Later Poems Part 12

Are these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely the prose of natural fact; Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the creatures, that bids them act."

Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as that of the beasts and birds, Concerning death and the life immortal, too deep for logic, too vague for words.

No trace of beauty can pa.s.s or perish, but other beauty is somewhere born; No seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield must grow as the growing corn.

Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing days of earth.

To be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting import and lovely worth.

If the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed to the limit of will and power, To fas.h.i.+on after some form ideal the instant task and the waiting hour,

It matters not though defeat undo me, though faults betray me and sorrows scar, Already I share the life eternal with the April buds and the evening star.

The slim new moon is my sister now; the rain, my brother; the wind, my friend.

Is it not well with these forever? Can the soul of man fare ill in the end?

Now is the Time of Year

Now is the time of year When all the flutes begin,-- The redwing bold and clear, The rainbird far and thin.

In all the waking lands There's not a wilding thing But knows and understands The burden of the spring.

Now every voice alive By rocky wood and stream Is lifted to revive The ecstasy, the dream.

For Nature, never old, But busy as of yore, From sun and rain and mould Is making spring once more.

She sounds her magic note By river-marge and hill, And every woodland throat Re-echoes with a thrill.

O mother of our days, Hearing thy music call.

Teach us to know thy ways And fear no more at all!

The Redwing

I hear you, Brother, I hear you, Down in the alder swamp, Springing your woodland whistle To herald the April pomp!

First of the moving vanguard, In front of the spring you come, Where flooded waters sparkle And streams in the twilight hum.

You sound the note of the chorus By meadow and woodland pond, Till, one after one up-piping, A myriad throats respond.

I see you, Brother, I see you, With scarlet under your wing, Flash through the ruddy maples, Leading the pageant of spring.

Earth has put off her raiment Wintry and worn and old, For the robe of a fair young sibyl.

Dancing in green and gold.

I heed you, Brother. To-morrow I, too, in the great employ, Will shed my old coat of sorrow For a brand-new garment of joy.

The Rainbird

I hear a rainbird singing Far off. How fine and clear His plaintive voice comes ringing With rapture to the ear!

Over the misty wood-lots, Across the first spring heat, Comes the enchanted cadence, So clear, so solemn-sweet.

How often I have hearkened To that high pealing strain Across wild cedar barrens, Under the soft gray rain!

How often I have wondered, And longed in vain to know The source of that enchantment, That touch of human woe!

O brother, who first taught thee To haunt the teeming spring With that sad mortal wisdom Which only age can bring?

Lament

When you hear the white-throat pealing From a tree-top far away, And the hills are touched with purple At the borders of the day;

When the redwing sounds his whistle At the coming on of spring, And the joyous April pipers Make the alder marshes ring;

When the wild new breath of being Whispers to the world once more, And before the shrine of beauty Every spirit must adore;

When long thoughts come back with twilight, And a tender deepened mood Shows the eyes of the beloved Like the hepaticas in the wood;

Ah, remember, when to nothing Save to love your heart gives heed, And spring takes you to her bosom,-- So it was with Golden Weed!

Under the April Moon

Oh, well the world is dreaming Under the April moon, Her soul in love with beauty, Her senses all a-swoon!

Pure hangs the silver crescent Above the twilight wood, And pure the silver music Wakes from the marshy flood.

O Earth, with all thy transport, How comes it life should seem A shadow in the moonlight, A murmur in a dream?

The Flute of Spring

I know a s.h.i.+ning meadow stream That winds beneath an Eastern hill, And all year long in sun or gloom Its murmuring voice is never still.

The summer dies more gently there, The April flowers are earlier,-- The first warm rain-wind from the Sound Sets all their eager hearts astir.

And there when lengthening twilights fall As softly as a wild bird's wing, Across the valley in the dusk I hear the silver flute of spring.