kemp_ 77 The Waves of Breffny _Eva Gore-Booth_ 78 Short Beach _Richard Hovey_ 79 Sea Call _Margaret Widdemer_ 79 Ship-Love _Ethel E. Mannin_ 80 The Sea _Nora Hopper_ 81 Coquette _Keith Stuart_ 82 The Deep-Water Man _James Stuart Montgomery_ 82 Sea Longing _Harold Vinal_ 84 Had I the Choice _Walt Whitman_ 84 Gray _Oscar Williams_ 85 A Pagan Hymn _John Runcie_ 85 As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_ 86 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea _Allan Cunningham_ 87 The Undersong _Fiona Macleod_ 88 Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 89 The Sea _Bryan Waller Procter_ 89 The Sea Road _Martha Haskell Clark_ 91 The Sea _Richard Hovey_ 92 The World is Too Much With Us _William Wordsworth_ 94 Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 94 Song of the Sea _Richard Burton_ 95 Farewell _Katherine Tynan_ 96 The Return _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 97 The Port o’ Heart’s Desire _John Steven McGroarty_ 99 Sea-Urge _Unknown_ 100 The Ocean _Lord Byron_ 100 A Song of Desire _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ 102 A Sea Change _Dorothy Peace_ 103 Twilight At Sea _Amelia C. Welby_ 103 Sea-Song _Martha Haskell Clark_ 104 Deep Down _James Stuart Montgomery_ 104 _The Winds of Heaven_ Do You Fear the Wind? _Hamlin Garland_ 109 Hark to the Shouting Wind _Henry Timod_ 109 Who Has Seen the Wind? _Christina Rossetti_ 110 Wind _John Galsworthy_ 110 The Sea-Wind _Arthur Ketchum_ 111 I Meant to Do My Work Today _Richard Le Gallienne_ 111 That Wind is Best _Caroline Atherton Mason_ 112 Happy Wind _William H. Davies_ 112 Wind-Litany _Margaret Widdemer_ 113 A Morning _Theodosia Garrison_ 114 The Wind’s Life _Harry Kemp_ 115 The Mystic _Cale Young Rice_ 115 _The Hill-born_ The Cry of the Hillborn _Bliss Carman_ 119 Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 120 Hills _Arthur Guiterman_ 121 Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_ 122 Hill Hunger _Joseph Auslander_ 124 Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 125 The Hills _Theodosia Garrison_ 125 On a Hill _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ 126 _Traveller’s Joy_ Traveller’s Joy _Arthur Ketchum_ 131 Ellis Park _Helen Hoyt_ 132 Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_ 133 The Going of His Feet _Harry Kemp_ 134 Down East and Up Along _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 135 The Joys of the Road _Bliss Carman_ 136 Song of the Open _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 139 Rebellion _Stephen Chalmers_ 140 The Tree-Top Road _May Riley Smith_ 142 Early Morning at Bargis _Hermann Hagedorn_ 143 Denial _Lancaster Pollard_ 144 “A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 144 Journey _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 145 The Sojourner _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 146 Traveller’s Rest _C. Fox-Smith_ 147 Far From the Madding Crowd _Nixon Waterman_ 148 Streams _Clinton Scollard_ 149 The Call _Edgar A. Guest_ 150 The Road that Leads to Home _Ethel E. Mannin_ 150 _Echoes from Vagabondia_ Wanderthirst _Gerald Gould_ 155 The Vagabond _Edgar A. Guest_ 155 Gipsy Song _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 156 The Road to Vagabondia _Dana Burnet_ 157 Gipsy Feet _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 158 A Strip of Blue _Lucy Larcom_ 160 Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_ 161 The Wander Lure _Kendall Banning_ 162 Comrades of the Trail _Mary Carolyn Davies_ 163 The Vagrant _Pauline Slender_ 164 The Gipsy Wedding _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 165 The Vagabond at Home _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ 165 The Gipsy Trail _Rudyard Kipling_ 166 St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill _Bliss Carman_ 168 Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 169 A Vagabond Song _Bliss Carman_ 171 Have You? _Harry M. Dean_ 171 Gypsy-Heart _Katherine Lee Bates_ 172 A More Ancient Mariner _Bliss Carman_ 173 Vagabonds _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 175 The Gypsying _Theodosia Garrison_ 175 The Mendicants _Bliss Carman_ 176 The Beloved Vagabond _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 177 The Secret Voices _Ethel E. Mannin_ 178 _The Changing Year_ Turn O’ The Year _Katherine Tynan_ 183 April Music _Clinton Scollard_ 183 The Year’s Awakening _Thomas Hardy_ 184 Spring’s Answer _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 185 Morning Song _Lancaster Pollard_ 186 April Weather _Bliss Carman_ 186 The Runaway _Cale Young Rice_ 188 Spring Market _Louise Driscoll_ 189 Song in March _Clinton Scollard_ 190 Flower Chorus _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 191 April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_ 192 The Secret _John Richard Moreland_ 193 Spring _Norman Gale_ 193 April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 194 Renewal _Charles Hanson Towne_ 195 April _Theodosia Garrison_ 195 The Immortal _Cale Young Rice_ 196 Spring _Richard Hovey_ 196 Blind _Harry Kemp_ 199 Spring Song _Bliss Carman_ 200 The Sweet, Low Speech of the Rain _Ella Higginson_ 203 Early Spring _Alfred Tennyson_ 205 Spring _Henry Timrod_ 206 April, April _William Watson_ 208 April Rain _Robert Loveman_ 209 April _Emily Dickinson_ 210 April Morning _George Elliston_ 210 May-Lure _Richard Burton_ 211 Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 212 The Throstle _Alfred Tennyson_ 212 Tell All the World _Harry Kemp_ 213 Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_ 213 The Naturalist on a June Sunday _Leonora Speyer_ 215 Summer _Richard Burton_ 216 Autumn _Emily Dickinson_ 218 Overtones _William Alexander Percy_ 218 Carouse _Charles Hanson Towne_ 219 A Song in Autumn _Theodosia Garrison_ 219 An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_ 220 September _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 223 Days Like These _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_ 224 Indian Summer _Emily Dickinson_ 225 The Deserted Pasture _Bliss Carman_ 226 The Coming of Dawn _Grace Atherton Dennen_ 227 Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_ 228 November in England _Thomas Hood_ 228 The Hound _Babette Deutsch_ 229 _Sky-Born Music_ Let Me Go Where’er I Will _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 233 Pippa’s Song _Robert Browning_ 233 The Whisper of Earth _Edward J. O’Brien_ 234 Sunrise _Edgar A. Guest_ 234 Prayer Before Poems _Ann Blackwell Payne_ 235 How Miracles Abound _Clinton Scollard_ 236 Little Things _Orrick Johns_ 236 Clouds and Sky _Lancaster Pollard_ 237 My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold _William Wordsworth_ 238 The Marshes _Sidney Lanier_ 238 Song _John Vance Cheney_ 239 Out-of-Doors _Ethel E. Mannin_ 239 The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 240 A Word with A Skylark _Sarah Piatt_ 241 The Perilous Light _Eva Gore-Booth_ 241 Folly _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_ 243 One Blackbird _Harold Monro_ 243 A Rune of Riches _Florence Converse_ 244 The Picture _Frederick O. Sylvester_ 245 “Sic Vita” _William Stanley Braithwaite_ 245 A Blackbird Suddenly _Joseph Auslander_ 246 Credo _Vera Wheatley_ 247 Gospel of the Fields _Arthur Upson_ 247 The Welcome _Arthur Powell_ 248 Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_ 249 God’s World _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 249 Rain _Kenneth Slade Alling_ 250 The Lark _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 250 Farewell _Harry Kemp_ 251 The Comfort of the Stars _Richard Burton_ 251 The Last Hour _Ethel Clifford_ 252 Wasted Hours _Medora Addison_ 253 God is at the Anvil _Lew Sarett_ 253 _The End of The Trail_ Hesperides _Harry Kemp_ 257 Changeless _Martha Haskell Clark_ 257 Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_ 258 If All the Skies _Henry van Dyke_ 259 “Gratias Ago” _Geoffrey Howard_ 260 Song of Ballyshannon _Jeanne Robert Foster_ 261 A Song of the Road _Fred G. Bowles_ 263 After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 263 The Wanderer _Zoe Akins_ 264 The Trumpet of the Dawn _Clinton Scollard_ 265 Shared _Lucy Larcom_ 265 Up-Hill _Christina Rossetti_ 266 The Epitaph _Katherine Tynan_ 267 _Copyright Acknowledgments_ The editor expresses his keen appreciation to the many poets and their publishers, who have so generously coöperated in the preparation of this volume by granting permission to include copyright material. All rights to the poems are reserved by the legal holders of the copyrights. To D. Appleton & Company for “Spring on the Off-Trail,” from _Songs of the Stalwart_, by Grantland Rice. To _The Atlantic Monthly_, for “Hill Hunger,” and “A Blackbird Suddenly,” by Joseph Auslander. To Richard A. Badger for “Traveller’s Joy,” “The Sea Wind,” “Countersign,” by Arthur Ketchum. To Barse & Hopkins for “The Call of the Wild,” by Robert Service. To Alfred Bartlett, for “September,” “The Gipsy Wedding,” “Gipsy Song,” “Upon Us Vagabonds,” “Song of the Open,” “The Sojourner,” “A la Belle Étoile,” “A Conversation,” “Lavender for Old Loves,” by Sara Hamilton Birchall. To Ernest Benn, Limited, (London), for “The Blackbird,” “The Lilac,” by Humbert Wolfe. To Brentano’s, Inc., for “Behind the Closed Eye,” “Farewell,” “The Winds of Life,” “Blind,” “Tell All the World,” “The Going of His Feet,” by Harry Kemp. To Jonathan Cape, Limited, (London) for “Happy Wind,” “Dreams of the Sea,” by W. H. Davies. To The Century Company, for “The Immortal,” “As the Tide Comes in,” “The Runaway,” by Cale Young Rice. To _Christian Endeavor World_ for “Changeless,” by Martha Haskell Clark. To _The Churchman_, for “Traveller’s Joy,” and “Sea Wind,” by Arthur Ketchum. To _Cincinnati Times-Star_, for “April Morning,” by George Elliston. To _Contemporary Verse_, for “Wasted Hours,” by Medora Addison; “Walking at Night,” by Amory Hare; “Rain,” by Kenneth Slade Alling; “Sea Longing,” by Harold Vinal; “Two Old Men,” by Louise Driscoll. To the Cornhill Publishing Company, for “The House of the Trees,” by Ethelwyn Wetherald. To _Country Life_ (London) for “Dawn,” by Isabel Butchart. To Dodd, Mead & Company, for “The Sea,” by Nora Hopper; “I Meant to Do My Work Today,” by Richard Le Gallienne; “Walking at Night,” by Amory Hare. To George H. Doran Company, for “Traveller’s Rest,” from _Sailor Town_ by C. Fox-Smith, copyright 1919, by George Doran Company, publishers; “Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” “Renewal,” from _World of Windows_ by Charles Hanson Towne. To Dorrance & Company for “Deep-Water Men,” “Deep Down,” from _Songs of Men_, by James Stuart Montgomery. To E. P. Dutton & Company for “The Dandelions,” by Helen Gray Cone; “The Naturalist on a June Sunday,” “ABC’s in Green,” by Leonora Speyer. To Federal National Bank, Boston, for “The Cry of the Dreamer,” by John Boyle O’Reilly. To Forbes & Company for “Far From the Madding Crowd,” by Nixon Waterman. To _Good Housekeeping_ for “The Sea Road,” and “Sea Song,” by Martha Haskell Clark. To Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. for “Sea Call” from _Cross Currents_ by Margaret Widdemer, copyright 1921, by Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. To Harper Bros. for “Afternoon on a Hill,” “God’s World,” “Journey,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. To Hodder & Stoughton, Limited, (London), for “Credo,” by Vera Wheatley. To Henry Holt & Company for “Wind Litany,” by Margaret Widdemer; “God Is At His Anvil,” by Lew Sarett; “The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks,” “After Sunset,” by Grace Hazard Conkling. To Houghton Mifflin Company for “A Strip of Blue” and “Is It Raining, Little Flower,” by Lucy Larcom; “The Singer’s Quest” by Odell Shepard; “Rhodora,” “Flower Chairs,” “Let Me Go Where’er I Will,” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. To B. W. Huebsch, Inc., for “On the Hill,” by Irene Rutherford McLeod. To Mitchell Kennerly for “The Wanderer,” by Zoe Atkins. To Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. for “Little Things,” by Orrick Johns; “The Early Gods,” by Witter Bynner. To J. L. Lippincott Company, for “April Rain,” by Robert Loveman. To Little, Brown & Company, for “Autumn,” “The Robin,” “April,” “Indian Summer,” by Emily Dickinson. To Longmans, Green & Co. (London) for “A Word With a Skylark,” by Sarah Piatt. To Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” “Comfort of the Stars,” and “Song of the Sea,” by Richard Burton. To _The Lyric West_ for “The Coming of Dawn,” by Grace C. Dennen. To The Macmillan Company for “Grace for Gardens,” by Louise Driscoll; “Sea-Fever,” “A Wanderer’s Song,” by John Masefield; “Up a Hill and a Hill,” “Gipsy Feet,” by Fannie Stearns Davis; “The Sweet, Low Speech of the Rain,” by Ella Higginson. To Macmillan & Co. Ltd. (London) for “My Garden,” by T. E. Brown. To McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, Limited, for “Wanderlust,” by Isabel Mackay. To Thomas B. Mosher for “Birds of the Air They Sing it,” and “The Charm is Working Now,” by John Vance Cheney, “The Undersong,” by Fiona Macleod, “The Lark” and “April Weather,” by Lizette Woodworth Reese. To L. C. Page & Company for “Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea,” “Afoot,” by Charles G. D. Roberts. To _Poetry_ for “Early Morn at Barges,” by Hermann Hagedorn; “Ellis Park,” by Helen Hoyt. To G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for “The Country Faith,” “Spring,” “All the Lanes are Lyric,” from _The Country Muse_ by Norman Gale; “April,” “The Gipsying,” “The Green Inn,” “A Song of Autumn,” “A City Voice,” “The Poplars,” “The Hills,” “A Morning,” by Theodosia Garrison. To Reilly & Lee Co., for “The Call,” “God Made This Day For Me,” “Fishing,” “City Weary,” “The Vagabond,” by Edgar A. Guest. To _The Roycroft Magazine_ for “The Road that Leads to Home,” by Ethel E. Mannin. To Charles Scribner’s Sons for “The Road That Leads to Nowhere,” by Corrinne Roosevelt Robinson; “Homesick,” by Julia C. R. Dorr; “The Wind,” by John Galsworthy; “The Trees and the Master” and “Marshes of Glynn” (Extract), by Sidney Lanier; “Trees,” “Of All the Skies,” by Henry van Dyke. To Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. (London), for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the Year,” and “The Epitaph,” by Katherine Tynan; “Wanderthirst,” by Gerald Gould. To Small, Maynard & Co., for “The Whisper of Earth,” by Edward J. O’Brien; “Clover,” by John B. Tabb; “Camping Song,” “Trees,” “April Weather,” “An Autumn Garden,” “The Cry of the Hillborn,” “Daisies,” “The Joys of the Road,” “A Vagabond’s Song,” “Spring Song,” “Marigolds,” “A More Ancient Mariner,” “The Mendicants,” “A Song of the Sea,” “St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill,” “The Deserted Pasture,” by Bliss Carman; “Comrades” (Extracts), “Spring” (Extracts), “The Faun,” “Short Beach,” “Hunting Song,” “Seaward” (Extracts), by Richard Hovey. To the _Boston Evening Transcript_ for “Prayer Before Poems,” by Anne Blackwell Payne. To _The Christian Century_ for “Spring’s Answer,” by Edwin Osgood Grover. To _Country Life in America_ for “Down East and Up Along,” by Edwin Osgood Grover. To _The Chicago Tribune_ for “Sea Magic.” To Yale University Press, for “Overtones,” from _In April Once_, by William Alexander Percy; and “Good Company,” from _Blue Smoke_ by Karle Wilson Baker. To Jonathan Cape, Ltd. for “Happy Wind” and “Dreams of the Sea,” by W. H. Davies. The following individuals have also given their permission for the use of copyright material, and the editor’s thanks are due them personally. To Joseph Auslander for “Hill-Hunger,” “A Blackbird Suddenly.” To Kendall Banning for “Wander-Lure.” To Katherine Lee Bates for “Gipsy-Heart.” To C. G. Blanden for “A Song the Grass Sings.” To William Stanley Braithwaite for “Sic Vita” from _The House Of Falling Leaves_. To Dana Burnet for “The Road to Vagabondia.” To Richard Burton for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” (Extracts) “Comfort of the Stars,” “Song of the Sea.” To Witter Bynner for “The Early Gods” and “A Phœbe Bird.” To Stephen Chalmers for “The Tree-Top Road.” To Eugene F. Clark for “The Sea Road,” “Changeless,” “Black Ashes,” “Sea Song,” by Martha Haskell Clark. To Mary Carolyn Davies for “Comrades of the Trail.” To Babette Deutsch for “The Hound.” To Louise Driscoll, for “The Spring Market” and “Two Old Men.” To Ella Elizabeth Egbert for “Days Like These.” To George Elliston for “April Morning.” To Jeanne Robert Foster for “Song of Ballyshannon.” To Hamlin Garland for “The Toil of the Trail,” “Do You Fear the Wind?” To Charlotte Perkins Gilman for “Tree-Feelings.” To Eva Gore-Booth, “The Perilous Light,” from manuscript; “The Waves of Breffny.” To Gerald Gould for “Wanderthirst.” To Arthur Guiterman for “The Hills” from _The Mirthful Lyre_. To Hermann Hagedorn, for “Early Morning at Bargis.” To Ella Higginson for “The Sweet Low Speech of the Rain.” To Julian Hovey for “Seaward,” (Extracts) by Richard Hovey. To Arthur Ketchum for “The Sea-Wind,” “Traveller’s Joy.” To Leslie Nelson Jennings for “Highways.” To Orrick Johns, for “Little Things.” To Ruth Kauffman for “Vagabond.” To Theda Kenyon for “In the Garden.” To Georgiana Goddard King for “Song.” To Louis Loveman for “April Rain” by Robert Loveman. To Ethel E. Mannin for “Ship-Love,” “The Road that Leads to Home,” “The Secret Voices,” “Out-of-Doors.” To Edwin Markham for “A Prayer.” To John Steven McGroarty for “The Port o’ Heart’s Desire” and “The King’s Highway.” To Edward J. O’Brien for “The Whisper of Earth.” To Lancaster Pollard for “Denial,” “Morning Song,” “April’s Coming,” “Clouds and Sky.” To Lizette Woodworth Reese for “The Lark.” To Cole Young Rice for “As the Tide Comes In,” “The Mystic,” “The Runaway,” “The Immortal.” To Jessie B. Rittenhouse for “The Green Tree in the Fall.” To Clinton Scollard for “Streams,” “Sunflowers,” “April Music,” “Song in March,” “The Trumpet of the Dawn.” To May Riley Smith for “Sorrow in a Garden,” “The Tree-Top Road.” To Leonora Speyer for “A B C’s in Green,” and “The Naturalist on a June Sunday.” To W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez for “Road Song,” “The Beloved Vagabond.” To Charles Hanson Towne for “Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” “Renewal.” To Katherine Tynan for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the Year” and “The Epitaph.” To Vera Wheatley for “Credo.” To Humbert Wolfe for “The Lilac,” “The Blackbird.” To William Watson for “April, April.” _The Lure of the Road_ _I, too, have heard the insistent call of bird and wind and sun; I, too, have heard the little brooks low calling as they run; I, too, have heard the summons far, of sea gulls in the rain-- And lo, my heart is home once more, here on the coast of Maine._ E. O. G. _A Wanderer’s Song_ A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels, I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land, Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand. Oh, I’ll be going, leaving the noises of the street, To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, Oh, I’ll be going, going, until I meet the tide. And first I’ll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out, And then the heart of me’ll know I’m there or thereabout. Oh, I’m tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, For a wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels. _John Masefield_ _The Singer’s Quest_ I’ve been wandering, listening for a song, Dreaming of a melody, all my life long.... The lilting tune that God sang to rock the tides asleep, And crooned above the cradled stars before they learned to creep. Oh, there was laughter in it and many a merry chime, Before He had turned moralist, grown old before His time, And He was happy, trolling out His great blithe-hearted tune, Before He slung the little earth beneath the sun and moon. But I know that somewhere that song is rolling on, Like flutes along the midnight, like trumpets in the dawn; It throbs across the sunset and stirs the poplar tree And rumbles in the long low thunder of the sea. * * * * * First-love sang me one note and heart-break taught me two, A child has told me three notes, and soon I’ll know it through; And when I stand before the Throne I’ll hum it low and sly, Watching for a great light of welcome in His eye, ... “Put a white raiment on him and a harp into his hand, And golden sandals on his feet and tell the saints to stand A little farther off unless they wish to hear the truth, For this blessed lucky sinner is going to sing about my youth!” _Odell Shepard_ _The Toil of the Trail_ What have I gained by the toil of the trail? I know and know well. I have found once again the lore I had lost In the loud city’s hell. I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe, I have laid my flesh to the rain; I was hunter and trailer and guide; I have touched the most primitive wildness again. I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, No eagle is freer than I; No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall, I defy the stern sky. So long as I live these joys will remain, I have touched the most primitive wildness again. _Hamlin Garland_ _Two Old Men_ _Sit-by-the-Fire_: Men travel far and far away To come home on a happy day; And even they whom the roads call Who never know a home at all, They dream, I think, of roads that end At four walls with a fire and friend! _Foot-loose_: I’ve never seen a hill but I Have dreamed a hill behind it, Nor ever watched a falling star Without the hope I’d find it, And all the islands of the sea Have known my name and called to me! _Sit-by-the-Fire_: I have planted apple trees And eaten at my pleasure, My house is full of memories For an old man to treasure. This I have and that I have, And you may see them standing, Silver in the dining room, An old clock on the landing! _Foot-loose_: I have neither house nor tree, Nor heirs alert and knowing, The four roads of eternity Are ways I would be going. Vagabonding in the skies I will not ask for Paradise! _Louise Driscoll_ _The Best Road of All_ I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair, A road that is an ordered road, like a nun’s evening prayer; But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where. You come upon it suddenly--you cannot seek it out; It’s like a secret still unheard and never noised about; But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt. It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver; It follows many a broken field by many a shining river; It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever! You tramp along its dusty way beneath the shadowy trees, And hear beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees, And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves’ litanies. And here’s a hedge and there’s a cot; and then, strange, sudden turns-- A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns; A bit of sky at evening time, the scent of hidden ferns. A winding road, a loitering road, the finger mark of God, Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod. See! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the goldenrod! I like a road that wanders straight; the King’s highway is fair, And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there; But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where. _Charles Hanson Towne_ _The Cry of the Dreamer_ I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men, Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again, And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming, Of life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by; From the sleepless thought’s endeavor I would go where the children play; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day. I can feel no pride, but pity, For the burdens the rich endure; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skillful, And the child-mind choked with weeds! The daughter’s heart grown willful And the father’s heart that bleeds! No! No! from the streets’ rude bustle, From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the wood’s low rustle And the meadows’ kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for my dreams alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. _John Boyle O’Reilly_ _Highways_ Who’s learned the lure of trodden ways, And walked them up and down, May love a steeple in a mist, But cannot love a town. Who’s worn a bit of purple once Can never, never lie All smothered in a little box When stars are in the sky. Who’s sipped old port in Venice glass May thirst for better brew--He’s drunk an amber wine of sun And wet his mouth with dew! Who’s ground the grist of trodden ways-- The gray dust and the brown-- May love red tiling two miles off-- But cannot love a town. _Leslie Nelson Jennings_ _Afoot and Light-Hearted_ Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I myself am good-fortune; Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Strong and content I travel the open road. _Walt Whitman_ _The Path that Leads to Nowhere_ There’s a path that leads to Nowhere In a meadow that I know, Where an inland island rises And the stream is still and slow; There it wanders under willows And beneath the silver green Of the birches’ silent shadows Where the early violets lean. Other pathways lead to Somewhere, But the one I love so well Had no end and no beginning-- Just the beauty of the dell, Just the windflowers and the lilies Yellow striped as adder’s tongue, Seem to satisfy my pathway As it winds their sweets among. There I go to meet the Springtime, When the meadow is aglow, Marigolds amid the marshes,-- And the stream is still and slow.-- There I find my fair oasis, And with care-free feet I tread For the pathway leads to Nowhere, And the blue is overhead! All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal,-- On the path that leads to Nowhere I have sometimes found my soul! _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ _City-Weary_ Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the din of it, Out of the bickering, out of the sin of it, Out of the smoke of it, out of the noise of it, Out of the pitiful, lean, leering joys of it. Come on, let’s go To a hilltop I know, Where the air is washed clean, And the trees are a-gleam With the gold of the sun, And there’s naught to be done Save to lie there and look At life’s beauties and dream. Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the stress of it, Out of the paint and the powder and dress of it, Out of the cry at the loss or the gain of it, Out of the hurt and the grief and the pain of it. Let’s slip away To the fields for a day, Where there is nothing On counters and shelves, Nothing to strive for, To work or contrive for, Let’s leave the city And just be ourselves. Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the crush of it, Out of the bedlam and out of the rush of it, Out of the sham of it, out of the heat of it, Out of the withering, scornful conceit of it. Come on! Let’s go Where the clean breezes blow, Out where the splendors Are all that they seem; Let’s merely walk awhile, Ponder and talk awhile, Giving our souls The full sweep of a dream. _Edgar A. Guest_ _The Faun_ I will go out to grass with that old King, For I am weary of clothes and cooks. I long to paddle with the throats of brooks, To lie down with the clover Tickling me all over, And watch the boughs above me sway and swing. Come, I will pluck off custom’s livery, Nor longer be a lackey to old Time. Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb The wild trees for my food, and run Through dale and upland as a fox runs free, Laugh for cool joy and sleep i’ the warm sun,-- And men will call me mad, like that old King. For I am woodland-nurtur’d, and have made Dryads my bedfellows, And I have played With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools. And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes Out to the forest and the crack of twigs, The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter Of brooks that chuckle o’er old mossy jests And say them over to themselves, the nests Of squirrels, and the holes the chipmunk digs, Where through the branches the slant rays Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground, And th’ wind comes with blown vesture rustling after, And through the woven lattice of crisp sound A bird’s song lightens like a maiden’s face. Oh, goodly damp smell of the ground! Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees! Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound! Oh, life that’s a-thrill and a-bound With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide’s rapture of ease! Was there ever a weary heart in the world? A lag in the body’s urge, or a flag of the spirit’s wing? Did a man’s heart ever break For a lost hope’s sake? For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things. Ay, this old oak, gray-grown and knurled, Solemn and sturdy and big, Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest, As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest. _Richard Hovey_ _The Call of the Wild_[1] Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert’s little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the wild--it’s calling you. Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? Then hearken to the Wild--it’s wanting you. Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, grovelled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? “Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders? (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things-- Then listen to the Wild,--it’s calling you. They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, They have soaked you in convention through and through; They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching-- But can’t you hear the Wild?--it’s calling you. Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know. There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us, And the Wild is calling, calling ... let us go. _Robert W. Service_ [1] From “The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses” by Robert W. Service. Copyright by Barse & Hopkins, Newark, N. J. _A City Voice_ Outside here in the city the burning pavements lie, There’s heat and grime and blown black dust to help the day go by, There’s the groaning of the city like a goaded, beaten beast;-- I know a place where God’s great trees go up to meet His sky-- Like an army green with banners, and a happy wind released, Goes swinging like a merry child among the branches high. Outside here in the city there’s a poison in the air--The fevered, heavy hand o’ heat that smites and may not spare; There’s little comfort in the night--there’s torment in the day;-- I know a place where cool and deep the quiet lake lies bare, All day about its shaded brink the wild birds dart and play, And willows dip their finger-tips like dainty ladies there. Oh, the heart of me is hungering for my own, own place! I’m tortured with the slaying heat, the dizzy headrace. Oh, for the soft, cold touch of grass about my tired feet, The breath of pine and cedar blown against my weary face, The lip-lap of the water like a little song and sweet, And God’s green trees and God’s blue skies above me for a space. _Theodosia Garrison_ _Fishing_ A day to dream Along a stream, The song of birds Instead of words, And pictures rare Flung everywhere. Instead of smoke To blind and choke, An atmosphere That’s sweet and clear, The trees instead Of chimneys red. A patch of sky To rest the eye; Instead of noise, A thousand joys; Instead of greed, A kindlier creed. A day to dream Along the stream, To think and plan, Restores a man, And this he knows Who fishing goes. _Edgar A. Guest_ _Camping Song_ Has your dinner lost its savor? Has your greeting lost its cheer? Is your daily stunt a burden? Is your laughter half a sneer? There’s a medicine to cure you, There’s a way to lift your load, With a horse and a saddle and a mile of open road. Is your eyeball growing bilious? Is your temper getting short? Is this life a blind delusion, Or a grim, unlovely sport? There’s a world of health and beauty, There’s a help that cannot fail, In a day behind the burros On a dusty mountain trail. Come out, old man, we’re going To a land that’s free and large, Where the rainless skies are resting On a snowy mountain marge. When we camp in God’s own country, You will find yourself again, With a fire and a blanket and the stars upon the plain! _Bliss Carman_ _The Green Inn_ The roof is high and arched and blue, The floor is spread with pine; On my four walls the sunlight falls In golden flecks and fine; And swift and fleet on noiseless feet The Four Winds bring me wine. Here none may mock an empty purse Or ragged coat and poor, But Silence waits within the gates, And Peace beside the door; The weary guest is welcomest, The richest pays no score. * * * * * Oh, you who in the House of Strife Quarrel and game and sin, Come out and see what cheer may be For starveling souls and thin Who come at last from drought and fast To sit in God’s Green Inn. _Theodosia Garrison_ _Wanderlust_ The highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all, And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call; Only the call of the long white road to the far horizon’s wall. The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night of June, And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon; Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon! The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze fierce and bold, And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told; Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old. _Isabel Ecclestone Mackay_ _Song_[2] Something calls and whispers, along the city street, Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine. The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine. Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea. Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled. _Georgiana Goddard King_ [2] From “The Way of Perfect Love.” _In City Streets_ Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting ’Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water’s wine, poured out for all unstinting-- God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells. _Ada Smith_ “_Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books_” Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you’ll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain’s head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There’s more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings, He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. _William Wordsworth_ _Road Song_ It’s home for me and a snug roof-tree When frosts hold the earth in thrall, But it’s hey, I say, for the broad highway, When the young year’s voices call. ’Tis then I would be rolling off, A-bowling off, a-strolling off-- An errant leaf bound whitherward The wind of fancy wills; ’Tis then I would be going off, A-whirling off, a-blowing off Along the road that leads away Beyond the purple hills. ’Twas hearth and home when the sky’s gray dome Hung low and the north wind skirled; Now it’s hey for the reel of the out-bound keel, And it’s ho for the great round world. ’Tis now I would be roving off A-shoving off, a-moving off To where the far horizon shows Mysterious and dim; It’s time that I was shipping off A-rising and a-dipping off To strange and unknown ports that lie Below the round world’s rim. Oh, some were made for peaceful shade Of their vine and their own fig tree, But marked of fate with the gipsy trait, It’s the open road for me. And so I would be pushing on, A-trekking on, a-mushing on, And leave the old well-trodden trails Long merry miles behind. ’Tis joyful I’d go swinging off, A-whooping and a-singing off, As goal-less as a vagrant crow A-winging down the wind. _James Stuart Montgomery_ _Walking at Night_ My face is wet with the rain But my heart is warm to the core, For I follow at will again The road that I loved of yore; And the dim trees beat the dark, And the swelling ditches moan, But my heart is a singing, soaring lark For I travel the road alone. Alone in the living night Away from the babble of tongues; Alone with the old delight Of the night wind in my lungs; And the wet air on my cheeks And the warm blood in my veins, Alone with the joy he knows who seeks The thresh of the young spring rains, With the smell of the pelted earth, The tearful drip of the trees, Making him dream of the sound of mirth That comes with the clearing breeze. ’Tis a rare and wondrous sight To tramp the wet awhile And watch the slow delight Of the sun’s first pallid smile, And hear the meadows breathe again And see the far woods turn green, Drunk with the glory of wind and rain And the sun’s warm smile between! I have made me a vagrant song, For my heart is warm to the core, And I’m glad, oh, glad that the night is long For I travel the road once more. And the dim trees beat the dark And the swelling ditches moan, With the joy of the singing, soaring lark I travel the road, alone! _Amory Hare_ _Road Song_ Give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, And the winds of heaven to winnow me through, and a brother tramp to greet, With an Inn at the end of day for rest, and the world may keep its bays-- For these are the gifts of the wayside gods, and the gifts that I would praise. Come from the murk of your city streets to the tent of all the world, When your final word on Art is said, and your flag of Faith is furled, When your heart no longer gives a throb at the first faint breath of Spring-- Ah, turn your feet to the ribbon-road with a chorus all may sing! * * * * * Then give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet, And a dog to tell my secrets to, and a brother tramp to meet-- And the years may take their toll of me till I come to the weary West, And I lodge for good in the world’s own Inn, a wayworn, waiting guest! _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ _A Song of the Open Road_ The old Earth-Mother calls us, And we hearken unto her cry, For we dare not question her bidding Lest we sicken and droop and die. The spirit of change is burning As a fever in heart and brain. In the ranks of the Free Companions We must take to the road again. We have lain in the tents of the dwellers; We have ta’en of their drink and food; We, that were weary, have slumbered, Have slumbered and found rest good. We have kissed the lips of their maidens, From their kin we have chosen our brides; But the summons has come from the Mother, And no one who hears it abides. We do the will of the Mother, We bow to the Word she sends, Though we know not whither we journey, Nor the goal where the journey ends. On the quest of the Strange Adventure We sally, hand-in-hand, As the men of the days nomadic When the hunter was lord in the land. The winds a-sweep through the forests Shall brace our souls for the march, The balm of the dews descending Shall chasten the heats that parch. Through vista of brakes entangled The stars shall guide, in the night, By day the sun shall quicken The pulse of our life’s delight. Ho! for the zest of travel, The wayfarer’s romance, The joy of the unexpected, The hope of the noble chance. We have girded our feet with sandals, We carry the pilgrim’s load. In the ranks of the Free Companions We take to the open road. _Louis J. McQuilland_ _A Maine Trail_ Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, The trail, a-teasing by, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Trim barns and farm-house shy, Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, Through pastures bare and wild, Oh come, let’s fare to the heart-o’-the-wood With the faith of a little child. Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, By bouldered brook to the hidden spring Where breath of ferns blows sweet And swift birds break the silence as Their shadows cross your feet. Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse To garner the woodland glee, To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sun-spun ecstasy; ’Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, ’Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens!--how the Lord Himself loves green! Such sun!--how He loves the gold! Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss Is spread for Dryads’ sleep; And list ten thousand thousand spruce Lift up their voice to God--We can a little understand, Born of the self-same sod. Oh, come, the welcoming trees lead on, Their guests are we to-day; Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, Gay mushrooms mark the way; The silence is a courtesy, The well-bred calm of kings; Come haste! the hour sets its face Unto great Happenings. _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_ _The Spell of the Pool_ There’s a crystal-arrowed riffle at the turning of the river, There’s a waterfall where nature teaches school, There’s a bank of swaying alder with each budding twig aquiver-- And there’s magic in the murmur of the pool! Can’t you see the cold, blue water as it eddies, sparkles, flashes In the willow-shadowed reaches of the stream, And the ever-widening ripples where the trout, in falling, splashes As the osprey drops his quarry with a scream? _L. Burton Crane, Jr._ _The Lake_ There is a lake--but I forget its name, That flickers in my memory like flame! Guarded by Dolomites whose magic glow Of red primeval merges into snow. A lake so beautiful, God gave it birth By melting one vast emerald on earth! A lake so strange, that, did its waters part, Undine would be enshrined within its heart. And as with lovely sound the air may fill, Though chords are hushed and all the strings be still, So will this lake--but I forget its name-- Flicker within my memory like flame! _Eleanour Norton_ _The Great Outdoors_ O great outdoors, without floors, Or walls, or roofs, or bounds, Grant this day that I may stray Amidst thy plains and mounds, Let me be among the free That climb thy purple hills; Let me breathe the scents that wreathe Thy violet bordered rills: Let thy sun, till day be done, Shine from out thy great blue sky; Let thy starlight and the still night Soothe my rest when down I lie; Let the shadows cool the meadows, And the night sounds whisper low, In the stillness of thy valleys Where the waters lap and flow. _Maud Russell_ _Come, Spur Away!_ Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war-- ’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. * * * * * Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they’ll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I’m sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. _Thomas Randolph_ _Hunting Song_ Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill! Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison, When we come home again. Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) We’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air. But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt’s up, and away! _Richard Hovey_ _The Call_ Have you heard the calling, calling, of the Distance, Through the purple reaches where the mountains wait; With Dreamland round their shoulders, where the sunset fire smoulders-- Oh, the guarding Distance calls us from their gate. In the morning it entices with the sunrise, In the evening it is urging through the gold; We must heed the sweet insistence, for this mystic blue-veiled Distance Hides our wished-for land of Dreams within its hold. We will cinch the saddle tighter, tie the strings of wide sombrero, While the mists about the top are gray and dim; With the eager trail uptrending, and the morning sky low bending-- Oh, the evening star will we see o’er the rim. When the wind blows thin and keen about the summit, And the camp-fire sparkles warm upon the brim, On a couch of pine boughs fragrant, who would scorn to be a vagrant, And follow when the Distance calls to him? _Cora D. Fenton_ _The King’s Highway_ “El Camino Real” All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, You and I together, on the King’s Highway, The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me. It’s a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world-- There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled, And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old, And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold that trod From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold of old; Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; But you and I together we will take the road to-day, With the breath in our nostrils, on the King’s Highway. We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow, And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay, And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray. We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree, Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. Old Conquistadores, oh, brown priests and all, Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day, With the breath of God about us on the King’s Highway. _John Steven McGroarty_ _God Made This Day For Me_ Jes’ the sort o’ weather and jes’ the sort o’ sky Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin’ by On a sea o’ smooth blue water. Oh, I ain’t an egotist, With an “I” in all my thinkin’, but I’m willin’ to insist That the Lord that made us humans and the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o’ weather an’ He made this day fer me. This is jes’ my style o’ weather--sunshine floodin’ all the place, An’ the breezes from the eastward blowin’ gently on my face. An’ the woods chock-full o’ singin’ till you’d think birds never had A single care to fret ’em or a grief to make ’em sad. Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, An’ tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me. It’s my day, sky an’ sunshine, an’ the temper o’ the breeze, Here’s the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please-- Beauty dancin’ all around me, music ringin’ everywhere, Like a weddin’ celebration. Why I’ve plumb fergot my care An’ the tasks I should be doin’ fer the rainy days to be While I’m huggin’ the delusion that God made this day fer me. _Edgar A. Guest_ _The Country Faith_ Here in the country’s heart Where the grass is green Life is the same sweet life As it e’er hath been. Trust in a God still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O’er the rising corn. God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall-- This is the country faith, And the best of all! _Norman Gale_ _Green Things Growing_ _Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; ’Tis very sure God walks in mine._ THOMAS E. BROWN _Afoot_ Comes the lure of green things growing, Comes the call of waters flowing-- And the wayfarer desire Moves and wakes and would be going. Hark the migrant hosts of June Marching nearer noon by noon! Hark the gossip of the grasses Bivouacked beneath the moon! Long the quest and far the ending When my wayfarer is wending-- When desire is once afoot, Doom behind and dream attending! In his ears the phantom chime Of incommunicable rhyme, He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires Of the Bedouins of Time. Farer by uncharted ways, Dumb as death to plaint or praise, Unreturning he shall journey, Fellow to the nights and days; Till upon the outer bar Stilled the moaning currents are, Till the flame achieves the zenith, Till the moth attains the star, Till through laughter and through tears Fair the final peace appears, And about the watered pastures Sink to sleep the nomad years! _Charles G. D. Roberts_ _Grace for Gardens_ Lord God in Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain! Lord God in Paradise, Please bless the beans and peas, Give us corn full on the ear-- We will praise Thee, Lord, for these! Bless the blossom And the root, Bless the seed And the fruit! Lord God in Paradise, Over my brown field is seen, Trembling and adventuring, A miracle of green. Send such grace As you know, To keep it safe And make it grow! Lord God in Paradise, For the wonder of the seed, Wondering, we praise you, while We tell you of our need. Look down from Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain! _Louise Driscoll_ _My Garden_ A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not-- Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool! Nay, but I have a sign; ’Tis very sure God walks in mine. _Thomas E. Brown_ _April_ The charm is working, now, On the alder bough; Odors are afloat; The brook has a new note; Nightly in the silence grow Murmurs only lovers know,-- Love’s own minstrelsy Beginning in the tree; The airy hammers of the rain Tap--are still again. _John Vance Cheney_ _A Song the Grass Sings_ The violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I’ll ask the buttercup If I may be her beau. When winds go by, I’ll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be. And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pass, I smiling at the buttercup, She smiling at the grass. _Charles G. Blanden_ _The Young Dandelion_ I am a bold fellow As ever was seen, With my shield of yellow, In the grass green. You may uproot me From field and from lane, Trample me, cull me-- I spring up again. I never flinch, sir, Wherever I dwell, Give me an inch, sir, I’ll soon take an ell. Drive me from garden, In anger and pride, I’ll thrive and harden By the roadside. _Dinah Mulock Craik_ _Sunflowers_ My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons. When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky. Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate. Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through! _Clinton Scollard_ _Wishing_ Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The ferns and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king! Nay--stay! I wish I were an elm-tree, A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And ever sweetly sing! Oh--no! I wish I were a robin, A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wings! _William Allingham_ _Rain_ Is it raining, little flower?-- Be glad of rain! Too much sun would wither thee; ’Twill shine again. The sky is very black, ’tis true; But just behind it shines the blue. God watches; and thou wilt have sun, When clouds their perfect work have done. _Lucy Larcom_ _To the Dandelion_ Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; ’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God’s value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God’s book. _James Russell Lowell_ _The Grass_ A child said _What is the grass?_ fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say _Whose?_ _Walt Whitman_ _Buttercups_ There must be fairy miners Just underneath the mould, Such wondrous quaint designers Who live in caves of gold. They take the shining metals, And beat them into shreds; And mould them into petals, To make the flowers’ heads. Sometimes they melt the flowers To tiny seeds like pearls, And store them up in bowers For little boys and girls. And still a tiny fan turns Above a forge of gold, To keep, with fairy lanterns, The world from growing old. _Wilfrid C. Thorley_ _The Lilac_ Who thought of the lilac? “I,” dew said, “I made up the lilac out of my head.” “She made up the lilac! Pooh!” thrilled a linnet, and each dew-note had a lilac in it. _Humbert Wolfe_ _The Hollyhocks_ The hollyhocks are standing In groups against the wall, Engaged in conversation With the lowly flowers small, That gaze with admiration On floral dames so gay, Who wear such ruffled bonnets Of crimson deep to-day. * * * * * The wind has paused to listen To the dames of high degree, And the mignonette and pansies Are laughing with such glee! The mullein pinks are blushing, And the poppies say, “Oh, see, In the dame’s gay frilled red bonnet She has a bumblebee!” _Ray Laurance_ _The Ragged Regiment_ I love the ragged veterans of June, Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display In gardens fine,--but such as dare the noon With saucy faces by the public way. Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white, Round Dandelion, and flouncing Bouncing-Bet, The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright, Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset. Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out From garden service, scorned and set apart,-- There’s not one member of your ragged rout But makes a warmth of welcome in my heart. _Alice Williams Brotherton_ _Marigolds_ The marigolds are nodding: I wonder what they know. Go, listen very gently; You may persuade them so. Go, be their little brother, As humble as the grass, And lean upon the hill-wind, And watch the shadows pass. Put off the pride of knowledge, Put by the fear of pain; You may be counted worthy To live with them again. Be Darwin in your patience, Be Chaucer in your love; They may relent and tell you What they are thinking of. _Bliss Carman_ _In a Garden_ Sky! Why are you so very gay To-day? Dimpled with the clouds at play, Blithe with the sun’s vivacious ray.... Why? Moon! Why do you pursue me so? Are you whispering That youth passes over-soon? Don’t you know I’ve buried you a dozen times Behind tall buildings?--Pagan thing! The very Churches clutch at you With grasping spires To tear you from the sky! Veil with clouds your glittering Unholy gaze!... Virgin?... You are an aged courtesan Leering at lovers!... leave me, leave me, then! If you were not half-blind, you’d see _I am alone_!... Oh, moon ... stop mocking me! Trees! Murmuring to each passing breeze Ancient mysteries-- Flowers, Gossiping with drowsy bees In social, chaste amenities-- Don’t you know my heart is breaking? Can’t you sympathize with aching Human misery? Are all your little hours Golden as these? Or ... do you hide Your searching, poignant tragedies, Under the hard, bright smile of pride? I think that I shall also go Laughing, ... not too loudly ... Moving with gracious step and slow, Quietly ... proudly ... And then, perhaps, no one will know My heart has died! _Theda Kenyon_ _The Dandelions_ Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning. We were not waked by bugle-notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded. We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans talking. They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne’er were heard of after! _Helen Gray Cone_ _Rhodora_ Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ _Daisies_ Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our hearts free. The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, The orioles whistled them out of the wood; And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!” And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.” _Bliss Carman_ _Out in the Fields with God_ The little cares that fretted me I lost them yesterday Among the fields, above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees. The foolish fears of what might happen, I cast them all away, Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new mown hay, Among the husking of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- Out in the fields with God. _Elizabeth Browning_ _The Blackbird_ In the far corner, close by the swings, every morning a blackbird sings. His bill’s so yellow, his coat’s so black, that he makes a fellow whistle back. Ann, my daughter, thinks that he sings for us two especially. _Humbert Wolfe_ _The Robin_ The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on. The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, And April but begun. The robin is the one That speechless from her nest Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best. _Emily Dickinson._ _Clover_ Little masters, hat in hand, Let me in your presence stand, Till your silence solve for me This your threefold mystery. Tell me--for I long to know-- How, in darkness there below, Was your fairy fabric spun, Spread and fashioned, three in one. Did your gossips gold and blue, Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, Ere your triple forms were seen, Suited liveries of green? Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed Captives of a prison seed-- Like the Genie, once again Get you back into the grain? Little masters, may I stand In your presence, hat in hand, Waiting till you solve for me This your threefold mystery? _John B. Tabb_ _A Conversation_ A little road goes up the hill, And Thistle-down says she, “I’m off a-gipsying today, Drift up the road with me.” “And sure ’tis nice to go,” says I, “But ’tis not I will come, For who would feed my cow and cat, And make my wheel to hum? ’Tis here at home that I will bide, And thanks to you,” says I, So off went gipsy Thistle-down A-drifting in the sky. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _A Yellow Pansy_ To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly quivering came; His wings on the sombre lichens Played like a yellow flame. He looked at the gay geraniums, And the sleepy four-o’-clocks; He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy-growing box. He longed for the peace and the silence, And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wee wild heart was weary Of skimming the endless air. And now in the old green garden,-- I know not how it came,-- A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again! _Helen Gray Cone_ _The Answer_ Lavender for old loves, Roses for the new, Heliotrope for pleasure, lass, And for sorrow, rue. Rosemary lest you forget.-- Take, or let it be. I will have the wholesome pine And the open sea. Rosemary lest you forget.-- When I come again Up the old familiar path In the autumn rain, What if you’ve forgotten, lass? Say, what shall I do?-- Here is heartsease by the gate With the bitter rue. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _A Prayer_ Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the grasses grow; Hush my soul to meet the shock Of the wild world as a rock; But my spirit, propt with power, Make as simple as a flower. Let the dry heart fill its cup, Like a poppy looking up; Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down. Teach me, Father, how to be Kind and patient as a tree. Joyfully the crickets croon Under shady oak at noon; Beetle, on his mission bent, Tarries in that cooling tent. Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot-- Place where passing souls can rest On the way and be their best. _Edwin Markham_ _The Kinship of the Trees_ _I think I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.... Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree._ JOYCE KILMER _Tree Feelings_ I wonder if they like it--being trees? I suppose they do.... It must feel good to have the ground so flat, And feel yourself stand right straight up like that-- So stiff in the middle--and then branch at ease, Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow, And all those fringy leaves that flutter so. You’d think they’d break off at the lower end When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend. But then you think of all the roots they drop, As much at bottom as there is on top,-- A double tree, widespread in earth and air Like a reflection in the water there. I guess they like to stand still in the sun And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run; And like to feel the rain run through their hair And slide down to the roots and settle there. But I think they like the wind best. From the light touch That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much, To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide, And all the time so stiff and strong inside! And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel How long their roots are, and the earth how leal! And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost! And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost! And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem, But to be apples--and bow down with them! _Charlotte Perkins Stetson_ _ABC’S in Green_ The trees are God’s great alphabet: With them He writes in shining green Across the world His thoughts serene. He scribbles poems against the sky With a gay, leafy lettering, For us and for our bettering. The wind pulls softly at His page, And every star and bird Repeats in dutiful delight His word, And every blade of grass Flutters to class. Like a slow child that does not heed, I stand at summer’s knees, And from the primer of the wood I spell that life and love are good, I learn to read. _Leonora Speyer_ _O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees!_ O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees, I came along your narrow track To bring my gifts unto your knees And gifts did you give back; For when I brought this heart that burns-- These thoughts that bitterly repine-- And laid them here among the ferns And the hum of boughs divine, Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart’s despair, Your darkness on its noise. _Herbert Trench_ _God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree_ God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star? How did you dream of a damson west, Crossed by an inky bar? How did you think of a dear brown pool Where flocks of shadows are? God, when you thought of a cobweb, How did you think of dew? How did you know a spider’s house Had spangles bright and new? How did you know we human folk Would love them as we do? God, when you patterned a bird’s song, Flung on a silver string, How did you know the ecstasy That crystal call would bring? How did you think of a bubbling throat And a darling speckled wing? God, when you chiseled a raindrop, How did you think of a stem, Bearing a lovely satin leaf To hold the tiny gem? How did you know a million drops Would deck the morning’s hem? Why did you mate the moonlit night With honeysuckle vines? How did you know madeira bloom Distilled ecstatic wines? How did you weave the velvet dusk Where tangled perfumes are? God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star? _Unknown_ _The House of the Trees_ Ope your doors and take me in, Spirit of the wood, Wash me clean of dust and din, Clothe me in your mood. Take me from the noisy light To the sunless peace, Where at mid-day standeth Night Signing Toil’s release. All your dusky twilight stores To my senses give; Take me in and lock the doors, Show me how to live. Lift your leafy roof for me, Part your yielding walls: Let me wander lingeringly Through your scented halls. Ope your doors and take me in, Spirit of the wood; Take me--make me next of kin To your leafy brood. _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ _Trees_ In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, There were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- Trees of beauty and height and grace, To stand in splendor before His face. Apple and hickory, ash and pear, Oak and beech and the tulip rare, The trembling aspen, the noble pine, The sweeping elm by the river line; Trees for the birds to build and sing, And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord’s footfall; Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder’s trade; Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail; He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, On the crown of a hill, for all to see, God planted a scarlet maple tree. _Bliss Carman_ _The Trees and the Master_ Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives, they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him, The thorn tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When death and shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last, ’Twas on a tree they slew Him--last When out of the woods He came. _Sidney Lanier_ _The Trees_ There’s something in a noble tree-- What shall I say? a soul? For ’tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole. Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams. I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kinship, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man. Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after God; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things. What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaëthon’s fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream! In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, ’tis said, they wept For human sorrow too. Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech. “Be serious,” the solemn pine Is saying overhead; “Be beautiful,” the elm-tree fine Has always finely said; “Be quick to feel,” the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, “Be strong.” When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, “Be patient,” say they all. _Samuel Valentine Cole_ _Three Trees_ The poplar is a French tree, A tall and laughing wench tree, A slender tree, a tender tree, That whispers to the rain-- An easy, breezy flapper tree, A lithe and blithe and dapper tree, A girl of trees, a pearl of trees, Beside the shallow Aisne. The oak is a British tree, And not at all a skittish tree; A rough tree, a tough tree, A knotty tree to bruise; A drives-his-roots-in-deep tree, A mighty tree, a blighty tree, A tree of stubborn thews. The pine tree is our own tree, A grown tree, a cone tree, The tree to face a bitter wind, The tree for mast and spar-- A mounting tree, a fine tree, A fragrant turpentine tree, A limber tree, a timber tree, And resinous with tar! _Christopher Morley_ _What Do We Plant?_ What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship which will cross the sea. We plant the mast to carry the sails; We plant the planks to withstand the gales-- The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me. We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams and siding, all parts that be; We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see; We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, We plant the staff for our country’s flag, We plant the shade, from the hot sun free; We plant all these when we plant the tree! _Henry Abbey_ _Trees_ Many a tree is found in the wood, And 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 hearthstone warm, Some for the roof and some for the beam, And some for a boat to breast the storm. In the wealth of the wood since the world began, The 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 bend O’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 palm, I have found good rest and slumber’s balm. And now, when the morning gilds the boughs Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house, I open the window and make a salute: “God bless thy branches and feed thy root! Thou hast lived before, live after me, Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree!” _Henry van Dyke_ _The Trees_ Time is never wasted listening to the trees; If to heaven so grandly we arose as these, Holding toward each other half their kindly grace, Haply we were worthier of our human place. Bending down to meet you on the hillside path, Birch and oak and maple each his welcome hath; Each his own fine cadence, his familiar word, By the ear accustomed, always plainly heard. Every tree gives answer to some different mood, This one helps you climbing; that for rest is good; Beckoning friends, companions, sentinels they are; Good to live and die with, good to greet afar. _Lucy Larcom_ _Good Company_ To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke-- _Lord, who am I that they should stoop--these holy folk of thine?_ _Karle Wilson Baker_ _The Green Tree In The Fall_ Did you forget to bud in Spring, O Green Tree in the Fall, That now you wear these fresh young leaves As for a coronal? All of your mates within the wood Are in the crimson leaf, They had their swift, enamored spring, Their summertime too brief. But you--what chance befell that you Were cheated of the Spring, That now you cling so fast to leaves Wherein no bird will sing? My heart is with you, little tree, For I was cheated too, And now I grasp at what I missed And cling as fast as you. _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ _The Call of the Sea_ _There’s the bird’s song and the wind’s song, and the song of the leafless tree, But, oh, the call of the sea’s song, the imperious song of the sea._ _There’s the song of running water, and the song of singing rain; But, oh, the song of the masterful sea, that calls down the coast of Maine._ E. O. G. _Sea-Fever_ I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face and a gray dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. _John Masefield_ _A Son of the Sea_ I was born for deep-sea faring; I was bred to put to sea; Stories of my father’s daring Filled me at my mother’s knee. I was sired among the surges; I was cubbed beside the foam; All my heart is in its verges, And the sea wind is my home. All my boyhood, from far vernal Bournes of being, came to me Dream-like, plangent, and eternal Memories of the plunging sea. _Bliss Carman_ _Dreams of the Sea_ I know not why I yearn for thee again, To sail once more upon thy fickle flood; I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel’s sides In fury, with thy many tailèd whip; And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee, When Jesus walked in peace to Simon’s ship. And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft As summer’s, when it makes the cornfields run; And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale Make ships show half their bellies to the sun. Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life, Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud: I think of that Armada whose puffed sails, Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud. But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned Lying on shore and, by thy cruel hand, A seaweed beard was on his tender chin, His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand. And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again, To sail once more upon thy fickle flood: I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. _William H. Davies_ _Going Down in Ships_ Going down to sea in ships Is a glorious thing, Where up and over the rolling waves The sea-birds wing; Oh, there’s nothing more to my heart’s desire Than a ship that plows Head-on down through marching seas, With streaming bows: Would you hear the song of the viewless winds As they walk the sky? Come down to sea when the storm is on And the men stand by. Would you see the sun as it walked abroad On God’s First Day? Then come where dawn makes sea and sky A gold causeway. Oh, it’s bend the sails on the criss-cross yards, For the day dies far, And up a windless space of dusk Climbs the evening star.... Now there’s gulf on foaming gulf of stars That lean so clear That it seems the bastions of heaven Are bright and near, And that, any moment, the topmost sky May froth and swim With an incredible bivouac Of seraphim.... O wide-flung dawn, O mighty day And set of sun! O all you climbing stars of God, Oh, lead me on!... _Harry Kemp_ _The Waves of Breffny_ The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart, But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill, And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind: But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. _Eva Gore-Booth_ _Short Beach_ Oh, the salt wind in my nostrils! And the white sail in the creek! And the blue beyond the marshes! And the flag at the peak! My soul lifts to the bugles Of a far cry on the breeze-- The cry of my storm-kin calling Overseas, overseas! Blow, horns of the old sea-rapture! When your call comes from afar, I would rise from the grave to reach you Where the sea-dooms are. _Richard Hovey_ _Sea Call_ My old love for the water has come back again-- I had forgotten its surging, so long, so long away; Sapphire-blue in the sunlight and green-gray in the rain, And the same waves cresting, and the same sharp spray, There was left a wave in my heart when I went to the inland towns, Something that moved and murmured in the days when I forgot; Vivid flowers of the gardens or thick long grass of the downs-- What were the sweets of the summer days, where the calling waves were not? My old love for the water has come back once more; The wave of the deep draws full, and the wave in my heart lifts high; This is my own old country and my own old shore ... And I cannot leave the water till the day I die. _Margaret Widdemer_ _Ship-Love_ When God gave to all men All the earth to love He gave them the waters under the sea, He gave them the sky above; And some love the waters, And some love the sky; But I love the tall ships That go sailing by. For when God gave to my heart The warm living blood He gave me, too, the passion For ebb-tide and flood; And my love is ship-love, For tall ships and strange, For steam-ships and sailing ships The whole wide range. And when God calls my spirit And claims the soul of me He’ll find it a-wandering With ships on the sea; He’ll find it on a warm deck Dreaming in the sun, Long after I am perished And my earth-life done. _Ethel E. Mannin_ _The Sea_ I call thee from the changing land To the unchanging sea; I bring a bride-gift in my hand Of immortality. The land is fair, but fairer far The pastures of the sea. Canst thou reach down the lowest star? My sea-fires gleam for thee. All rivers run unto one end And perish in the sea; Turn thou from lover and from friend, And give thy heart to me. Thy love shall suffer change and dearth, Thy friend the years estrange; There is no faithfulness on earth-- The sea will never change. _Nora Hopper_ _Coquette_ I am wearied with insatiable longing For that laughing, blue-eyed wanton called the sea. Though she’s but a faithless rover And the wide world’s willing lover I’d be content if she would share an hour with me. If she would toss me on her restless, throbbing bosom, Caress a moment--and then flout me in my pain, I would barter all the treasures Of the rich man’s million pleasures To be rocked within her siren arms again. Her honey voice is luring, mocking, calling! Her sapphire scalloped skirts are piped with foam: And her light feet shoreward dancing, Pearly-sandalled and entrancing, Entice the steps of men from love and home. False and cruel is her glittering lure; Her gifts are death and woe’s delirium-- Yet heaven holds no blisses Like the sharp tang of her kisses-- Ah! Coquette! if you should slay me, I must come! _Keith Stuart_ _The Deep-Water Man_ O give me the Pole Star overhead, A slithering deck to my feet, A forward bunk for my downy bed, And the sea for my village street, The galley’s glow for my warm hearthstone, And my mates for my kin and friends-- Then earth’s long leagues are my very own To the place where the round world ends. There’s never a richer man than I, Nor a poorer under the sun; For all of my boundless riches lie In the things I have seen and done-- The songs I’ve sung and the laughs I’ve laughed-- Oh, that’s wealth as it ought to be, For when the Skipper shall call me aft I can take it along with me. A-roaring down the Atlantic lanes, Or cruising a tropical sea, The balmy Trades, or the wind-whipped rains, Are a bit of the same to me. I’m home wherever the anchors fall And take my idolatrous ease-- I’ve got a girl in each port of call To be found on the seven seas. Oh, loves I’ve known that were deep and strong, Of some ports I am more than fond, But woman nor town can hold me long From the call of the ones beyond. So, ever and always outward bound (Well, I guess it’s the fate of some) Till the day their keels go hard aground In the Port of the Kingdom Come. _James Stuart Montgomery_ _Sea Longing_ You who are inland born know not the pain Of one who longs for gray dunes and the seas And sound of ebbing tide and windy rain And sea-mews crying down immensities. You who are inland born, know not the urge Of rapt tides beating passionate and wild; Nor have you thrilled with wonder at the surge Of drifting water, wayward as a child. Impetuous I seek the eager sea, Imperious for joy and wind-blown spray; You, who are city-beaten every day, What do you know of mirth and ecstasy? No thirsty wind has journeyed from the South-- And laid a cool, wet finger on your mouth! _Harold Vinal_ _Had I the Choice_ Had I the choice to tally greatest bards, To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will, Homer with all his wars and warriors--Hector, Achilles, Ajax, Or Shakspere’s woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello--Tennyson’s fair ladies, Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme, delight of singers; These, these, O sea, all these I’d gladly barter, Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer, Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse, And leave its odor there. _Walt Whitman_ _Gray_ A bleak wind is riding on the waves, And the shadowy foam is hurled; And the gray rains are on the hills And a gray dusk is over the world. And bleak moods and shadowy moods Move like the moods of the sea, And mist, like a gray unspoken thought, Is looking strangely at me. And I am lost in grayness, My dreams are still and furled, For the gray rains are on the hills And a gray dusk is over the world. _Oscar Williams_ _A Pagan Hymn_ I have drunk the Sea’s good wine, And to-day Care has bowed his head and gone away. I have drunk the Sea’s good wine, Was ever step so light as mine, Was ever heart so gay? Old voices intermingle in my brain, Voices that a little boy might hear, And dreams like fiery sunsets come again, Informulate and vain, But great with glories of the buccaneer. Oh, thanks to thee, great Mother, thanks to thee, For this old joy renewed, For tightened sinew and clear blood imbued With sunlight and with sea. Behold, I sing a pagan song of old, And out of my full heart, Hold forth my hands that so I would enfold The Infinite thou art. What matter all the creeds that come and go, The many gods of men? My blood outcasts them from its joyous flow, And it is now as then-- The Pearl of Morning, and the Sapphire Sea, The Diamond of Noon, The Ruby of the Sunset--these shall be My creed, my Deity; And I will take some old forgotten tune, And rhythm frolic-free, And sing in little words thy wondrous boon, O Sunlight and O Sea! _John Runcie_ _As the Tide Comes In_ The long-winged terns dart wild and dire, As the tide comes tumbling in. The calm rock-pools grow all alive, With the tide tumbling in, The crab that under the brown weed creeps, And the snail who lies in his house and sleeps, Awake and stir, as the plunging sweep Of the tide comes tumbling in. The driftwood swishes along the sand, As the tide comes tumbling in. With wreck and wrack from many a land, On the tide, tumbling in. About my feet are a broken spar, A pale anemone’s torn sea-star And scattered scum of the waves’ old war, As the tide comes tumbling in. And, oh, there is a stir at the heart of me, As the tide comes tumbling in. All life once more is a part of me, As the tide tumbles in. New hopes awaken beneath despair And thoughts slip free of the sloth of care, While beauty and love are everywhere-- As the tide comes tumbling in. _Cale Young Rice_ _A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_ A wet sheet and a flowing sea,-- A wind that follows fast, That fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast,-- And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high,--And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud,-- The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free; While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. _Allan Cunningham_ _The Undersong_ I hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart, I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears: And I am far apart, And lost in the years. But when I lie and dream of that which was Before the first man’s shadow flitted on the grass, I am stricken dumb With sense of that to come. Is then this wildering sea-song but a part Of the old song of the mystery of the years-- Or only the echo of the tired heart And of tears? _Fiona Macleod_ _Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea_ Gray rocks, and grayer sea, And surf along the shore-- And in my heart a name My lips shall speak no more. The high and lonely hills Endure the darkening year-- And in my heart endure A memory and a tear. Across the tide a sail That tosses, and is gone-- And in my heart the kiss That longing dreams upon. Gray rocks, and grayer sea, And surf along the shore-- And in my heart the face That I shall see no more. _Charles G. D. Roberts_ _The Sea_ The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. I’m on the Sea! I’m on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love (oh! how I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I lov’d the great Sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest; And a mother she was, and is to me; For I was born on the open Sea. The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the Ocean-child! I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea! _Bryan Waller Procter_ _The Sea Road_ Oh, green curved the hill road and beckoned to my feet, Where the breath of the uplands came drifting fitful-sweet. Moon mist, and cloud mist, and meadows drenched with dew, Fir breath, and fern breath, and hill-winds stealing through To stir the vagrant poppy-blooms that gipsy through the wheat. But nearer and clearer than these there called to me A little, waiting, dune-set road that comrades with the sea. Oh, bright shone the plains’ road in ribbonings of gold, Past lowly cottage casements tucked beneath a green hill’s fold. Peat smoke, and hearth smoke, and toiler’s wayside fire, Wife love, and child’s love, and humble hearts’ desire, Peace and fireside plenty was the tale its windings told. Yet nearer and clearer than these there called to me A small road, dark with juniper, and open to the sea. A little, watchful, sea-wife road unmindful of the gales, All kirtled blue with sunlit waves, and coiffed with speeding sails. Far sail, and near sail, the beating sea-gulls’ wings, Far lands, the near lands, the lullaby she sings, All the ports of all the world are in her whispered tales. Ah, nearer and dearer than all there cries to me, One little, crooning, sunset road set shoulder to the sea. _Martha Haskell Clarke_ _The Sea_[3] I Interminable, not to be divined, The ocean’s solemn distances recede; A gospel of glad color to the mind, But for the soul a voice of sterner creed. The sadness of unfathomable things Calls from the waste and makes the heart give heed With answering dirges, as a seashell sings. II Mother of infinite loss! Mother bereft! Thou of the shaken hair! Far-questing Sea! Sea of the lapsing wail of waves! O left Of many lovers! Lone, lamenting Sea! Desolate, prone, disheveled, lost, sublime! Unquelled and reckless! Mad, despairing Sea! Wail, for I wait--wail, ancient dirge of Time! III Stretch wide, O marshes, in your golden joy! Stretch ample, marshes, in serene delight! Proclaiming faith past tempest to destroy, With silent confidence of conscious might! Glad of the blue sky, knowing nor wind nor rain Can do your large indifference despite, Nor lightning mar your tolerant disdain! IV The fanfare of the trumpets of the sea Assaults the air with jubilant foray; The intolerable exigence of glee Shouts to the sun and leaps in radiant spray; The laughter of the breakers on the shore Shakes like the mirth of Titans heard at play, With thunders of tumultuous uproar. V Playmate of terrors! Intimate of Doom! Fellow of Fate and Death! Exultant Sea! Thou strong companion of the Sun, make room! Let me make one with you, rough comrade Sea! Sea of the boisterous sport of wind and spray! Sea of the lion mirth! Sonorous Sea! I hear thy shout, I know what thou wouldst say. VI Dauntless, triumphant, reckless of alarms, O Queen that laughest Time and Fear to scorn, Death, like a bridegroom, tosses in thine arms. The rapture of your fellowship is borne Like music on the wind. I hear the blare, The calling of the undesisting horn, And tremors as of trumpets on the air. _Richard Hovey_ [3] Extracts from “Seaward,” an Elegy. _The World is Too Much With Us_ The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather’d now like sleeping flowers, For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. _William Wordsworth_ _Sunrise_ Day! Faster and more fast, O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. _Robert Browning_ _Song of the Sea_ The song of the sea was an ancient song In the days when the earth was young; The waves were gossiping loud and long Ere mortals had found a tongue; The heart of the waves with wrath was wrung Or soothed to a siren strain, As they tossed the primitive isles among Or slept in the open main. Such was the song and its changes free, Such was the song of the sea. The song of the sea took a human tone In the days of the coming of man; A mournfuller meaning swelled her moan, And fiercer her riots ran; Because that her stately voice began To speak of our human woes; With music mighty to grasp and span Life’s tale and its passion-throes. Such was the song as it grew to be, Such was the song of the sea. The song of the sea was a hungry sound As the human years unrolled; For the notes were hoarse with the doomed and drowned, Or choked with a shipwreck’s gold; Till it seemed no dirge above the mould So sorry a story said As the midnight cry of the waters old Calling above their dead. Such is the song and its threnody, Such is the song of the sea. The song of the sea is a wondrous lay, For it mirrors human life; It is grave and great as the judgment day, It is torn with the thought of strife; Yet under the stars it is smooth and rife With love-lights everywhere, When the sky has taken the deep to wife And their wedding-day is fair-- Such is the ocean’s mystery, Such is the song of the sea. _Richard Burton_ _Farewell_ Not soon shall I forget--a sheet Of golden water, cold and sweet, The young moon with her head in veils Of silver, and the nightingales. A wain of hay came up the lane-- O fields I shall not walk again, And trees I shall not see, so still Against a sky of daffodil! Fields where my happy heart had rest, And where my heart was heaviest, I shall remember them at peace Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece. The golden water sweet and cold, The moon of silver and of gold, The dew upon the gray grass-spears, I shall remember them with tears. _Katherine Tynan_ _The Return_ I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other, Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast; O fair white mother, in days long past Born without sister, born without brother, Set free my soul as thy soul is free. O fair green-girdled mother of mine, Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, Thy large embraces are keen like pain. Save me and hide me with all thy waves, Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, Those pure cold populous graves of thine, Wrought without hand in a world without stain. I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Alive and aware of thy ways and thee; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. But death is the worst that comes of thee; Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea, But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when, Having given us love, hast thou taken away? O tender-hearted, O perfect lover, Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. Thy hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, Shall they not vanish away and apart? But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth; Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; From the first thou wert, from the end thou art. _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ _The Port o’ Heart’s Desire_ Down around the quay they lie, the ships that sail to sea, On shore the brown-cheeked sailormen they pass the jest with me, But soon their ships will sail away with winds that never tire, And there’s one that will be sailing to the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. The Port o’ Heart’s Desire, and it’s, oh, that port for me, And that’s the ship that I love best of all that sail the sea; Its hold is filled with memories, its prow it points away To the Port o’ Heart’s Desire, where I roamed a boy at play. Ships that sail for gold there be, and ships that sail for fame, And some were filled with jewels bright when from Cathay they came, But give me still yon white sail in the sunset’s mystic fire, That the running tides will carry to the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. It’s you may have the gold and fame, and all the jewels, too, And all the ships, if they were mine, I’d gladly give to you, I’d give them all right gladly, with their gold and fame entire, If you would set me down within the Port o’ Heart’s Desire. Oh, speed you, white-winged ship of mine, oh, speed you to the sea, Some other day, some other tide, come back again for me; Come back with all the memories, the joys and e’en the pain, And take me to the golden hills of boyhood once again. _John S. McGroarty_ _Sea-Urge_ Oh, to feel the tremble of a ship beneath my feet again, Now that April’s urge is running riot in the tide, Where gray gull dips to white gull and the salt spray leaps to meet them Out across blue water where the tall ships ride. Freshets in the mountain streams and floods along the river Go rushing down to join the tossing tumult of the sea. And the April urge that drives them sets the sailor’s heart aquiver With the joy of ocean madness when the sails flap free. _Unknown_ _The Ocean_ There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depth with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay. * * * * * Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror--’twas a pleasing fear, For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here. _Lord Byron_ _A Song of Desire_ Thou dreamer with the million moods, Of restless heart like me, Lay thy white hands against my breast And cool its pain, O Sea! O wanderer of the unseen paths, Restless of heart as I, Blow hither, from thy caves of blue, Wind of the healing sky! O treader of the fiery way, With passionate heart like mine, Hold to my lips thy healthful cup Brimmed with its blood-red wine! O countless watchers of the night, Of sleepless heart like me, Pour your white beauty in my soul, Till I grow calm as ye! O Sea, O Sun, O Wind and Stars, (O hungry heart that longs!) Feed my starved lips with life, with love, And touch my tongue with songs! _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ _A Sea Change_ Heavy with unshed tears--weary with pain, At last life brought me to the sea again, Where beauty spoke above my grief’s demands. I heard the singing surf--watched sea-birds fly; I saw a pine-tree etched against the sky, And crushed the bay-leaves in my tired hands. Loveliness filled my spirit like a cup: A sense of healing and of peace welled up Which but the sea to the sea-lover brings. I did not hope; I did not even pray; But as upon that sun-warmed rock I lay Joy stirred within me with a lift of wings. _Dorothy Peace_ _Twilight At Sea_ The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, As lightly and as free, Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave, with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there. _Amelia C. Welby_ _Sea-Song_ To-day was a sea-gull day, dear heart, to-day was a sea-gull day, With a touch of wind, and the beat of surf, and the breath of the driven spray Blue of the sky, and blue of the sea, and the white clouds scudding far, And my longings swept to the sky-line dim like moths to a candle star. To-day was a sea-gull day, dear heart, that sparkled with sun-flecked blue, But it bound my heart with a wave-linked chain and bore it away from you. It stole it far from my hearth and you, though we two sat side by side, For my heart it tugged like an anchored ship that strains with the seaward tide. And when we wandered back home, dear heart, so soberly wandered home, My eyes were blind with the sun-washed gold, and dim with the lunging foam, And my heart came swaggering on beside, from the wake of the distant ships, With the lilt of a deep sea chanty-strain like wine on its reckless lips! _Martha Haskell Clark_ _Deep Down_ The lights are on the harbor, And the ships at anchor ride-- Blow she high, blow she low, let’er blow! We’re outward bound at dawning With the turning of the tide, And Davy Jones is waiting down below, Old Davy Jones is watching down below, below, below, Down deep, deep down, down below. Now, here’s to hearty weather, And here’s to starry skies-- Up she goes, down she goes, bullies, Oh! And here’s to all the ladies, And damn old Davy’s eyes, Long may we keep him waiting down below! Old thieving, crimping Davy, down below, below, below, Down deep, deep down, down below. At Rio, Hull or Sidney, I’ll meet you all again, So here’s good luck, my bullies, ere we go, Or I’ll find a berth ’longside you In the port o’ missing men, Where Davy Jones is waiting down below, Where Davy Jones is watching down below, below, below, Down deep, deep down, down below. _James Stuart Montgomery_ _The Winds of Heaven_ “_Life is sweet, brother._” “_Do you think so?_” “_Think so? There’s Night and Day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; There’s likewise a wind on the heath._ _Life is very sweet brother._” GEORGE BORROW _Do You Fear the Wind?_ Do you fear the force of the wind, The slash of the rain? Go face them and fight them, Be savage again. Go hungry and cold like the wolf, Go wade like the crane: The palms of your hands will thicken, The skin of your cheeks will tan, You’ll grow ragged and weary and swarthy, But you’ll walk like a man! _Hamlin Garland_ _Hark to the Shouting Wind_ Hark to the shouting Wind! Hark to the flying Rain! And I care not though I never see A bright blue sky again. There are thoughts in my breast to-day That are not for human speech; But I hear them in the driving storm, And the roar upon the beach. And oh, to be with that ship That I watched through the blinding brine! O Wind! for thy sweepy land and sea! O Sea! for a voice like thine! Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, To the frightened and flying Rain! I care not though I never see A calm blue sky again. _Henry Timrod_ _Who Has Seen the Wind?_ Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing thro’. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by. _Christina Rossetti_ _Wind_ Wind, wind--heather gipsy Whistling in my tree! All the heart of me is tipsy On the sound of thee. Sweet with scent of clover, Salt with breath of sea, Wind, wind--wayman lover, Whistling in my tree! _John Galsworthy_ _The Sea-Wind_ Winnow me through with thy keen clear breath, Wind with the tang of the sea! Speed through the closing gates of day, Find me, and fold me, and have thy way, And take thy will of me! Use my soul as you use the sky,-- Gray sky of this sullen day! Clear its doubt as you speed its wrack Of storm-clouds burning its splendor back, Giving it gold for gray! Bring me word of the moving ships, Halyards and straining spars; Come to me clear from the sea’s wide breast While the last lights die in the yellow west Under the first white stars! Batter the closed doors of my heart And set my spirit free! For I stifle here in this crowded place Sick for the tenantless fields of space, Wind with the tang of the sea! _Arthur Ketchum_ _I Meant to Do My Work Today_ I meant to do my work to-day-- But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree And a butterfly flitted across the field, And all the leaves were calling me. And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- So what could I do but laugh and go? _Richard Le Gallienne_ _That Wind Is Best_ Whichever way the wind doth blow Some heart is glad to have it so; Then blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, My heart is glad to have it so; And blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. _Caroline Atherton Mason_ _Happy Wind_ Oh, happy wind, how sweet Thy life must be! The great, proud fields of gold Run after thee: And here are flowers, with heads To nod and shake; And dreaming butterflies To tease and wake. Oh, happy wind, I say, To be alive this day. _William H. Davies_ _Wind-Litany_ In this world I shall not find Any Comforter like Wind, Any friend to so endure, Any love so strong, so sure. I was born when Wind with Star Linked its magic, and from far Whispered out my destiny-- And the Winds have brothered me. Strong young hill-winds roistering Up the steep with me and Spring, Wild wet thrilling ocean-gales Flinging out my swelling sails, Or the little dawning-airs Rising pure as baby-prayers-- These have loved me since my birth On the wind-swept swinging earth. Rose-perfumed night-air that slips Like a kiss across my lips, Smoke-tanged wood-breath--they can sweep All old childhood from its sleep Underneath thick-fallen days Heaped and dun across my ways; For until the end shall be, Scent o’ wind is Memory. I remember when befell Heartbreak fierce, intolerable, And no voice or touch but bound Deeper torment on the wound: Yet a little wind could rise Stroking cheek and tear-wet eyes, Breathing, “Hush! All pain shall pass! Still are winds, and skies, and grass!” God, when all of earth shall lie Stripped and new beneath Thine eye, And Thy gold stars fall unstrung, And Thy curtain-sky down-flung, And Thy seas are lifted up Whole from out their empty cup, Grant me still, in Heaven’s place Sweet swift winds across my face! _Margaret Widdemer_ _A Morning_ The glad, mad wind went singing by, The white clouds drove athwart the blue, Bold beauty of the morning sky And all the world was sun and dew, And sweet cold air with sudden glints of gold Like spilled stars glowing in the cedars’ hold. I laughed for very joy of life, Oh, thrilling veins, oh, happy heart, Of this glad world with beauty rife, Exult that we too are a part; Rejoice! Rejoice! that miracle of birth Gave us this golden heritage of earth. Oh, bold, blue sky, oh, keen, glad wind, I wonder me if this may be, That some day, leaving life behind, Our eyes shall view new land, new sea So exquisite that, lo! with thrilling breath, We shall laugh loud for very joy of death. _Theodosia Garrison_ _The Wind’s Life_ I love the silver-shaken, The windy tops of trees That heave and lift in sequence, Like running surf of seas, With swathes of changing purples And vistas golden-deep Where, for an unstirred moment, The sunlight lies asleep. _Harry Kemp_ _The Mystic_ I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the sea, I have ridden the moon and stars. I have set my feet in the stirrup seat Of a comet coursing Mars. And everywhere Thro’ the earth and air My thought speeds, lightning-shod, It comes to a place where checking pace It cries, “Beyond lies God!” * * * * * I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the night, I have ridden the ghosts that flee From the vaults of death like a chilling breath Over eternity. And everywhere Is the world laid bare-- Ether and star and clod-- Until I wind to its brink and find But the cry, “Beyond lies God!” * * * * * I have ridden the wind, I have ridden the stars, I have ridden the force that flies With far intent thro’ the firmament And each to each allies. And everywhere That a thought may dare To gallop, mine has trod-- Only to stand at last on the strand Where just beyond lies God. _Cale Young Rice_ _The Hill-Born_ _Again among the hills! The shaggy hills! The clear arousing air comes like a call Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills My heart as if a hero had just spoken._ RICHARD HOVEY _The Cry of the Hillborn_ I am homesick for the mountains-- My heroic mother hills-- And the longing that is on me No solace ever stills. I would climb to brooding summits With their old untarnished dreams, Cool my heart in forest shadows To the lull of falling streams; Hear the innocence of aspens That babble in the breeze, And the fragrant sudden showers That patter on the trees. I am lonely for my thrushes In their hermitage withdrawn, Toning the quiet transports Of twilight and of dawn. I need the pure, strong mornings, When the soul of day is still, With the touch of frost that kindles The scarlet on the hill; Lone trails and winding woodroads To outlooks wild and high, And the pale moon waiting sundown Where ledges cut the sky. I dream of upland clearings Where cones of sumac burn, And gaunt and gray-mossed boulders Lie deep in beds of fern; The gray and mottled beeches, The birches’ satin sheen, The majesty of hemlocks Crowning the blue ravine. My eyes dim for the skyline Where purple peaks aspire, And the forges of the sunset Flare up in golden fire. There crests look down unheeding And see the great winds blow, Tossing the huddled tree-tops In gorges far below; Where cloud-mists from the warm earth Roll up about their knees, And hang their filmy tatters Like prayers upon the trees. I cry for night-blue shadows On plain and hill and dome,-- The spell of old enchantments, The sorcery of home. _Bliss Carman_ _Up a Hill and a Hill_ Up a hill and a hill there’s a sudden orchard-slope, And a little tawny field in the sun; There’s a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, And grasses nodding news one to one. Up a hill and a hill there’s a windy place to stand, And between the apple-boughs to find the blue Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, With the white charmed ships sliding through. Up a hill and a hill there’s a little house as gray As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, And a face at the window, checker-paned. I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, Just to find that tawny field above the sea! Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle’s sweet! And the eyes at the window watch for me! _Fannie Stearns Davis_ _Hills_ I never loved your plains!-- Your gentle valleys, Your drowsy country lanes And pleachèd alleys. I want my hills!--the trail That scorns the hollow.-- Up, up the ragged shale Where few will follow, Up, over wooded crest And mossy boulder With strong thigh, heaving chest, And swinging shoulder, So let me hold my way, By nothing halted, Until, at close of day, I stand, exalted, High on my hills of dream-- Dear hills that know me! And then, how fair will seem The lands below me, How pure, at vesper-time, The far bells chiming! God, give me hills to climb, And strength for climbing! _Arthur Guiterman_ _Again Among the Hills_ Again among the hills! The shaggy hills! The clear arousing air comes like a call Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills My heart as if a hero had just spoken. Again among the hills! The jubilant, unbroken, Long dreaming of the hills! Far off, Ascutney smiles as one at peace; And over all The golden sunlight pours, and fills The hollow of the earth, like a god’s joy. Again among the hills! The tranquil hills That took me as a boy And filled my spirit with the silences! O indolent, far-reaching hills that lie Secure in your own strength, and take your ease Like careless giants ’neath the summer sky-- What is it to you, O hills, That anxious men should take thought for the morrow? What has your might to do with thought or sorrow, Or cark and cumber of conflicting wills? Lone Pine, that thron’st thyself upon the height, Aloof and kingly, overlooking all, Yet uncompanioned, with the Day and Night For pageant and the winds for festival! I was thy minion once, and now renew Mine ancient fealty-- To that which shaped me still remaining true, And through allegiance only growing free. * * * * * The rising of the wind among the pines, The runic wind, full of old legendries! It talks to the ancient trees Of sights and signs And strange earth-creatures strong to make or mar-- Such tales as when the firelight flickered out In the old days men heard and had no doubt. O wind, what is your spell? Borne on your cry, the ages slip away, And lo, I too am of that elder day; I crouch by the logs and hear With credent ear And simple marvel the far tales men tell. * * * * * ... Night on the hills! And the ancient stars emerge. The silence of their mighty distances Compels the world to peace. Now sinks the surge Of life to a soft stir of mountain rills, And over the swarm and urge Of eager men sleep falls and darkling ease. Night on the hills! Dark mother-Night, draw near; Lay hands on us and whisper words of cheer So softly, oh, so softly! Now may we Be each as one that leaves his midnight task And throws his casement open; and the air Comes up across the lowlands from the sea And cools his temples, as a maid might ask With shy caress what speech would never dare; And he leans back to her demure desires, And as a dream sees far below The city with its lights aglow And blesses in his heart his brothers there; Then toward the eternal stars again aspires. _Richard Hovey_ _Hill Hunger_ I want to stride the hills! My feet cry out For hills! Oh, I am sick to death of streets: The nausea of pavements and people always about; The savagery of mortar and steel that beats Me under, hedges me in; the iron shiver Of traffic!--I want to stride the hills, I want Hills toned frantic silver or a quiver Of scarlet; hills that hunger and grow gaunt! I am tired of steps and steps, and a thousand flights Of stairs resounding, shuffling, quarreling With shoes. I want a hill on windy nights, When April pauses with me, clambering Over the purple side to the top, until We pull ourselves up by a star--the hill! the hill! _Joseph Auslander_ _Afternoon on a Hill_ I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down! _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ _The Hills_ O my Soul, let us go unto our hills, We were native to them one day, you and I-- Less dwellers of the earth than of the sky Where the holy sense of silence stays and stills, Like a hand of benediction lifted high. We have stayed in this market-place too long; We have bartered with the birth-right in our breast; We have shamed us with buffoonery and jest, Nor raised our eyes to where our hills were strong, Above this petty region of unrest. O, my Soul, let us go unto our hills, To their wonderful, high silence and their might, Where the old dreams shall whisper us by night Till the sullen heart within us stirs and thrills, And wakes to weep and wonder and delight. O my soul, let us go unto our hills. _Theodosia Garrison_ _On a Hill_ Spring on a wind-swept hill! The grass at our feet Sheered into waves of light! Spring, and the woodbird’s trill! Spring, and the stars of night Turned dewdrops glist’ning sweet. Earth-chained we stand, Thinking unearthly things, Looking across the land, Over the hills, beyond the sea, Our souls on tireless wings Soaring Eternity. Spring! oh, the wind’s rush In the joyous trees! Oh, wide, free sky, and white Laughing clouds! And the hush When, as a musician’s might, God’s Hand rests on His keys. _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ _Traveller’s Joy_ _Whose farthest footstep never strayed beyond the village of his birth Is but a lodger for the night in this old wayside inn of earth. Tomorrow he shall take his pack and set out for the ways beyond On the old trail from star to star, an alien and a vagabond._ RICHARD HOVEY _Traveller’s Joy_ What went you, Pilgrim, for to see? A sign or wonder-thing maybe? Some marvel or a holy sight As clerks in chronicles do write? For you have gone and come again, Now tell us plain? I saw the sky from rim to rim Full-filled with light up to the brim, As though it were a mighty cup To God’s lip holden up. I saw a river and a down, A harbor and a little town, A marshland blue with irises-- I saw all these. Saw, too, a sedgy pond where lay Lilies like anchored stars that Day Had ravished from the summer night And kept them there alight. I saw a hill-side gold with furze, And wildrose banks and junipers Distilling fragrance pungent-sweet; I saw a path that called my feet To go with it as any friend, To heart’s desire at the end. Sooth, all of these! but ’mid them all Did nothing wonderful befall? No miracle? Yea, but I have no word to tell Of that great thing that happened me-- I saw the sea! O wide, and blue and infinite! League upon league of space and light! I think that down this sapphire floor One might walk straight to heaven’s door And lift its golden latchet-bar, Nor find it far Or very strange, as one would guess, After such earthly loveliness. Poor pilgrim, is this all your store Of tales to tell? Is there no more Than this that any man might show? Yea, all is told. How should you know That I have looked on Beauty’s face, And being far from men a space Have found at springs of Quietness The hands that heal, the hands that bless-- Have known the sun and wind and trod The holy earth and talked with God! _Arthur Ketchum_ _Ellis Park_ Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town; Carry you for country there To make the city ways more fair. I take your trees And your breeze, Your greenness, Your cleanness, Some of your shade, some of your sky, Some of your calm as I go by; Your flowers to trim The pavements grim; Your space for room in the jostled street, And grass for carpet to my feet. Your fountains take and sweet bird calls To sing me from my office walls. All that I can see I carry off with me. But you never miss my theft, So much treasures you have left. As I find you, fresh at morning, So I find you, home returning, Nothing lacking from your grace. All your riches wait in place For me to borrow On the morrow. Do you hear this praise of you, Little park that I pass through? _Helen Hoyt_ _Afoot_ Long is the road ’twixt town and town that runs, Travelled by many a lordly cavalcade, With trappings gay, and rich caparisons, Jester and squire, and laughing knight and maid: With gallant clash and stir they go their way: I trudge afoot thro’ all the drouth of day. For me, the misty meadows fresh with morn, The tramp thro’ noontide heat to evening gray, The far-seen smoke from the day’s goal upborne, The halt, the friendly greeting by the way, The distant hill beyond far hill descried, The road by day, the rest at eventide. I know each wayside wood, each moorland brown, Each hidden by-way and reposeful nook, Where I may linger when the sun goes down, Dipping tired feet in some cool flowing brook; I know the free hill and the glooming glen, And kindly fires, and humble homes of men. _C. Fox-Smith_ _The Going of His Feet_ His feet went here and there About the common earth. He touched to grandeur all Men held of little worth. He loved the growing flowers, The small bright singing birds, The patient flocks of sheep, The many-pastured herds. The field of rippling corn That shimmered in the sun, The soft blue smoke of eve That curled when day was done.... He did not search afar For what He had to say: His mind reached forth and drew Its strength from every day:} The struggling nets, alive With fish drawn from the sea Supplied Him with the apt And chosen simile.... He saw a neighbor build A house that did not stand-- And men may not forget The House Upon The Sand; He saw a widow drop Her mite into the hoard-- And to eternity That treasure is up-stored; He heard a publican Who thought none others there-- The souls of all mankind Are richer for that prayer.... O, Poet of the World, I pray Thee, come to me, That my lame heart might walk, That my dark soul may see; And teach me, too, to go About the ways of earth And find the Wealth of God In things of little worth! _Harry Kemp_ _Down East and Up Along_ Down east and up along the fringy coast of Maine There’s rumor of the summer and the warm soft rain. There’s lisp of little leaves astir in the heart of every tree, There’s gossip in the grasses that run down to meet the sea. In my heart I hear them calling like a siren’s song, “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!” Down east and up along the brooks are flowing full, The gray sea is blue again, the spring tides pull, The keening of the winter wind no longer haunts the seas, There’s the velvet touch of raindrops upon the southern breeze. The throb of life resurgent is calling loud and long, “Come and share the glories of down east and up along!” Down east and up along the sun is warm again, Calling to the hungry hearts of city-weary men. Telling of the golden days in a land of woods and sea, A land of summer glory and of autumn ecstasy. You can almost hear the music of the hovering angel throng, For the very edge of Heaven lies down east and up along! _Edwin Osgood Grover_ _The Joys of the Road_ Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees; A vagrant’s morning wide and blue, In early fall, when the wind walks, too; A shadowy highway cool and brown, Alluring up and enticing down From rippled water to dappled swamp, From purple glory to scarlet pomp; The outward eye, the quiet will, And the striding hart from hill to hill; The tempter apple over the fence; The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince; The palish asters along the wood, A lyric touch of the solitude; An open hand, an easy shoe, And a hope to make the day go through,-- Another to sleep with, and a third To wake me up at the voice of a bird; The resonant, far-listening morn, And the hoarse whisper of the corn; The crickets mourning their comrades lost, In the night’s retreat from the gathering frost (Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?) A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me; A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, And a jug of cider on the board; An idle noon, a bubbling spring, The sea in the pine-tops murmuring; A scrap of gossip at the ferry; A comrade neither glum nor merry, Asking nothing, revealing naught, But minting his words from a fund of thought, A keeper of silence eloquent, Needy, yet royally well content, Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife, And full of the mellow juice of life, No fidget and no reformer, just A calm observer of ought and must, A lover of books, but a reader of man, No cynic and no charlatan, Who never defers and never demands, But smiling, takes the world in his hands,-- Seeing it good as when God first saw And gave it the weight of His will for law. And Oh, the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun, By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, A will-o’-the-wisp, a light-o’-dream, Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year, A jack-o’-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire! The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home; (O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The silent fleck of the cold new moon; The sound of the hollow sea’s release From stormy tumult to starry peace; With only another league to wend; And two brown arms at the journey’s end! These are the joys of the open road-- For him who travels without a load. _Bliss Carman_ _Song of the Open_ There’s a whisper in the orchard, there’s a laughter in the breeze, There’s a catbird’s chuckle in the maple tree; And the wind has come from westward, scattering the maple-keys. Oh, it’s time to break your fetters and be free! All the rain’s astir and calling, all the grass is wet and brown, All the world waits just beyond the window-pane; And the day is dull and dripping in the gray, gas-lighted town, But the country’s fresh and clean with fall again. Oh, it’s out along the prairie with the cool rain in your face, And it’s out along the river flowing free, And it’s out across the hill-tops in a flying-footed race With just your heart to bear you company. There’s the prairie curving softly with its golden blooms aglow, And the purple splashes on its ripened flanks; And the idle grassy hollows where the brilliant salvias grow, And the sturdy cat-tails marshal out their ranks. Ah, the scarlet of the orchards and the saffron of the fields! Ah, the purple of the vineyards in the sun! Ah, the river in the sunlight, flashing silver as a shield For a moment--and your Indian summer’s done. So it’s home along the prairie with the north wind blowing chill, And it’s home across the meadow’s heaving sea, And it’s home with winter shouting just beyond the farthest hill, But yet the road is open and is free. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _Rebellion_ To wake at morn, And hear the little laugh Of the lake-wind in the trees; To watch at dawn The earliest sunbeam kiss The mist-crowned, towering peaks And glide down to the plains. Ah, that is Life! Not this-- To wake at morn, And hear the swelling roar Of Man, Beast and Machine, Toiling in murky air And a city’s sweat! At noon to dream Where Nature’s bowers are hid Beneath an arch Of twined and intersticing vines, While on the air Quivers the chanting of the sighing woods, And the songs of mating birds. Ah, that is Life! Not this-- At noon to pause, And lay aside the pen for one brief hour: Then to return, as I did yesterday, Will do to-morrow and on all to-morrows-- Oh, Fool, Machine, and Slave! Again at dusk, To watch the sun’s last ray Fade in the west; To feel Earth’s grand transition From day to night-- That moment when the world Pauses and knows itself! The Angelus chimes And echoes round the Earth; Here the Muezzin’s call, There a child’s lullaby, And now a poor serf’s prayer.... Earth’s evensong! To hear that is to live! Not this-- To breast the roaring surge Of thousands, pale and tired, dead in soul, Crowding with merciless haste toward home. Home?... Past ere the sweet of home has touched the sense! To toil that we may sleep That better we may toil; To toil that we may eat, That better we may toil. Ay, that is Life; but still-- But still we dream! _Stephen Chalmers_ _The Tree-Top Road_ Life’s sweetest joys are hidden In unsubstantial things; An April rain, a fragrance, A vision of blue wings: And what are memory and hope But dreams? And yet the bread On which these little lives of ours Are fed and comforted! Without imagination The soul becomes a clod, Missing the trail of beauty, Losing the way to God. And I have built a templed-stair Out of a lilac bloom And climbed to heaven with purple pomp And censers of perfume! * * * * * I have no feud with Labor, But at the Gates of June I fling away my dusty pack And join in Youth’s glad tune. And just forgetting for a while That I am worn and gray, Go sailing off with Peter Pan Along the Tree-top Way! _May Riley Smith_ _Early Morning at Bargis_ Clear air and grassy lea, Stream-song and cattle-bell-- Dear man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell! To live our days apart From green things and wide skies, And let the wistful heart Be cut and crushed with lies! Bright peaks!--And suddenly Light floods the placid dell, The grass-tops brush my knee: A good crop it will be, So all is well! O man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell! _Hermann Hagedorn_ _Denial_ It is not down this road I walk, Or through these brown-leaved trees; For in my heart I loiter where The clover calls the bees; Where trees are green and streams are warm, And drowsy life is sweet-- It is not down this lane I go With tired, reluctant feet. _Lancaster Pollard_ _“A la Belle Étoile”_ Oh, who will lodge at my Inn tonight, And live both fair and fine, With a blossoming blackberry vine for a gate, And a friendly star for a sign? Good sir, my Inn is a gentle Inn, The wine is sweet and old; ’Tis Adam’s, sir, with a fine bouquet, And the color of liquid gold. The carriages roll on the rocky road To a musty house afar; But the gentlefolk stop by the blackberry gate At the Inn of the Beautiful Star. Sweet fern, sweet fern for your pillow, sir, And a quick-eared faun for your mate, And a firefly’s light for your candle bright-- Good sooth, we sleep in state. The winds go murmuring by at dusk And call you up at dawn, To walk through the fairies’ handkerchiefs And startle a sleeping fawn. When day is red on the river’s bed, And bright on quartz and spar, We’ll say our short St. Martin’s grace At the Inn of the Beautiful Star. The blackberry vine is a maiden now, With her pale stars in the dew; Come back next month, good sir, there’ll be Sweet blackberries for you. We’ll wish you luck from the blackberry gate. Although you wander far, ’Tis here that you’ll come home at last-- To our Inn of the Beautiful Star. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _Journey_ Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me,--I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes, Yet onward! Cat-birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whippoorwills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds, Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot, And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine; blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road. A gateless garden, and an open path; My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ _The Sojourner_ I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The laughing wind that stirs my climbing rose; The tiny clusters nod and talk together, But what their secret may be, no one knows. I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The rose is heavy in the southern town, The wild geese travel northward in the mornings, The bold-eyed southern spring tears wide her gown. I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The last snow melts beneath the gray stone walls, The green young sedges fringe the river-margin, And in my heart the Northland calls and calls. I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me. Too long I wait in summer’s tasselled hall, Too long I dream amid the tulip blossoms, Too long I linger when I hear the call. I will arise and go to seek the mountains, I will return my playfellows to greet; Once more the open hills and the sweet meadow, Once more the virgin Northland’s lips to meet. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _Traveller’s Rest_ When you are tired of the long road and the open sky, I wish it may be my door that you’re passing by: I wish it may be my hearth where you will sit down And tell your tales of the land and sea and the strange far town. Oh, come you in from eastward or come you in from the west, Here’s good cheer to greet you and welcome of the best: Oh, come you with your pockets full or come you home poor, Here’s a place by the fireside and an open door. You’ll tell me where you were since, and the things you’ve seen Up and down the wide world where so long you’ve been,-- All the time that I’ve been here and you far away,-- And then awhile be silent, as good friends may. And then awhile listen to the wind and rain, Moaning in the chimney-breast, beating at the pane,-- Dark and cold outside there, and the stormy skies, And you sitting down here with the firelight in your eyes. _C. Fox-Smith_ _Far From the Madding Crowd_ It seems to me I’d like to go Where bells don’t ring nor whistles blow, Nor clocks don’t strike nor gongs don’t sound, But where there’s stillness all around. Not real still stillness; just the trees’ Low whisperings or the croon of bees; The drowsy tinklings of the rill, Or twilight song of whippoorwill. ’Twould be a joy could I behold The dappled fields of green and gold, Or in the cool, sweet clover lie And watch the cloud-ships drifting by. I’d like to find some quaint old boat, And fold its oars, and with it float Along the lazy, limpid stream Where water-lilies drowse and dream. Sometimes it seems to me I must Just quit the city’s din and dust, For fields of green and skies of blue; And, say! How does it seem to you? _Nixon Waterman_ _Streams_ I so love water-laughter, Its bubbling flecks and gleams, I pray in the hereafter There somewhere may be streams. I’d have for my companion In some celestial nook, Beneath a spreading banyan, The music of a brook. Its measures would entice me, Uncumbered by the clay, Its melody suffice me Till drooped the heavenly day. Then its all-liquid laughter Would murmur through my dreams; I pray in the hereafter There somewhere may be streams. _Clinton Scollard_ _The Call_ I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree and the birds awing, Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king; I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet, Out where there’s never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet. I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool, Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool; I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard, Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word. Oh, I’ve heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook, I’m tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I’m weary of reading a printed book, I want to get out of the din and strife, the clank and clamor of turning wheel, And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real. _Edgar A. Guest_ _The Road that Leads to Home_ My road is a by-road, with big trees reaching high, A tapestry of living green against a sapphire sky; An olden road, a golden road, is the road I love to roam A gleaming road, a dreaming road, the road that leads to home. My road is a shy road, where whispering lovers stray And breathe the scent of the bramble-rose and fields of new-mown hay; A road to woo with a song or two, ere the day has yet begun, A smiling road, a beguiling road, that dips into the sun. My road is a by-road, where townfolk never tread, With wild wind flowers in the grass, and green leaves overhead; Oh, dawn-mist road, oh, star-kissed road, across the white sea foam I hear you crying, hear you sighing, calling the wand’rer home. _Ethel E. Mannin_ _Echoes from Vagabondia_ _The bed was made, the room was fit, by punctual eve the stars were lit. The air was still, the water ran, no need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, at God’s green caravanserai._ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON _Wanderthirst_ Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderthirst that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, to bid me say good-bye; For the seas call and the stars call, and oh! the call of the sky. I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But a man can have the Sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there’s no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh! the call of a bird! Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; And come I may, but go I must, and, if men ask you why, You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road and the sky. _Gerald Gould_ _The Vagabond_ To tread the path of glory needs a braver soul than I, A man who will not stop to watch the white clouds drifting by, A man who will not pause to throw a pebble in a stream Or stretch full length upon its bank, the captive of a dream. A braver soul than I must tread the rugged way and long, A man who will not stop to catch the wild canary’s song, A man who’ll pass a thousand charms and never turn to see The beauty of the petaled dress upon an apple tree. To tread the path of glory needs a stronger soul than mine, A man that isn’t tempted when the air is sharp as wine, A man that has no vision save the golden goal he seeks, And doesn’t hear the language which the voice of nature speaks. But I am prey to woods and fields, to sunny hills and streams, And I’ve a soul which likes to drift and tease itself with dreams, And weak am I that should be strong--a sunbeam on a pond Has but to wink an eye at me, and I’m a vagabond. _Edgar A. Guest_ _Gipsy Song_ Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! April’s at the door, April’s whistling through the wood-- Must I call once more? Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Keen across the night Hylas flutes among the pools And the road’s moon-white. Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Must I whistle still, Waiting at your silent door On the ferny hill? Moonlit road and breaking sea, Wet wind from the south! Gipsy, all your lover lacks Is your scarlet mouth! _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _The Road To Vagabondia_ He was sitting on a doorstep as I went strolling by; A lonely little beggar with a wistful, homesick eye-- And he wasn’t what you’d borrow And he wasn’t what you’d steal-- But I guessed his heart was breaking, So I whistled him to heel. They had stoned him through the city streets and naught the city cared, But I was heading outward and the roads are sweeter shared, So I took him for a comrade and I whistled him away-- On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the day. Yellow dog he was; but bless you--he was just the chap for me! For I’d rather have an inch of dog than miles of pedigree. So we stole away together on the road that has no end With a new-coined day to fling away and all the stars to spend! Oh, to walk the road at morning, when the wind is blowing clean, And the yellow daisies fling their gold across a world of green-- For the wind it heals the heart-aches and the sun it dries the scars, On the road to Vagabondia that lies beneath the stars. ’Twas the wonder of the going cast a spell about our feet-- We walked because the world was young, because the way was sweet; And we slept in wild-rose meadows by the little wayside farms, ’Til the Dawn came up the highroad with the dead moon in her arms. Oh, the Dawn it went before us through a shining lane of skies, And the Dream was at our heartstrings and the light was in our eyes, And we made no boast of glory and we made no boast of birth, On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the earth. _Dana Burnet_ _Gipsy Feet_ Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few! Many’s the one that loves to dream night-long of stars and dew: Many’s the one that loves the scent of wood-smoke by the way, And turns a leaping longing heart to every dawn of day. Gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few.-- Ah, how ill it is to bide unloosed the long year through! Up and down the loud gray streets, stared at, staring back, Through tarnished trails of the staggering sun and soot-fog ochre-black;-- Dressed in heavy and sober togs, eating of heavy fare, Hailed by only the screaming street, “Mind! step lively there!” Crook-backed over a dusty desk,--bothering to and fro There in the dull and airless house,--ah, to cut and go!-- Up the hill-roads into the day! Over the sea-ward fells, Watch the thistle-down dip, and hear the thin sheep’s huddling bells; Run like fire along the field, worship the heart of the wood, Kneel by the spring that splits the rock, and find the white rain good. --Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few; And secret gods must we worship still, if we worship fire and dew. For we must bend at the dusty desk, and over the counter lean,-- Toil and moil in the sun-starved house, though leaves blow red or green. God, great God of the wind’s caress, God of the sea’s salute, Why are we chained and muzzled and meshed more than our brother the brute? Shall there be never a day that all of the gipsy hearts may greet, Laughing out at the lure of the sun for the lift of the gipsy feet? But oh, though that day is far to come, and the feet forget to go free, Pray God that the hearts may not forget the hurt and the ecstasy! Pray God that never the fret may fail when the Spring comes over the year, That never the thin gay autumn dawns may seem less wild and dear. For shall it not be the height of Heaven, wonderful, swift, and sweet, If into the paths of perilous death may wander the gipsy feet? May wander free, with the risk of the road, the road that the glad Dead know, Out where the fires of God flame high, and the winds of God lean low! _Fannie Stearns Davis_ _A Strip of Blue_ I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,-- The orchard and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me tithes divine,-- Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,-- A little strip of sea. Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road, Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,-- My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue. _Lucy Larcom_ _Black Ashes_ Sometime we shall remember them, the little camping places, A day long, an hour long, a halt beside the way, Shall see again before us the mountains’ kindly faces With the white roads pleading, leading through the hill-mists wreathing gray. Lichened spur and creeping trail, sun-gold in the west, Purple moorland, misty lure-land spreading far beneath; Red-gold flamelight lifting, drifting, round the pine-dark crest To dim the little village lights asleep upon the heath. Sometime we shall remember them, from out the days that bind us, A year long, a life long, that link and hold us fast, Will come a breath of twilight blent with woodsmoke to remind us Of the little camping places in the springtimes that are past. White-spread dunes and opal sea, gray gulls slant the spray, Spiced sweetfern by sandy turn where the sun strikes gold, Scent of woodsmoke, vagrant, fragrant, ah, it haunts the air today From the little camping places in the Story That Is Told. _Martha Haskell Clark_ _The Wander Lure_ The robin’s on the wing again; I hear the call o’ spring again, And fain am I to follow, lass; it calls me not in vain! Yea, I would join the chorus. Lo! the highway is before us,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me again?_ The wander lure is part o’ me, and love is in the heart o’ me, And I would tread the road with you that leads beyond the door. I hear the cry o’ laughter, and my feet would follow after,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me once more?_ Yea, I will follow you, my lass, around the world and through, my lass, To seek the peace o’ summer moons that waits beside the sea. We’ll leave the past behind us; come, the joy o’ life will find us,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call again to me?_ _Kendall Banning_ _Comrades of the Trail_ Until the day the world shall die We shall be comrades, you and I. For we have seen the morning break In golden beauty on that lake That rests in intimate grace before Our cedar cabin’s unlatched door; And we have heard the rain at night And blessed our driftwood hearthfire light; Wakened by thunder, we have crept Closer and turned again and slept While the trees crashed, weakening, And blocked our trail up to the spring. Dangers of cities never draw Two close as does the forest’s awe; Beauties of cities never bind Memory and heart and soul and mind As does the dawn in forest places, Or tree-rent moonlight on our faces. Husband and wife! If that were all! Not vows alone have made us thrall, But none can evermore walk free Bound to each other as are we, By sky and water, fern and tree. _Mary Carolyn Davies_ _The Vagrant_ I will leave the dust of the city street and the noise of the busy town For the windy moor and the high hill and the peat-stream flowing brown; I will keep my watch by the camp-fires where the white cliffs lean to the sea, And dawn shall wake me with golden hands and the rain shall walk with me. I will seek the place where gypsies roam and strange, wild songs are sung; I will find once more the magic paths I knew when earth was young, And the stars will give me comradeship and the wind will be my friend, And I will send you the fairy gold that lies at the rainbow’s end. Stretch not your hands nor bid me stay, I hear the white road’s call, The sun hath kissed the buds from sleep, and I am one with them all; But I will send you a golden cloak and a pair of silver shoon, And a dream that the fairies spin from stars on the other side of the moon. _Pauline Slender_ _The Gipsy Wedding_ Once more the gipsy aster Her flaunting kerchief waves, Once more along the wood-ways His nuts the squirrel saves; Once more the vagrant passion Stirs heart of man and maid, Once more it is October, Once more the spell is laid. And to Saint Bartel’s altar Two come where was but one, With goldenrod and beechleaf Beneath the amber sun; Two come, Saint Bartelmeo, With sunbrowned hand in hand, To pray your blessing, Father, Upon the golden band. There in the tall cathedral Of tamarack and pine, The old saint gives the blessing, The sunbrowned fingers twine. And down the dusky wood-ways The gipsy lad and maid Go hand in hand together Forever unafraid. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _The Vagabond At Home_ Oh, it’s spring once more in France, and it’s spring in gay Algiers, And it’s spring along the happy Appian Way; There are cherries in Japan, and the thrushes’ joy and tears Pipe for England, “There is nowhere such a day!” How the call rings clear, commanding: “Hurry over, sail afar To the date-tree and the banyan’s dim domain; To the Yangtze and the Yalu, where the bell-topped temples are; And remember there are castles left in Spain!” But I hear a whisper steady, blowing down my own home-stream Full of all the glad romance I used to know: “Leave the lands beyond to others; Our wee woodfolk are your brothers; And the earth is bursting treasure!” So I go. When the wander urge is on me, there are never bonds that hold; When the summons comes, it never comes in vain; But the foreign trails are either far too new or far too old-- Give me April in my native woods again! _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ _The Gipsy Trail_ The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad By the tie of a roving breed. Morning waits at the end of the world Where winds unhaltered play, Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, Till the white sea-horses neigh. The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, And both to the road again. Both to the road again, again! Out on a clean sea-track-- Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back! Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild south wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, And the east and the west are one. Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahim Woods. The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old. The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet! _Rudyard Kipling_ _St. Bartholomew’s On The Hill_ Bartholomew, my brother, I like your roomy church; I like your way of leaving No sinners in the lurch. I wish the world were wealthy In ministers like you, When at the lovely August You give the blessed dew. I love your rambling Abbey, So long ago begun, Whose choirs are in the tree-tops, Whose censor is the sun. Its windows are the morning; Its rafters are the stars; The fog-banks float like incense Up from its purple floors. And where the ruddy apples Make lamps in the green gloom, The flowers in congregation Are never pressed for room; But in your hillside chapel, Gay with its gorgeous paints, They bow before the Presence,-- Sweet, merry little saints. _Bliss Carman_ _Fishing_ “Men will grow weary,” said the Lord, “Of working for their bed and board. They’ll weary of the money chase And want to find a resting place Where hum of wheel is never heard And no one speaks an angry word. And selfishness and greed and pride And petty motives don’t abide. They’ll need a place where they can go To wash their souls as white as snow. They will be better men and true If they can play a day or two.” The Lord then made the brooks to flow And fashioned rivers here below, And many lakes; for water seems Best suited for a mortal’s dreams. He placed about them willow trees To catch the murmur of the breeze. And the birds that sing the best Among the foliage to nest. He filled each pond and stream and lake With fish for man to come and take. Then stretched a velvet carpet deep On which a weary soul could sleep. It seemed to me the Good Lord knew That man would want something to do When, worn and wearied with the stress Of battling hard for world success, When sick at heart of all the strife And pettiness of daily life. He knew he’d need, from time to time To cleanse himself of city grime, And he would want some place to be Where hate and greed he’d never see, And so on lakes and streams and brooks The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks. _Edgar A. Guest_ _A Vagabond Song_ There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. _Bliss Carman_ _Have You?_ Have you ever built a camp-fire at the closing of the day? Have you sat and watched the embers glowing red? With your scanty supper finished and the things all cleared away, Have you sat and smoked and thought about your bed? Of the bed you left behind you in the dwelling-place of man, In the much o’er-furnished room you knew of yore; Ere you sought the silent places where a fellow learns he can Do a lot of things he never did before? Have you ever spread a blanket down beneath the star-strewn skies? Rolled yourself within its cozy folds to sleep, At the base of mighty mountains, with their peaks that rise and rise? Have you known the age-old silence that they keep? Have you seen the red sun climbing up the eastern slope? Then know You will ne’er forget those rugged, happy days. What! You’ve never known the glory of the new-born day? Then go-- It’s a road that’s hard to travel--but it pays. _Harry M. Dean_ _Gypsy-Heart_ The April world is misted with emerald and gold; The meadow-larks are calling sweet and keen; Gypsy-heart is up and off for woodland and for wold, Roaming, roaming, roaming through the green. Gypsy-heart, away! Oh, the wind--the wind and the sun! Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive to-day; Youth will soon be done. From buds that May is kissing there trembles forth a soul; The rosy boughs are whispering the white; Gypsy-heart is heedless now of thrush and oriole, Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of delight. Gypsy-heart, beware! Oh, the song--the song in the blood! Magic walks the forest; there’s bewitchment on the air. Spring is at the flood. The wings of June are woven of fragrance and of fire; Heap roses, crimson roses, for her throne. Gypsy-heart is anguished with tumultuous desire, Seeking, seeking, seeking for its own. Gypsy-heart, abide! Oh, the far--the far is the near! ’Tis a foolish fable that the universe is wide. All the world is here. _Katharine Lee Bates_ _A More Ancient Mariner_ The swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A burly velveted rover, Who loves the booming wind in his ear As he sails the seas of clover. A waif of the goblin pirate crew, With not a soul to deplore him, He steers for the open verge of blue With the filmy world before him. * * * * * He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, And levies on poor Sweetbrier; He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, And the Rose is his desire. He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; He rifles the Buckwheat patches; Then battens his store of pelf galore Under the tautest hatches. He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, Inveigles Daffodilly, And then like a tramp abandons each For the gorgeous Canada Lily. * * * * * He dares to boast, along the coast, The beauty of Highland Heather,-- How he and she, with night on the sea, Lay out on the hills together. He pilfers from every port of the wind, From April to golden autumn; But the thieving ways of his mortal days Are those his mother taught him. * * * * * He never could box the compass round; He doesn’t know port from starboard; But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, Where the choicest goods are harbored. He never could see the Rule of Three, But he knows a rule of thumb Better than Euclid’s, better than yours, Or the teachers’ yet to come. * * * * * He drones along with his rough sea-song And the throat of a salty tar, This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair By the light of a yellow star. He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, And works like a Trojan hero; Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, With the mercury at zero. _Bliss Carman_ _Vagabonds_ Upon us vagabonds who take Our packs and paddles Sunday The good folk look austerely down, Though they may smile on Monday. Some call us pagans, others tramps; The truth they never knew-- We faithfully attend the Church Of Saint Bartholomew. Among the birches on the hill His holydays are kept Where thrushes flute the anthems, and Crumb-charity accept. The sermon never wearies us; We hold the Amen pew, And pay our pew-rent to the Church Of Saint Bartholomew. _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _The Gypsying_ I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young-- On a blue October morning Beneath a cloudless sky, When all the world’s a vibrant harp The winds o’ God have strung, And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by; The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung-- I wish we might go gypsying one day while we’re young. I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old-- To step it with the wild west wind And sing the while we go, Through far forgotten orchards Hung with jewels red and gold; Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show, To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold-- I wish we might go gypsying one day before we’re old. I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. The while we’ve heart for hazarding, The while we’ve will to sing, The while we’ve wit to hear the call And youth and mirth to spare, Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying, Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare-- I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. _Theodosia Garrison_ _The Mendicants_ We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one. And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold. Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day. * * * * * O foolish ones, put by your care! Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, God keeps an open house for you. * * * * * But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of God, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod. They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing. * * * * * One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair. Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars. _Bliss Carman_ _The Beloved Vagabond_ You who were once so careless, I can recall you now, Your blue-gray visionary eyes, your great and open brow, With naught to bind your heart-strings, and all the world in fee, You went where all the roads lead, beyond the farthest sea. Lover of space and skyline, what vision seared your eyes? What gypsy word was winged to you that bade you gird and rise? What thread of smoke sent onward your restless, eager feet? What vagrant heart was waiting your wayward heart to greet? We, who are kin to the city, across the candles praise Your tales of camps in twilight, your great and gallant ways, Your knowledge of the mysteries deep-hidden by the wood, The pagan trust you placed in man, the world you found so good. Then leave a _patrin_ for mine eyes that I may follow too, Some day when all the world grows dim, and I shall beckon you; Across the distant moorland, from beacon furze piled high, May I, the newest rover, see your fire against the sky! _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ _The Secret Voices_ Have you heard the secret voices go whispering in your blood, Of burning wood and falling leaf and swelling Springtime flood? Have you felt the tang of lusty wind, the stinging lash of rain, As tides of Spring march down the days with summer in their train? Have you known the zest and sparkle, felt the magic in the air, And set your feet upon the road that leads to Anywhere? And seen the skirts of storm-clouds trailing over budding trees, And drunk the wine of virile life down to the very lees? Have you heard and have you known the voices of the wind, That bid a man rise up and go and follow till he find The pot of gold at the rainbow’s base, Or a secret dream in a hidden place.... Have you heard the secret voices whispering that Spring has come, Calling you to rise and follow till you walk into the sun? _Ethel Mannin_ _The Changing Year_ _Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason, The Lord of the Garden knows._ BLISS CARMAN _Turn O’ The Year_ This is the time when bit by bit The days begin to lengthen sweet And every minute gained is joy-- And love stirs in the heart of a boy. This is the time the sun, of late Content to lie abed till eight, Lifts up betimes his sleepy head-- And love stirs in the heart of a maid. This is the time we dock the night Of a whole hour of candlelight; When song of linnet and thrush is heard-- And love stirs in the heart of a bird. This is the time when sword-blades green, With gold and purple damascene, Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row-- And love stirs in a heart I know. _Katharine Tynan_ _April Music_ The lyric sound of laughter Fills all the April hills, The joy-song of the crocus, The mirth of daffodils. They ring their golden changes Through all the azure vales; The sunny cowslips answer, Athwart the reedy swales. Far down the woodland aisleways The trillium’s voice is heard; The little wavering wind-flowers Join in with jocund word. The white cry of the dogwood Mounts up against the sky; The breath of violet music Upon the breeze goes by. Give me to hear, O April, These choristers of thine Calling across the distance Serene and hyaline; To clear my clouded vision Bedimmed and dulled so long, And heal my aching spirit With fragrance that is song! _Clinton Scollard_ _The Year’s Awakening_ How do you know that the pilgrim track Along the belting zodiac Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, And never as yet a tinct of spring Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling; Oh, vespering bird, how do you know, How do you know? How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature, With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction’s strength, And day put on some moments’ length, Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; Oh, crocus root, how do you know, How do you know? _Thomas Hardy_ _Spring’s Answer_ I heard God calling And I came, His Sun signalled me With its flame. His Wind called me With its song. His Birds said they had been waiting Over long. His little Brooks ran tumbling Down the hills, Luring me with laughter Of rocky rills. His Grasses, yellow-green, Standing in the sun, Held up their fingers For me to come. Heart of Oak and heart of Pine Beat a faint tattoo-- Flowing sap in bole and bud Climbing up anew. Till at last the summons Set my heart aflame-- I heard God calling, And I came! _Edwin Osgood Grover_ _Morning Song_ The grass is taller, greener, And the birds more loud; The flowers open freshly To a sky of cloud. And man awakens gladly In a world that’s good, And thrills to some new beauty Not quite understood. Though all the world is clouded It’s a gray delight-- For spring is swelling, swelling, And it rained last night. _Lancaster Pollard_ _April Weather_ Soon, ah, soon the April weather With the sunshine at the door, And the mellow melting rain-wind Sweeping from the South once more. Soon the rosy maples budding, And the willows putting forth, Misty crimson and soft yellow In the valleys of the North. Soon the hazy purple distance, Where the cabined heart takes wing, Eager for the old migration In the magic of the spring. Soon, ah, soon the budding windflowers Through the forest white and frail, And the odorous wild cherry Gleaming in her ghostly veil. Soon, about the waking uplands The hepaticas in blue,-- Children of the first warm sunlight In their sober Quaker hue,-- All our shining little sisters Of the forest and the field, Lifting up their quiet faces With the secret half revealed. Soon across the folding twilight Of the round earth hushed to hear, The first robin at his vespers Calling far, serene and clear. Soon the waking and the summons, Starting sap in bole and blade, And the bubbling marshy whisper Seeping up through bog and glade. Soon the frogs in silver chorus Through the night, from marsh and swale, Blowing in their tiny oboes All the joy that shall not fail,-- Passing up the old earth rapture By a thousand streams and rills, From the red Virginian valleys To the blue Canadian hills. Soon, ah, soon the splendid impulse, Nomad longing, vagrant whim, When a man’s false angels vanish And the truth comes back to him. Soon the majesty, the vision, And the old unfaltering dream, Faith to follow, strength to stablish, Will to venture and to seem; All the radiance, the glamour, The expectancy and poise, Of this ancient life renewing Its temerities and joys. Soon the immemorial magic Of the young Aprilian moon, And the wonder of thy friendship In the twilight--soon, ah, soon! _Bliss Carman_ _The Runaway_ What are you doing, little day-moon, Over the April hill? What are you doing, up so soon, Climbing the sky with silver shoon? What are you doing at half-past noon, Slipping along so still? Are you so eager, the heights unwon, That you cannot wait, But, unheeding of wind and sun, Out of your nest of night must run, Up where the day is far from done, Shy little shadow-mate? Up and away then--with young mists Tripping, along the blue! Dance and dally and promise trysts Unto each that around you lists; For, little moon, not a one but wists April’s the time to woo! _Cale Young Rice_ _Spring Market_ It’s foolish to bring money To any spring wood, Jewels won’t help you, Gold’s no good. Silver won’t buy you One small leaf. You may bring joy here, You may bring grief. You should look for Tufted moss, Marked where a light foot Ran across. Where the old rose hips Shrivel brown And dried clematis Bloom hangs down. There you’ll find what Everyman needs, Wild religion Without any creeds, Green that lifts its Blossoming head, New life springing Among the dead. You needn’t bring money To this market place, Or think you can bargain for Wild flower grace. _Louise Driscoll_ _Song in March_ I sing the first green leaf upon the bough, The tiny kindling flame of emerald fire, The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how The sap will flush the briar. I sing the sweeping beryl on the slopes, Ephemeræ that come before the bees, The ferns renascent, and the virgin hopes Of pale anemones. I sing the dream’s unfolding, and I sing The chrysalis broken by the ice-freed shore, The clear air winnowed by the bluebird’s wing, And April at the door! _Clinton Scollard_ _Flower Chorus_ O such a commotion under the ground, When March called “Ho, there! ho!” Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whisperings to and fro! “Are you ready?” the Snowdrop asked, “’Tis time to start, you know.” “Almost, my dear!” the Scilla replied, “I’ll follow as soon as you go.” Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came Of laughter sweet and low, From millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow. “I’ll promise my blossoms,” the Crocus said, “When I hear the blackbird sing.” And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, “My silver and gold I’ll bring.” “And ere they are dulled,” another spoke, “The hyacinth bells shall ring.” But the Violet only murmured “I’m here,” And sweet grew the air of spring. Then “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came Of laughter sweet and low, From millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow. Oh, the pretty brave things, thro’ the coldest days Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart tho’ the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down; But patiently each wrought her wonderful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown, And now they are coming to lighten the world Still shadowed by winter’s frown. And well may they cheerily laugh “Ha! ha!” In laughter sweet and low, The millions of flowers under the ground, Yes, millions beginning to grow. _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ _April’s Coming_ April comes with sudden showers, Chilling winds and sunny hours. April comes with growing green On the trees still winter-lean. April brings the singing bird And a joy that is absurd. April comes and April goes, But the flowers April sows-- Earth’s obituary tears-- Wake the immemorial years. So with Spring’s passing comes Summer with her borrowed drums; Fall and winter in a ring Till April comes again with spring. _Lancaster Pollard_ _The Secret_ On that first day so singular Under the ground, It was too dark for crescent or for star, Too deep for sound. And lying there one thought alone I could not still: How soon would snow-white cherry buds be blown Across the hill. And then a voice within the tomb Said very low: “When April lights her first sharp flame of bloom You’ll know!” _John Richard Moreland_ _Spring_ All the lanes are lyric, All the bushes sing; You are at your kissing, Spring! Romping with your children Do not fail to bring Mary to the haystack, Spring! Froth upon the fingers, Bosom for a king, Speed her from the milking, Spring! _Norman Gale_ _April Weather_ Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, For here is April weather! The daffodils beneath the trees Are all a-row together. The thrush is back with his old note; The scarlet tulip blowing; And white, aye, white as my love’s throat-- The dogwood boughs are growing. The lilac bush is sweet again; Down every wind that passes, Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; The bees are in the grasses. And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, And care is but a feather; And every lad his love can win, For here is April weather. _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ _Renewal_ April, when I heard Your lyrical low word, And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossom stirred, Something strangely came-- Something I cannot name-- And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame. When the yellow gleam Of your hosts that stream-- Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus--made the world a golden dream, Something, April, said To my heart that bled-- Bled with old remembrance--“Lo, the grief-strewn days are fled!” _Sursum corda!_ Now, When blooms the apple-bough, April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow; Heal me, if you will; Bathe my heart until I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil! _Charles Hanson Towne_ _April_ Something tapped at my window pane, Someone called me without my door. Someone laughed like the tinkle o’ rain, The robin echoed it o’er and o’er. I threw the door and the window wide; Sun and the touch of the breeze and then-- “Ah, were you expecting me, dear?” she cried, And here was April come back again. _Theodosia Garrison_ _The Immortal_ Spring has come up from the South again, With soft mists in her hair, And a warm wind in her mouth again, And budding everywhere. Spring has come up from the South again, And her skies are azure fire, And around her is the awakening Of all the world’s desire. Spring has come up from the South again, And dreams are in her eyes, And music is in her mouth again Of love, the never-wise. Spring has come up from the South again, And bird and flower and bee Know that she is their life and joy-- And immortality! _Cale Young Rice_ _Spring_ I said in my heart, “I am sick of four walls and a ceiling. I have need of the sky. I have business with the grass. I will up and get me away where the hawk is wheeling, Lone and high, And the slow clouds go by. I will get me away to the waters that glass The clouds as they pass, To the waters that lie Like the heart of a maiden aware of a doom drawing nigh And dumb for sorcery of impending joy. I will get me away to the woods. Spring, like a huntsman’s boy, Halloos along the hillsides and unhoods The falcon in my will. The dogwood calls me, and the sudden thrill That breaks in apple blooms down country roads Plucks me by the sleeve and nudges me away. The sap is in the boles today, And in my veins a pulse that yearns and goads.” When I got to the woods, I found out What the Spring was about, With her gypsy ways, And her heart ablaze, Coming up from the South With the wander-lure of witch songs in her mouth. For the sky Stirred and grew soft and swimming as a lover’s eye As she went by; The air Made love to all it touched, as if its care Were all to spare; The earth Prickled with lust of birth; The woodland streams Babbled the incoherence of the thousand dreams Wherewith the warm sun teems. And out of the frieze Of the chestnut trees I heard The sky and the fields and the thickets find voice in a bird. The goldenwing--hark! How he drives his song Like a golden nail Through the hush of the air! I thrill to his cry in the leafage there; I respond to the new life mounting under the bark. I shall not be long To follow With eft and bulrush, bee and bud and swallow, On the old trail. * * * * * Spring in the world! And all things are made new! There was never a mote that whirled In the nebular morn, There was never a brook that purled Where the hills were born, There was never a leaf uncurled-- Not the first that grew-- Nor a bee-flight hurled, Nor a bird-note skirled, Nor a cloud-wisp swirled In the depth of the blue, More alive and afresh and impromptu, more thoughtless and certain and free, More a-shout with the glee Of the Unknown new-burst on the wonder, than here, than here, In the re-wrought sphere Of the new-born year-- Now, now, When the greenlet sings on the red-bud bough Where the blossoms are whispering “I and thou”--“I and thou,” And a lass at the turn looks after a lad with a dawn on her brow, And the world is just made--now! Spring in the heart! With her pinks and pearls and yellows! Spring, fellows, And we too feel the little green leaves a-start Across the bare-twigged winter of the mart. The campus is reborn in us today; The old grip stirs our hearts with new-old joy; Again bursts bonds for madcap holiday The eternal boy. _Richard Hovey_ _Blind_ The Spring blew trumpets of color; Her Green sang in my brain-- I heard a blind man groping “Tap--tap” with his cane; I pitied him in his blindness; But can I boast, “I see”? Perhaps there walks a spirit Close by, who pities me,-- A spirit who hears me tapping The five-sensed cane of mind Amid such unguessed glories-- That I am worse than blind. _Harry Kemp_ _Spring Song_ Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers To revive the days that were, Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Take my dust and all my dreaming, Count my heart-beats one by one, Send them where the winters perish; Then some golden noon re-cherish And restore them in the sun, Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, With their heart-beats every one. Set me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wing! Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow, Raucous challenge, wooings mellow-- Every migrant is my fellow, Making northward with the spring. Loose me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wing! Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, In the valleys come again; Fife of frog and call of tree-toad, All my brothers, five or three-toed, With their revel no more vetoed, Making music in the rain, Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, In the valleys come again. Make me of thy seed to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir! Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin, Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin, Gnarl the good life goes askew in, Whisky-jack or tanager,-- Make me anything to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir! Make me even (How do I know?) Like my friend the gargoyle there; It may be the heart within him Swells that doltish hands should pin him Fixed forever in mid-air. Make me even sport for swallows, Like the soaring gargoyle there! Give me the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night! Clod of clay with heart of fire, Things that burrow and aspire, With the vanishing desire, For the perishing delight,-- Only the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night! Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Fashion me from swamp or meadow, Garden plot or ferny shadow, Hyacinth or humble burr! Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Let me hear the far, low summons, When the silver winds return; Rills that run and streams that stammer, Goldenwing with his loud hammer, Icy brooks that brawl and clamor, Where the Indian willows burn; Let me hearken to the calling, When the silver winds return, Till recurring and recurring, Long since wandered and come back, Like a whim of Grieg’s or Gounod’s, This same self, bird, bud, or Bluenose, Some day I may capture (Who knows?) Just the one last joy I lack, Waking to the far new summons, When the old spring winds come back. For I have no choice of being, When the sap begins to climb,-- Strong insistence, sweet intrusion, Vasts and verges of illusion,-- So I win, to time’s confusion, The one perfect pearl of time, Joy and joy and joy forever, Till the sap forgets to climb! Make me over in the morning From the rag-bag of the world! Scraps of dream and duds of daring, Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, Faded colors once so flaring, Shreds of banners long since furled! Hues of ash and glints of glory, In the rag-bag of the world! Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more; Not recalling or foreseeing, Let the great slow joys of being Well my heart through as of yore! Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more! Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain! All my fellows drank in plenty At the Three-Score Inns and Twenty From the mountains to the main! Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain! Only make me over, April When the sap begins to stir! Make me man or make me woman, Make me oaf or ape or human, Cup of flower or cone of fir; Make me anything but neuter When the sap begins to stir! _Bliss Carman_ _The Sweet, Low Speech Of The Rain_ It is pleasant to lie in the gloaming When the autumn is on the wane, And the careful, rejoicing reaper Has gathered and stored his grain, And hear at the doors and the windows The sweet, low speech of the rain. To put by the thought of the sailor Far out on the storm-rocked main, Where the fierce waves leap and struggle. Like beasts in passionate pain, And lie by the hearth and listen To the sweet, low speech of the rain. Ah, May has the burst of the blossom, And the red of the willow vein, And the glad uplift of the flowers That lead in the fragrant train; But nothing so dear as the sweet, low Speech of the autumn rain. July has the rose and the purple, And the sunset’s golden stain On the river that draws thro’ the valley A glittering, wave-linked chain; But never this lyrical, tremulous, Sweet, low speech of the rain. Each heart knows the joy of the winter, The drift of the snow on the plain, The book and the charm of the fireside, The icicles fringing the pane; But ah, for the faltering, pausing, Sweet, low speech of the rain. Old friends of my heart come to-morrow, Remembrance, Regret, and Pain, But to-night I will lie in the gloaming And be lulled by the lure of the rain--And the rhythmical, lyrical, rhyming, Sweet, low speech of the rain. _Ella Higginson_ _Early Spring_ Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plowed hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob’s ladder falls On greening grass, And o’er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. Before them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods; The stars are from their hands Flung through the woods, The woods with living airs How softly fanned, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land. O, follow, leaping blood, The season’s lure! O heart, look down and up, Serene, secure, Warm as the crocus cup, Like snow-drops pure! Past, Future glimpse and fade Through some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell, And sympathies, how frail, In sound and smell! Till at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range, And, lightly stirred, Ring little bells of change From word to word. For now the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And thaws the cold, and fills The flower with dew; The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too. _Alfred Tennyson_ _Spring_ Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there’s a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season’s dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elms put on, as if in Nature’s scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose’s mouth. Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech’s heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, “Behold me! I am May!” _Henry Timrod_ _April, April_ April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears, April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears. April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears! _William Watson_ _April Rain_ It is not raining rain for me, It’s raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills. The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining roses down. It is not raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee Can find a bed and room. A health unto the happy, A fig for him who frets! It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining violets. _Robert Loveman_ April An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads,-- All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus’ mystery Receives its annual reply. _Emily Dickinson_ _April Morning_ I would spend a morning With an April apple tree, Speaking to it softly And laughing out in glee. All the summer sunshine And all the winter moon Are shining in the blossoms That will be gone so soon. I will spend a morning With a friendly apple tree, Hearing many secrets That it will tell to me. I will take a morning To drink the beauty in; I will take a morning-- But how shall I begin? _George Elliston_ _May-Lure_ How the heart pulls at its tether In the magic warm spring weather! How the blood leaps in its courses When the deep ebullient forces Break the bosom brown of earth! It is worth All a man can scrape or squander Just to idle, just to wander Forth from trade, away from duty, Revelling in all the beauty And the glamour of the May. Who to-day Cares a fig for any other Thought save this: The earth, great mother, Has turned kind, has banished gloom and dole; Music, that audient outlet for the soul, Comes in, and grief goes out, and life is whole. _Richard Burton_ _Sunrise_ Day! Faster and more fast, O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. _Robert Browning_ _The Throstle_ “Summer is coming, summer is coming, I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,” Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. “New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? “Love again, song again, nest again, young again,” Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. “Here again, here, here, here, happy year!” Oh, warble unchidden, unbidden! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden. _Alfred Tennyson_ _Tell All The World_ Tell all the world that summer’s here again With song and joy; tell them, that they may know How, on the hillside, in the shining fields New clumps of violets and daisies grow. Tell all the world that summer’s here again, That white clouds voyage through a sky so still With blue tranquillity, it seems to hang One windless tapestry, from hill to hill. Tell all the world that summer’s here again: Folk go about so solemnly and slow, Walking each one his grooved and ordered way-- I fear that, otherwise they will not know! _Harry Kemp_ _Sorrow in a Garden_ Here to this ancient garden When wintry days had flown I came, with Comrade Sorrow To dwell with her alone. Within this sweet seclusion Far from the world’s rude stare What exquisite communings Sorrow and I would share! What banquets of remembrance, What luxury of tears With Sorrow in a garden Through the rose scented years! But one day when she called me I did not hear her voice; I only heard the lilies Which sang, Rejoice! Rejoice! For _June_ was in the garden And June was in my heart,-- I had forgot pale Sorrow And now we dwell apart. But often in the twilight When birds and gardens sleep I feel her presence with me Her arms about me creep. And when the ghost of Summer With the dead roses talks I hear her softly sobbing Along the moon-lit walks. I never can forget her So intimate were we But when I walk my garden She comes no more to me. _May Riley Smith_ _The Naturalist On A June Sunday_ My old gardener leans on his hoe, Tells me the way that green things grow; “Goin’ to church? Why no. All nature’s church enough for me!” Says he. “Preachin’ o’ flower and choir o’ bird, An’ the wind passin’ the plate-- Sweetest service that ever I heard, That’s straight! _Eternal Rest?_ What for, friend? Gimme a swarm o’ bees to tend, A honey-makin’, world without end, That’s what I’d like the best! (Scoop ’em right up an’ find the queen, They’d not sting me--the bees ain’ mean!) “Heaven’s all right! But still I guess I’ll kinder miss The Lady Lunar moth at night And the White Wanderer butterfly Crawlin’ out of its chrysalis! I want my heaven human too, ’Twixt me an’ you-- Why I’d jus’ love to see A chipmunk hop up to the Lord An’ eat right out o’ His dread Hand Same as it does to me! Eternity--eternity-- Don’t it sound grand? But say _What’s the matter with today?_ Just step into the wood an’ take a look! Ain’t that a page o’ teachin’ from the Holy Book? ‘He that hath eyes to see An’ ears to hear’-- That’s good enough for me! I guess God’s pretty near, He’ll understand, I know, Why I ain’t in no hurry to let June go!” My old gardener turns to his hoe, Helping the green things how to grow, “The Missis can go to church for me! Amen!” says he. _Leonora Speyer_ _Summer_[4] By sea and by land, In the water-wooed marshes or meadows wide-reaching and bland, The summer is regal and rich, the summer on every hand Spills largesses splendid to mortals, to women and men. For when Is the breeze sweeter fraught with the breath of the hay, Is the thrush-note more calm or the robin’s loud lay More blithe, or the rose more the queen of the day? Now say, What month is more bounteous in beauties, in balms, In lyrics, in psalms, In gold-heart fair fancies of sunset, and calms Of twilight, or after-glows wondrously clear? One may hear The booming of bees and the brook’s lulled refrain, The stream’s liquid epic, the grasshopper’s plain, The frog’s bass reiterant languor at night, The day-long and dark-long sound-woof, interplight With dreamings and memories somber or bright. A very miracle, I saw a moment gone: A honeysuckle, vine and bloom, Lustrous green and coral red, I glimpsed above my head Shedding a rapt perfume. And then this marvel fell That I would dwell upon: A bird--nay, rather say an airy sprite Compact of color, light, And a most ravishing power of flight, Darted from nowhere, somewhere, And alighted there, And sat at gaze a moment or twain, And then was off again. Not Wordsworth’s cuckoo were a dearer guest Unto my quest, So insubstantial, spirit small And fleetsome in his call; Ah, ye know well It was the humming-bird whereof I tell. This mother-month of Summer holds her place Not only by the grace Attending on her many winsome ways,-- Her flower-gifts, her bird-lays, Her bridal form and face,--But by what went before and cometh after; April tears, May blooms and laughter, September’s blazonry, and then October Fruit-ripe and hushed and most imperially sober With sense of harvest dignity and worth. Thus, memory and expectation, Spring-gleams, fruitions of the fall, Encircle June and give unto her station A reverend look, a light historical; Child, maiden, matron, she is each and all. _Richard Burton_ [4] From “Dumb in June” _Autumn_ The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I’ll put a trinket on. _Emily Dickinson_ _Overtones_ I heard a bird at break of day Sing from the autumn trees A song so mystical and calm, So full of certainties, No man, I think, could listen long Except upon his knees. Yet this was but a simple bird, Alone, among dead trees. _William Alexander Percy_ _Carouse_ Autumn, in her scarlet cloak, Comes tumbling down the hills. Oh, she is tipsy with her dreams That the blue day distils; An amber cup is in her hands From which the wonder spills. Now leaf and vine turn golden brown, And purple asters shine Along the roads where Autumn runs, Drunken with mystic wine. The world is one vast tapestry Of intricate design. Where Autumn lurches through the dusk In raiment wildly red, A crowd of urchins follow her, With many a tousled head-- Chrysanthemums, like naughty boys, Driving the crone to bed! _Charles Hanson Towne_ _A Song in Autumn_ Autumn, Autumn, give me of your crimson, Give it me for courage, for the year has left me meek, And your crimson banners flying, as the sign of your defying, Shall dare my heart’s denying the patience of the weak. Autumn, Autumn, give me of your yellow, Give it unto me for hope--the hope I could not hold; For where your gold is burning I feel the dream returning, The darling pain of yearning whose passing left me old. Autumn, Autumn, take me to your heart so, The bold heart, the singing heart whose strength shall make me strong; Send my healed life faring in colors of your wearing, Your gold and crimson bearing, against a grief too long. _Theodosia Garrison_ _An Autumn Garden_ My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of God,-- An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime. About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world’s great shield, A border of boundless glamour For the soul’s familiar field. In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its grassy footpath The white-tailed rabbits run. The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls at twilight Under the frosty moon. The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing Time’s freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth’s great soul, Here man’s spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole. Shall we not grow with the asters?-- Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad. Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here? The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine’s crimson sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of passing days. These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death. Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, athrob with gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows: For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee’s call to valor Bidding the faint-heart turn; For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries. For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty and peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth; For art and learning and friendship, Where beneficent truth is supreme, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed. But most of all for the spirit That cannot rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea. _Bliss Carman_ _September_ The wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by. It’s time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie; It’s time to take your basket up, and follow on with me, Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see. For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine, The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine; The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow; The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow. Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call, September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all, But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill-- The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still. Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by! The sweet September calls us before the flowers die. The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet. Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet! _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ _Days Like These_ I like the tangled brakes and briers, The hazy smoke of forest fires; The misty hills’ soft robe of brown, The ravished fields’ regretful frown: The wrinkled road’s unconscious snare, The free, unbreathed and fragrant air. I like the wide, unworried sky, The resting wind’s contented sigh; The rustle of the vagrant leaves, The whisper in the standing sheaves; The birds’ lament for summer lost, The stinging challenge of the frost. The sturdy life of stalwart trees Thrills in my veins on days like these! _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_ _Indian Summer_ These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June-- A blue and gold mistake. Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf! Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine! _Emily Dickinson_ _The Deserted Pasture_ I love the stony pasture That no one else will have. The old gray rocks so friendly seen, So durable and brave. In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear. Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words. It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls. Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away. Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace. There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew. There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors. And there October passes In gorgeous livery,-- In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree. And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive And pitch their tents therein. _Bliss Carman_ _The Coming of Dawn_ Midnight--the black, dead vast of night, Rain dripping slow on the sod, Fear of the future, darkness-born, Doubt of myself and God. A sudden flush on the face of night, A veil from my soul withdrawn, A bird-note thrilling the silence through. And after that--the dawn. _Grace Atherton Dennen_ _Alms in Autumn_ Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to light me on my way? The fairy folk have vanished from the meadow and the glen, And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again; Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To show the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. Ash tree, ash tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys; I fear the gates of fairyland may all be shut fast; Give me of your magic keys that I may get past; I’ll tie them to my girdle, that as I go along My heart may find a comfort in their tiny tinkling song. Holly bush, holly bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask; A pocketful of berries to thread on glowing strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands); So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, They’ll set the realms of fairyland a-dancing with delight. _Rose Fyleman_ _November in England_ No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon! No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”--No end to any “Row”-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing ’em-- No knowing ’em! No travelling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- “No go”--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November! _Thomas Hood_ _The Hound_ Some are sick for Spring and warm winds blowing Over close-sheathed buds and a patch of old snow, With the early arc-lamps delicately bowing Across thin sunshine that hesitates to go. But it’s not for any April promises I sicken, Though their stammering sweetness be a plucked string; My mind is bent toward Autumn, I am shaken More by her denials than by all the hopes of Spring. The curt cold days, the blue and windy weather, The smoke of burning brushwood keener than a frost, An orchard full of odors night is wise to gather, The fur-collared stubble where the flower is lost. A clear green sunset and a pale moon showing, A sense of dawning ends, like the light in the sky. Autumn is a hound that shrills, my heart is for her gnawing, The quarry goes to Autumn, let Spring die. _Babette Deutsch_ _Sky-Born Music_ _Earth’s crammed with heaven And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes...._ _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ _Let Me Go Where’er I Will_ Let me go where’er I will, I hear a sky-born music still; It sounds from all things old, It sounds from all things young, From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul, Peals out a cheerful song. It is not only in the rose, It is not only in the bird, Not only where the rainbow glows, Nor in the song of woman heard, But in the darkest, meanest things There alway, alway something sings. ’Tis not in the high stars alone, Nor in the cups of budding flowers, Nor in the red-breast’s mellow tone, Nor in the bow that smiles in showers, But in the mud and scum of things There alway, alway something sings. _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ _Pippa’s Song_ The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled. The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his heaven-- All’s right with the world! _Robert Browning_ _The Whisper Of Earth_ In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches Soften to the South wind, bending to the rain. From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain. Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, Little crying wind-sounds come before the King. Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne. _Edward J. O’Brien_ _Sunrise_ Today I saw the sun come up, like Neptune from the sea. I saw him light a cliff with gold and wake a distant tree, I saw him shake his shaggy head and laugh the night away And toss unto a sleeping world another golden day. The waves, which had been black and cold, came in with silver crests. I saw the sunbeams gently wake the songbirds in their nests, The slow-retreating night slipped back, and strewn on field and lawn, On every blade of grass I saw the jewels of the dawn. Never was monarch ushered in with such a cavalcade; No hero bringing victory home has seen such wealth displayed. In honor of the coming day, the humblest plant and tree Stood on the curbstone of the world in radiant livery. Pageants of splendor man may plan with robes of burnished gold, On horses from Arabia may prance the knights of old; Heralds on silver horns may blow, and kings come riding in, But I have seen God’s pageantry--I’ve watched a day begin! _Edgar A. Guest_ _Prayer Before Poems_ Great Author of a world, of sky, of sea; Whose lyrics are translated by the birds, Come close and in the stillness I may learn To worship Thee with words. Thou, who dost guide all groping, gifted hands ’Till they can finger every helpless string And find the souls of violins and harps, Aid me to sing. Artist, who did the great originals, And carved the tender features of a saint, Who chose the colors for a universe, Teach me to paint. _Anne Blackwell Payne_ _How Miracles Abound_ How miracles abound In each small plot of ground-- Aye, in the sky above it! (Do you not love it, The vast of sky a-thrill with lyric sound?) Now comes, now goes, The wonder of the rose; Color or flower, and both a boon Renewed with dawn or June. Each day the hyacinthine twilight fills The chalice of the hills. Ever there’s some fresh nectary For the knight-errant bee. And song--ah, the blithe bounty that sheds beauty On the stern ways of duty! Forsooth the doctrine’s sound That miracles abound! E’en the green sod, Yea, or the umbered clod, Revealeth God! _Clinton Scollard_ _Little Things_ There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay About the rush of faces in the town by day, But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed. And the soft March wind and the low March mist Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed.... The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play-- These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn When the feast is laid for a day new-born.... Oh, better let the little things I loved when little Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; And better is a temple made of bark and thong Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long. _Orrick Johns_ _Clouds and Sky_ One time when I was sick, And could but see The sky above the top Of a tall tree, It first was coldly blue Far past the tree. Without a cloud, it seemed Eternity. But when clouds came, the sky, (I know not how), Was caught among the leaves-- And it was Now. _Lancaster Pollard_ _My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold_ My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man: So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man-- And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. _William Wordsworth_ _The Marshes_[5] Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. _Sidney Lanier_ [5] Extract from “The Marshes of Glynn.” _Song_ The birds of the air, they sing it, Round the rim of the world they ring it; The bees in the blossom-bell, They tell, they tell. No; birds in the air, none sing it, For the rift of the dawn none ring it; Noon bees in the blossom-bell, None tell, none tell. I say it over and over,-- There is none can speak for a lover; But oh, ere the roses go, Her heart will know! _John Vance Cheney_ _Out-of-Doors_ What came ye out for to seek, O Maker of Words? The color of grass in the sunshine, the music of birds; And what shall ye do when ye find them, O Singer of Songs? Weave a bright fabric of beauty, and give it to whom it belongs; Weave a gay fabric of music, to lay at the feet of mankind, All purple and gold for the sense, all golden and gray for the mind? This came I out for to seek--the daffodil’s gold, The magic of buds all unfolding, the treasure untold That lies in the heart of the forest, the moss and the leaves, The jewel of flowers in the thicket, that no eye perceives; And these will I weave into music, these will I fashion to words, The wind in the grass and the rushes, the dawn-song of birds. _Ethel E. Mannin_ _The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks_ To build the trout a crystal stair; To comb the hillside’s thick green hair; To water jewel-weed and rushes; To teach first notes to baby thrushes; To flavor raspberry and apple And make a whirling pool to dapple With scattered gold of late October; To urge wise laughter on the sober And lend a dream to those who laugh; To chant the beetle’s epitaph; To mirror the blue dragonfly, Frail air-plane of a slender sky; Over the stones to lull and leap Herding the bubbles like white sheep; The claims of worry to deny, And whisper sorrow into sleep! _Grace Hazard Conkling_ _A Word With a Skylark_ If this be all, for which I’ve listened long, Oh, spirit of the dew! You did not sing to Shelley such a song As Shelley sang to you. Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest, Worm-eaten through and through,-- This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and crest,-- What better could you do? Ah me! but when the world and I were young, There was an apple-tree, There was a voice in the dawn that sung The buds awake--ah me! Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near, Like some spent leaf at best, You’d never sing again if you could hear My Bluebird of the West! _Sarah Piatt_ _The Perilous Light_ The Eternal Beauty smiled on me From the long lily’s curved form, She laughed in a wave of the sea, She flashed on white wings through the storm. In the bulb of a daffodil She made a little joyful stir, And the white cabin on the hill Was my heart’s home because of Her. Her laughter fled the eyes of pride, Barefoot She went o’er stony land, And ragged children, hungry-eyed, Clung to Her skirts and held Her hand. When storm winds shook the cabin door And red the Atlantic sunset blazed, The fisher folk of Mullaghmore Into Her eyes indifferent gazed. By lonely waves She dwells apart, And sea gulls circling on white wings, Crowd round the windows of Her heart, Most dear to Her of starving things. The ploughman, down by Knocknarea, Was free of Her twilight abode, In shining sea-winds, salt with spray, She haunted every gray cross road. Some peasants with a creel of turf Along the wind-swept boreen came, Her feet went flashing through the surf, Her wings were in the sunset’s flame. Beyond the rocks of Classiebawn, The mackerel fishers sailing far, Out in the vast Atlantic dawn Found, tangled in their nets, a star. In every spent and broken wave The Eternal Beauty takes Her rest, She is the Lover of the Brave, The comrade of the perilous quest. The Eternal Beauty wrung my heart, Faithful is She, and true to shed The austere glory of Art On the scarceness of daily bread. Men follow Her with toil and thought, Over the heaven’s starry pride,-- The Eternal Beauty comes unsought To the child by the roadside. _Eva Gore-Booth_ _Folly_ The moon has made me weary With its silver and its song. Such ardor in so old a thing Is wrong, all wrong. It should be limping silently Across the leaden sky Or grumbling at the cloud-hills The wind piles high. It should be teaching little moons The proper way to shine, Instead of singing sonnets To each adoring pine. _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_ _One Blackbird_ The stars must make an awful noise In whirling round the sky; Yet somehow I can’t even hear Their loudest song or sigh. So it is wonderful to think One blackbird can outsing The voice of all the swarming stars On any day in spring. _Harold Monro_ _A Rune of Riches_ I have a golden ball, A big, bright, shining one, Pure gold; and it is all Mine.--It is the sun. I have a silver ball, A white and glistering stone That other people call The moon;--my very own! The jewel things that prick My cushion’s soft blue cover Are mine,--my stars, thick, thick, Scattered the sky all over. And everything that’s mine Is yours, and yours, and yours,-- The shimmer and the shine!-- Let’s lock our wealth out-doors! _Florence Converse_ _The Picture_ “There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” The painter-poet said, “That is violet-blue and emerald From the face of the sky o’erhead.” So, far in the ancient forest, To the heart of the wood went I, But found no pool of emerald, No violet-blue for sky. “There’s a pool in the ancient forest,” Said the painter-poet still. “That is violet-blue and emerald, Near the breast of a rose-green hill.” And the heart of the ancient forest The painter-poet drew, And painted a pool of emerald That thrilled me through and through. Then back to the ancient forest I went with a strange, wild thrill, And I found the pool of emerald, Near the breast of a rose-green hill. _Frederick O. Sylvester_ “_Sic Vita_” Heart free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder. Sun shine, moon shine, Stars, and winds a-blowing, All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing! Mind free, step free, Days to follow after, Joys of life sold to me For the price of laughter. Girl’s love, man’s love Love of work and duty, Just a will of God’s to prove Beauty, beauty, beauty! _William Stanley Braithwaite_ _A Blackbird Suddenly_ Heaven is in my hand, and I Touch a heart-beat of the sky, Hearing a blackbird’s cry. Strange, beautiful, unquiet thing, Lone flute of God, how can you sing Winter to spring? You have outdistanced every voice and word, And given my spirit wings until it stirred Like you--a bird! _Joseph Auslander_ _Credo_ I believe In the whispering of the peacock-plumaged sea, In the moonshine and the little shining star, I believe that in all color harmony His angels are. I believe In the sunshine and the message of the flowers, In the wind-song and the sea-song and the rain-- I believe that in summer’s greening hours God comes again. _Vera Wheatly_ _Gospel of the Fields_ Have you ever thought, my friend, As daily you toil and plod In the noisy paths of man, How still are the ways of God? Have you ever paused in the din Of traffic’s insistent cry To think of the calm in the cloud, Of the peace in your glimpse of sky? Go out in the growing fields That quietly yield you meat, And let them rebuke your noise Whose patience is still and sweet. They toil their æons--and we Who flutter back to their breast, A handful of clamorous clay, Forget their silence is best! _Arthur Upson_ _The Welcome_ God spreads a carpet soft and green O’er which we pass; A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen-- And that is Grass. Delightful music woos the ear; The grass is stirred Down to the heart of every spear-- Ah, that’s a Bird. Clouds roll before a blue immense That stretches high And lends the soul exalted sense-- That scroll’s a Sky. Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; Their jubilee Extols brave Captains and their quests-- And that is Sea. New-leaping grass, the feathery flute, The sapphire ring, The sea’s full-voiced, profound salute,-- Ah, this is Spring! _Arthur Powell_ _Angels of the Spring_ We see them not--we cannot hear The music of their wing-- Yet know we that they sojourn near, The angels of the spring! They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose. I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel’s love hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee! _Robert Stephen Hawkes_ _God’s World_ O World, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! Thy mists that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year. My soul is all but out of me,--let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ _Rain_ I never knew how words were vain Until I strove to say The thoughts that fell like the gray rain Upon my heart today. The April rain falls on the earth, That waits a while for words, And then becomes articulate In buds and bees and birds. The thoughts that rain upon my heart Bring nothing fair to birth; O God, I kneel before the art, Of this great lyrist, earth. _Kenneth Slade Alling_ _The Lark_ (_Salisbury, England_) A close gray sky, And poplars gray and high, The country-side along; The steeple bold Across the acres old-- And then a song! Oh, far, far, far, As any spire or star, Beyond the cloistered wall! Oh, high, high, high, A heart-throb in the sky-- Then not at all! _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ _Farewell_ Tell them, O Sky-born, when I die With high romance to wife, That I went out as I had lived, Drunk with the joy of life. Yea, say that I went down to death Serene and unafraid, Still loving Song, but loving more Life, of which Song is made! _Harry Kemp_ _The Comfort of the Stars_ When I am overmatched by petty cares And things of earth loom large, and look to be Of moment, how it soothes and comforts me To step into the night and feel the airs Of heaven fan my cheek; and, best of all, Gaze up into those all-uncharted seas Where swim the stately planets: such as these Make mortal fret seem light and temporal. I muse on what of Life may stir among Those spaces knowing naught of metes nor bars; Undreamed-of dramas played in outmost stars, And lyrics by archangels grandly sung. I grow familiar with the solar runes And comprehend of worlds the mystic birth; Ringed Saturn, Mars, whose fashion apes the earth, And Jupiter, the giant, with his moons. Then, dizzy with the unspeakable sights above, Rebuked by Vast on Vast, my puny heart Is greatened for its transitory part, My trouble merged in wonder and in love. _Richard Burton_ _The Last Hour_ O joys of love and joys of fame, It is not you I shall regret: I sadden lest I should forget The beauty woven in earth’s name. The shout and battle of the gale, The stillness of the sun-rising, The sound of some deep hidden spring, The glad sob of the filling sail, The first green ripple of the wheat, The rain-song of the lifted leaves, The waking birds beneath the eaves, The voices of the summer heat. _Ethel Clifford_ _Wasted Hours_ There was a day I wasted long ago, Lying upon a hillside in the sun-- An April day of wind and drifting clouds, An idle day and all my work undone. The little peach trees with their coral skirts Were dancing up the hillside in the breeze; The gray walled meadows gleamed like bits of jade Against the crimson bloom of maple trees. And I could smell the warmth of trodden grass, The coolness of a freshly harrowed field; And I could hear a bluebird’s wistful song Of love and beauty only half revealed. I have forgotten many April days But one there is that comes to haunt me still-- A day of feathered trees and windy skies And wasted hours on a sunlit hill. _Medora Addison_ _God is at the Anvil_ God is at the anvil, beating out the sun; Where the molten metal spills, At His forge among the hills He has hammered out the glory of a day that’s done. God is at the anvil, welding golden bars; In the scarlet-streaming flame He is fashioning a frame For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars. _Lew Sarett_ _The End of the Trail_ _Have little care that life is brief, and less that Art is long, Success is in the silences, though fame is in the song._ RICHARD HOVEY _Hesperides_ Beyond the blue rim of the world, Washed round with languid-lapsing seas, Where the Wind’s wings were ever furled The Ancients dreamed Hesperides. Ship after ship each age sent forth To find the Islands of the Blest; The loosed winds drove them south and north, But west they weathered, ever west. Sky after sky they dropped behind, Those mighty-handed, bearded men, Till, seeking what they could not find, They rounded upward, home again. A desultory waif of time Flying adventure from my mast, ’Twas thus I voyaged every clime To come back to myself at last! _Harry Kemp_ _Changeless_ They cannot change the hills; though they may hew The fir-sweet slopes and cut their roadways through, Yet will they stand, each long-loved mountain face And smile at me from its appointed place; And past their friendly crests the sun shall rise To paint new pictures on the morning skies-- They cannot change the hills. They cannot still the winds; the winds that shake The hemlock fragrance free and sweep the lake, The waves at dusk shall whisper to the shore Their pebbled secrets as they did before; The wild white clouds as in the days of old Shall sink to rest in sunset seas of gold-- They cannot still the winds. They cannot dim the stars; the crowding camps That dot the dusk with closely-clustered lamps, The jazz, the laughter, and the shrill tin blare Of phonographs, the motor headlight’s flare-- These shall be stilled at last--the clamor cease And leave a fir-sweet world of wave-lapped peace-- They cannot dim the stars! _Martha Haskell Clark_ _Homesick_ O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream! I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by. I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses’ crimson glow, And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil. Oh, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! Oh, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole’s nest! Oh, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep! Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars. With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew! _Julia C. R. Dorr_ _If all the Skies_ If all the skies were sunshine, Our faces would be fain To feel once more upon them The cooling plash of rain. If all the world were music, Our hearts would often long For one sweet strain of silence, To break the endless song. If life were always merry, Our souls would seek relief, And rest from weary laughter In the quiet arms of grief. _Henry van Dyke_ “_Gratias Ago_” Since of earth, air and water, The gods have made me part-- Let every human sin be mine Except the thankless heart! Privileged and greatly, I partake Of sleep and death and birth; And kneeling, drink the sacrament-- The good red wine of earth. I shall not ask the High Gods For aught that they can give; They gave the greatest gift of all When first they bade me live. Great gift of dawn and starlight, Of sea and grass and river; With leave to toil and laugh and weep And praise the Sun forever! Be death the end or not the end, Too richly blest am I To seek the hill behind the hill, The sky behind the sky. Let the red earth that bore me Give me her call again, And I’ll lie still beneath her flowers And sleep and not complain. Let those the gods have blinded Hold their long feud with Fate-- And clutch at toys that never yet Could make one mean man great. Let those that Earth has bastarded Fret and contrive and plan-- But I will enter like an heir The old estate of man! _Geoffrey Howard_ _Song of Ballyshannon_ Take me home to Ballyshannon, for there’s music in the word; The name o’ Ballyshannon is the sweetest ever heard! The little hills are lying fair and green behind the town, And the skies of Ballyshannon, why, they’re never known to frown. Take me back and let me hearken to the plaintive Irish wind; Take me back to Ballyshannon, where the neighbors’ hearts are kind. I will wander in the moonlight out upon the ragged moor, With the flaming gorse and heather,--I’ll not find it mean or poor. In the glen with lads a-dancing, I will pass the night away; For the nights in Ballyshannon, they are sweeter than the day. Take me back to Ballyshannon, there’s a voice that calls to me; For my heart’s in Ballyshannon on the other side the sea. I came to Ballyshannon on a wet and mournful night, And all the way was darkness, with never a ray of light; The mist was waving round me and the winds were blowing free When I came to Ballyshannon, sure my heart was whole in me. I went from Ballyshannon when the sun was rolling high, And every rowan bud was glad and looked me in the eye; The clouds were white above me and the winds played in the tree, Yet I went from Ballyshannon bearing little heart in me. Sure my heart was crushed and broken; there were kisses on my mouth; There were cruel words upon me like a summer’s parching drouth. Woman’s wiles are full of mystery, they’re inconstant as the sea; Just for sport in Ballyshannon, someone stole the heart of me. The bells of Ballyshannon, I hear them on the wind, And every care and sorrow my heart leaves far behind; I can live and thrive a season upon an alien shore, But I’m wanting Ballyshannon forever all the more; And when light o’ life has left me and I’m like an empty byre, Lay my bones in Ballyshannon, take me back to heart’s desire, Where I’ll hear the bells a-ringing, folded arms beneath the sod, For the bells of Ballyshannon, they will ring me home to God. _Jeanne Robert Foster_ _A Song of the Road_ I lift my cap to Beauty, I lift my cap to Love; I bow before my Duty, And know that God’s above! My heart through shining arches Of leaf and blossom goes; My soul, triumphant, marches Through life to life’s repose. And I, through all this glory, Nor know, nor fear my fate,-- The great things are so simple, The simple are so great! _Fred G. Bowles_ _After Sunset_ I have an understanding with the hills At evening when the slanted radiance fills Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, And they are quiet and look down at me. Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes Out of the centuries that made them wise. They lend me hoarded memory and I learn Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern, And why a dream of forests must endure Though every tree be slain: and how the pure, Invisible beauty has a word so brief A flower can say it or a shaken leaf, But few may ever snare it in a song, Though for the quest a life is not too long. When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull The twilight close with gesture beautiful, And shadows are their garments, and the air Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer,-- Their arms are strong around me; and I know That somehow I shall follow when you go To the still land beyond the evening star, Where everlasting hills and valleys are: And silence may not hurt us any more, And terror shall be past, and grief, and war. _Grace Hazard Conkling_ _The Wanderer_ The ships are lying in the bay, The gulls are swinging round their spars; My soul as eagerly as they Desires the margin of the stars. So much do I love wandering, So much I love the sea and sky, That it will be a piteous thing In one small grave to lie. _Zoe Akins_ _The Trumpet of the Dawn_ Above the crestward-climbing pines, Above the dewy slopes of lawn, Above the copse’s coil of vines, I have gone up to meet the dawn. I have grown weary of the night That from day’s gold mine eye debars,-- Of seeing up the purple height Troop the processional of stars. I yearn to mark the shattering beam Backward the gates of darkness throw; I long to hear across my dream The wakening trump of morning blow. Hark! ’tis the first bird-note!--and mark, Flushing the east, a crimson ray!-- Soul, from the girdling wastes of dark Go thou, too, up to meet the day! _Clinton Scollard_ _Shared_ I said it in the meadow-path, I say it on the mountain-stairs,-- The best things any mortal hath Are those which every mortal shares. The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze, The light without us and within,--Life, with its unlocked treasuries,-- God’s riches,--are for all to win. The grass is softer to my tread For rest it yields unnumbered feet; Sweeter to me the wild-rose red, Because she makes the whole world sweet. * * * * * And up the radiant, peopled way, That opens into worlds unknown, It will be life’s delight to say, “Heaven is not Heaven for me alone.” _Lucy Larcom_ _Up-Hill_ Does the road wind-up all the way? _Yes, to the very end._ Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? _From morn to night, my friend._ But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin? May not the darkness hide it from my face? _You cannot miss that inn._ Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? _Those who have gone before._ Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? _They will not keep you standing at that door._ Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? _Of labor you shall find the sum._ Will there be beds for me and all who seek? _Yea, beds for all who come._ _Christina Rossetti_ _The Epitaph_ Write on my grave when I am dead, Whatever road I trod That I admired and honorèd The wondrous works of God. That all the days and years I had, The greatest and the least, Each day with grateful heart and glad I sat me to a feast. That not alone for body’s meat Which takes the lowest place I gave Him grace when I did eat And with a shining face. But for the spirit filled and fed That else must waste and die, With sun and stars replenishèd And dew and evening sky. The beauty of the hills and seas Brimmed that immortal cup; And when I went by fields and trees My heart was lifted up. Lap me in the green grass and write Upon the daisied sod That still I praised with all my might The wondrous works of God. _Katharine Tynan_ _Index of Authors_ Abbey, Henry, 69 Addison, Medora, 253 Akins, Zoe, 24 Alling, Kenneth Slade, 250 Allingham, William, 44 Auslander, Joseph, 124, 246 Baker, Karl Wilson, 71 Banning, Kendall, 162 Bates, Katherine Lee, 172 Birchall, Sara Hamilton, 55, 57, 139, 144, 146, 156, 165, 175, 223 Blanden, Charles G., 42 Bowles, Fred G., 263 Braithwaite, William Stanley, 245 Brotherton, Alice Williams, 49 Brown, Thomas E., 41 Browning, Elizabeth, 53 Browning, Robert, 94, 212, 233 Burnet, Dana, 157 Burton, Richard, 95, 211, 216, 251 Byron, Lord, 100 Carman, Bliss, 17, 49, 53, 65, 75, 119, 136, 168, 171, 173, 176, 186, 200, 220, 226 Chalmers, Stephens, 140 Cheney, John Vance, 41, 239 Clark, Martha Haskell, 91, 104, 161, 257 Clifford, Ethel, 252 Cole, Samuel Valentine, 67 Cone, Helen Gray, 51, 56 Conkling, Grace Hazard, 240, 263 Converse, Florence, 244 Craik, Dina Mulock, 42 Crane, Jr. L. Burton, 28 Cunningham, Allan, 87 Davis, Fannie Stearns, 120, 158 Davies, Mary Carolyn, 163 Davies, William H., 76, 112 Dean, Harry W., 171 Dennen, Grace Atherton, 227 Deutsch, Babette, 229 Dickinson, Emily, 54, 210, 218, 225 Dorr, Julia C. R., 258 Driscoll, Louise, 5, 40, 189 Egbert, Ella Elizabeth, 224 Elliston, George, 210 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 52, 191, 233 Fenton, Cora D., 31 Foster, Jeanne Robert, 261 Fox-Smith, C., 133, 147 Fyleman, Rose, 228 Gale, Norman, 35, 193 Galsworthy, John, 110 Garland, Hamlin, 4, 109 Garrison, Theodosia, 15, 18, 114, 125, 175, 195, 219 Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 61 Gore-Booth, Eva, 78, 241 Gould, Gerald, 155 Grover, Edwin Osgood, 135, 185 Guest, Edgar A., 10, 16, 34, 150, 155, 169, 234 Guiterman, Arthur, 121 Hagedorn, Hermann, 143 Hardy, Thomas, 184 Hare, Amory, 23 Hawkes, Robert Stephen, 249 Higginson, Ella, 203 Hood, Thomas, 228 Hopper, Nora, 81 Hovey, Richard, 12, 31, 79, 92, 122, 196 Howard, Geoffrey, 260 Hoyt, Helen, 132 Jennings, Leslie Nelson, 8 Johns, Orrick, 236 Kauffman, Ruth Wright, 165 Kemp, Harry, 77, 115, 134, 199, 213, 251, 257 Kenyon, Theda, 50 Ketchum, Arthur, 111, 131 King, Georgiana Goddard, 19 Kipling, Rudyard, 166 Knowles, Frederic Lawrence, 102 Lanier, Sidney, 66, 238 Laramore, Vivian Yeiser, 243 Larcom, Lucy, 44, 71, 160, 265 Laurence, Ray, 48 Le Gallienne, Richard, 111 Loveman, Robert, 209 Lowell, James Russell, 45 Mackay, Isabel Ecclestine, 19 Macleod, Fiona, 88 McGiffert, Gertrude Huntington, 27 McGroarty, John Steven, 32, 99 McLeod, Irene Ruthford, 126 McQuilland, Louis J., 25 Mannin, Ethel E., 80, 150, 178, 239 Markham, Edwin, 57 Masefield, John, 3, 75 Mason, Caroline Atherton, 112 Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 125, 145, 249 Monro, Harold, 243 Montgomery, James Stuart, 22, 82, 104 Moreland, John Richard, 193 Morley, Christopher, 68 Norton, Eleanour, 29 O’Brien, Edward J., 234 O’Reilly, John Boyle, 7 Payne, Anne Blackwell, 235 Peace, Dorothy, 103 Percy, William Alexander, 218 Piatt, Sarah, 241 Pollard, Lancaster, 144, 186, 192, 237 Powell, Arthur, 248 Procter, Bryan Waller, 89 Randolph, Thomas, 30 Reese, Lizette Woodworth, 194, 250 Rice, Cale Young, 86, 115, 188, 196 Rittenhouse, Jessie B., 72 Roberts, Charles G. D., 39, 89 Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt, 9 Rossetti, Christina, 110, 266 Runcie, John, 85 Russell, Maud, 29 Sarett, Lew, 253 Scollard Clinton, 43, 149, 183, 190, 236, 265 Service, Robert W., 13 Shephard, Odell, 3 Slender, Pauline, 164 Smith, Ada, 20 Smith, May Riley, 142, 213 Speyer, Leonora, 62, 215 Stuart, Keith, 82 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 97 Sylvester, Frederick O., 245 Tabb, John B., 55 Tennyson, Alfred, 205, 212 Thorley, Wilfrid C., 47 Timrod, Henry, 109, 206 Tinckom-Fernandez, W. G., 24, 177 Towne, Charles Hanson, 6, 195, 219 Trench, Herbert, 62 Tynan, Katherine, 96, 183, 267 Unknown, 63, 100 Upson, Arthur 247 van Dyke, Henry, 70, 259 Vinal, Harold, 84 Waterman, Nixon, 148 Watson, William, 208 Welby, Amelia C., 103 Wetherald, Ethelwyn, 64 Wheatly, Vera, 247 Whitman, Walt, 9, 47, 84 Widdemer, Margaret, 79, 113 Williams, Oscar, 85 Wolfe, Humbert, 48, 54 Wordsworth, William, 21, 94, 238 _Index to Titles_ A.B.C.’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_, 62 Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_, 39 Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_, 133 Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_, 9 Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 125 After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 240 Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_, 122 “A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 144 Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_, 228 An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_, 220 Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_, 249 Answer, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 57 April _Emily Dickinson_, 210 April _John Vance Cheney_, 41 April _Theodosia Garrison_, 195 April, April _William Watson_, 208 April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_, 192 April Morning _George Elliston_, 210 April Music _Clinton Scollard_, 183 April Rain _Robert Loveman_, 209 April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 194 April Weather _Bliss Carman_, 186 As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_, 86 Autumn _Emily Dickinson_, 218 Beloved Vagabond, The _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_, 177 Best Road of All, The _Charles Hanson Towne_, 6 Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_, 161 Blackbird, The _Humbert Wolfe_, 54 Blackbird Suddenly, A _Joseph Auslander_, 246 Blind _Harry Kemp_, 199 Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_, 47 Call, The _Cora D. Fenton_, 31 Call, The _Edgar A. Guest_, 150 Call of the Wild, The _Robert W. Service_, 13 Camping Song _Bliss Carman_, 17 Carouse _Charles Hanson Towne_, 219 Changeless _Martha Haskell Clark_, 257 City Voice, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 15 City-Weary _Edgar A. Guest_, 10 Clover _John B. Tabb_, 55 Clouds and Sky _Lancaster Pollard_, 237 Come, Spur Away! _Thomas Randolph_, 30 Comfort of the Stars, The _Richard Burton_, 251 Coming of Dawn, The _Grace Atherton Dennen_, 227 Comrades of the Trail _Mary Carolyn Davies_, 163 Conversation, A _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 55 Country Faith, The _Norman Gale_, 35 Coquette _Keith Stuart_, 82 Credo _Vera Wheatley_, 247 Cry of the Dreamer, The _John Boyle O’Reilley_, 7 Cry of the Hillborn, The _Bliss Carman_, 119 Daisies _Bliss Carman_, 53 Dandelions, The _Helen Gray Cone_, 51 Dandelion, To the _James Russell Lowell_, 45 Days Like These _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_, 224 Deep Down _James Stuart Montgomery_, 104 Deep-Water Man, The _James Stuart Montgomery_, 82 Denial _Lancaster Pollard_, 144 Deserted Pasture, The _Bliss Carman_, 226 Down East and Up Along _Edwin Osgood Grover_, 135 Do You Fear the Wind? _Hamlin Garland_, 109 Dreams of the Sea _William H. Davies_, 76 Early Morning at Bargis _Hermann Hagedorn_, 143 Early Spring _Alfred Tennyson_, 205 Ellis Park _Helen Hoyt_, 132 Epitaph, The _Katherine Tynan_, 267 Farewell _Katherine Tynan_, 96 Farewell _Harry Kemp_, 251 Far From the Madding Crowd _Nixon Waterman_, 148 Faun, The _Richard Hovey_, 12 Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_, 169 Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_, 16 Flower Chorus _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 191 Folly _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_, 243 Gipsy Feet _Fannie Stearns Davis_, 158 Gypsy-Heart _Katherine Lee Bates_, 172 Gypsying, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 175 Gipsy Song _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 156 Gipsy Trail, The _Rudyard Kipling_, 166 Gipsy Wedding, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 165 God is at the Anvil _Lew Sarett_, 253 God Made This Day For Me _Edgar A. Guest_, 34 God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree _Unknown_, 63 God’s World _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 249 Going Down in Ships _Harry Kemp_, 77 Going of His Feet, The _Harry Kemp_, 134 Good Company _Karl Wilson Baker_, 71 Gospel of the Fields _Arthur Upson_, 247 Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_, 40 Grass, The _Walt Whitman_, 47 “Gratias Ago” _Geoffrey Howard_, 260 Gray _Oscar Williams_, 85 Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea _Charles G. D. Roberts_, 89 Great Outdoors, The _Maud Russell_, 29 Green Inn, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 18 Green Tree in the Fall, The _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_, 72 Had I the Choice _Walt Whitman_, 84 Happy Wind _William H. Davies_, 112 Hark to the Shouting Wind _Henry Timrod_, 109 Have You? _Harry W. Dean_, 171 Hesperides _Harry Kemp_, 257 Highways _Leslie Nelson Jennings_, 8 Hills _Arthur Guiterman_, 121 Hills, The _Theodosia Garrison_, 125 Hill Hunger _Joseph Auslander_, 124 Hollyhocks, The _Ray Laurence_, 48 Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_, 258 Hound, The _Babette Deutsch_, 229 House of the Trees, The _Ethelwyn Wetherald_, 64 How Miracles Abound _Clinton Scollard_, 236 Hunting Song _Richard Hovey_, 31 If all the Skies _Henry van Dyke_, 259 I Meant to Do My Work Today _Richard Le Gallienne_, 111 Immortal, The _Cale Young Rice_, 196 In a Garden _Theda Kenyon_, 50 In City Streets _Ada Smith_, 20 Indian Summer _Emily Dickinson_, 225 Journey _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 145 Joys of the Road, The _Bliss Carman_, 136 King’s Highway, The _John Steven McGroarty_, 32 Lake, The _Eleanour Norton_, 29 Lark, The _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 250 Last Hour, The _Ethel Clifford_, 252 Let Me Go Where’er I Will _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 233 Lilac, The _Humbert Wolfe_, 48 Little Things _Orrick Johns_, 236 Maine Trail, A _Gertrude H. McGiffert_, 27 Marigolds _Bliss Carman_, 49 Marshes, The _Sidney Lanier_, 238 May-Lure _Richard Burton_, 211 Mendicants, The _Bliss Carman_, 176 More Ancient Mariner, A _Bliss Carman_, 173 Morning, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 114 Morning Song _Lancaster Pollard_, 186 My Garden _Thomas E. Brown_, 41 My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold _William Wordsworth_, 238 Mystic, The _Cale Young Rice_, 115 Naturalist on a June Sunday, The _Leonora Speyer_, 215 November in England _Thomas Hood_, 228 Ocean, The _Lord Byron_, 100 O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees! _Herbert Trench_, 62 On a Hill _Irene Rutherford McLeod_, 126 One Blackbird _Harold Monro_, 243 Out in the Fields with God _Elizabeth Browning_, 53 Out-of-Doors _Ethel E. Mannin_, 239 Overtones _William Alexander Percy_, 218 Pagan Hymn, A _John Runcie_, 85 Path that Leads to Nowhere, The _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_, 9 Perilous Light, The _Eva Gore-Booth_, 241 Picture, The _Frederick O. Sylvester_, 245 Pippa’s Song _Robert Browning_, 233 Port o’ Heart’s Desire, The _John Steven McGroarty_, 99 Prayer, A _Edwin Markham_, 57 Prayer Before Poems _Anne Blackwell Payne_, 235 Ragged Regiment, The _Alice Williams Brotherton_, 49 Rain _Kenneth Slade Alling_, 250 Rain _Lucy Larcom_, 44 Rebellion _Stephen Chalmers_, 140 Renewal _Charles Hanson Towne_, 195 Return, The _Algernon Charles Swinburne_, 97 Rhodora _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 52 Road Song _James Stuart Montgomery_, 22 Road Song _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_, 24 Road that Leads to Home, The _Ethel E. Mannin_, 150 Road to Vagabondia, The _Dana Burnet_, 157 Robin, The _Emily Dickinson_, 54 Runaway, The _Cale Young Rice_, 188 Rune of Riches, A _Florence Converse_, 244 Sea Call _Margaret Widdemer_, 79 Sea Change, A _Dorothy Peace_, 103 Sea, The _Bryan Waller Proctor_, 89 Sea, The _Richard Hovey_, 92 Sea, The _Nora Hopper_, 81 Sea-Fever _John Masefield_, 75 Sea Longing _Harold Vinal_, 84 Sea Road, The _Martha Haskell Clark_, 91 Sea-Song _Martha Haskell Clark_, 104 Sea-Urge _Unknown_, 100 Sea Wind, The _Arthur Ketchum_, 111 Secret, The _John Richard Moreland_, 193 Secret Voices, The _Ethel E. Mannin_, 178 September _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 223 Shared _Lucy Larcom_, 265 Ship-Love _Ethel E. Mannin_, 80 Short Beach _Richard Hovey_, 79 “Sic Vita” _William Stanley Braithwaite_, 245 Singer’s Quest, The _Odell Shepard_, 3 Sojourner, The _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 146 Song _Georgiana Goddard King_, 19 Song _John Vance Cheney_, 239 Song in Autumn, A _Theodosia Garrison_, 219 Song in March _Clinton Scollard_, 190 Song of Ballyshannon _Jeanne Robert Foster_, 261 Song of Desire, A _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_, 102 Song of the Open _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 139 Song of the Open Road, A _Louis J. McQuilland_, 25 Song of the Road, A _Fred G. Bowles_, 263 Song of the Sea _Richard Burton_, 95 Song the Grass Sings, A _Charles G. Blanden_, 42 Son of the Sea, A _Bliss Carman_, 75 Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_, 213 Spell of the Pool, The _L. Burton Crane, Jr._, 28 Spring _Norman Gale_, 193 Spring _Richard Hovey_, 196 Spring _Henry Timrod_, 206 Spring’s Answer _Edwin Osgood Grover_, 185 Spring Market _Louise Driscoll_, 189 Spring Song _Bliss Carman_, 200 St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill _Bliss Carman_, 168 Streams _Clinton Scollard_, 149 Strip of Blue, A _Lucy Larcom_, 160 Summer _Richard Burton_, 216 Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_, 43 Sunrise _Edgar A. Guest_, 234 Sunrise _Robert Browning_, 212 Sweet, Low Speech of the Rain, The _Ella Higginson_, 203 Tell all the World _Harry Kemp_, 213 That Wind is Best _Caroline Atherton Mason_, 112 Three Trees _Christopher Morley_, 68 Throstle, The _Alfred Tennyson_, 212 Toil of the Trail, The _Hamlin Garland_, 4 Traveller’s Joy _Arthur Ketchum_, 131 Traveller’s Rest _C. Fox-Smith_, 147 Trees _Bliss Carman_, 65 Trees, The _Lucy Larcom_, 71 Trees, The _Samuel Valentine Cole_, 67 Trees _Henry van Dyke_, 70 Trees and The Master, The _Sidney Lanier_, 66 Tree Feelings _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_, 61 Tree-Top Road, The _May Riley Smith_, 142 Trumpet of the Dawn, The _Clinton Scollard_, 265 Turn O’ The Year _Katherine Tynan_, 183 Twilight At Sea _Amelia C. Welby_, 103 Two Old Men _Louise Driscoll_, 5 Undersong, The _Fiona Macleod_, 88 Up-Hill _Christina Rossetti_, 266 Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_, 120 Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books _William Wordsworth_, 21 Vagabond at Home, The _Ruth Wright Kauffman_, 165 Vagabond, The _Edgar A. Guest_, 155 Vagabonds _Sara Hamilton Birchall_, 175 Vagabond Song, A _Bliss Carman_, 171 Vagrant, The _Pauline Slender_, 164 Walking at Night _Amory Hare_, 23 Wanderer, The _Zoe Akins_, 264 Wander Lure, The _Kendall Banning_, 162 Wanderlust _Isabel Ecclestine Mackay_, 19 Wanderer’s Song, A _John Masefield_, 3 Wanderthirst _Gerald Gould_, 155 Wasted Hours _Medora Addison_, 253 Waves of Breffny, The _Eva Gore-Booth_, 78 Welcome, The _Arthur Powell_, 248 Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A _Allan Cunningham_, 87 What Do We Plant? _Henry Abbey_, 69 Whisper of Earth, The _Edward J. O’Brien_, 234 Who Has Seen the Wind? _Christina Rossetti_, 110 Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks, The _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 240 Wind _John Galsworthy_, 110 Wind-Litany _Margaret Widdemer_, 113 Wind’s Life, The _Harry Kemp_, 115 Wishing _William Allingham_, 44 World is Too Much With Us, The _William Wordsworth_, 94 Word with a Skylark, A _Sarah Piatt_, 241 Year’s Awakening, The _Thomas Hardy_, 184 Yellow Pansy, A _Helen Gray Cone_, 56 Young Dandelion, The _Dina Mulock Craik_, 42 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES Inconsistencies in poem titles and author names corrected. However, inconsistencies in the Copyright Acknowledgements section remain unchanged. Inconsistencies in section titles normalized. Missing footnote anchors added. The footnote text for The Return is missing in the original text, so its footnote anchor has been removed in this edition. Obvious typos corrected, particularly in incorrect/missing periods and commas. The House of the Trees: spelling of “ope” has been retained. Gipsy Song: verse misalignment corrected. “Sunrise” by Robert Browning appears twice in the book, on pages 94 and 212. The poem title appears only once in the Index to Titles. Some entries in the Table of Contents and Indexes, as well as some long poetry lines, have been rewrapped for readability. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78129 ***