Later Poems Part 16

A New England June

_These things I remember Of New England June, Like a vivid day-dream In the azure noon, While one haunting figure Strays through every scene, Like the soul of beauty Through her lost demesne._

Gardens full of roses And peonies a-blow In the dewy morning, Row on stately row, Spreading their gay patterns, Crimson, pied and cream, Like some gorgeous fresco Or an Eastern dream.

Nets of waving sunlight Falling through the trees; Fields of gold-white daisies Rippling in the breeze; Lazy lifting groundswells, Breaking green as jade On the lilac beaches, Where the sh.o.r.e-birds wade.

Orchards full of blossom, Where the bob-white calls And the honeysuckle Climbs the old gray walls; Groves of silver birches, Beds of roadside fern, In the stone-fenced pasture At the river's turn.

_Out of every picture Still she comes to me With the morning freshness Of the summer sea,-- A glory in her bearing, A sea-light in her eyes, As if she could not forget The spell of Paradise._

Thrushes in the deep woods, With their golden themes, Fluting like the choirs At the birth of dreams.

Fireflies in the meadows At the gate of Night, With their fairy lanterns Twinkling soft and bright.

Ah, not in the roses, Nor the azure noon, Nor the thrushes' music, Lies the soul of June.

It is something finer, More unfading far, Than the primrose evening And the silver star;

Something of the rapture My beloved had, When she made the morning Radiant and glad,-- Something of her gracious Ecstasy of mien, That still haunts the twilight, Loving though unseen.

_When the ghostly moonlight Walks my garden ground, Like a leisurely patrol On his nightly round, These things I remember Of the long ago, While the slumbrous roses Neither care nor know._

The Tent of Noon

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June Halts in the glowing noon!

The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; The bannered hosts are still, While over forest crown and mountain head The azure tent is spread.

The song is hushed in every woodland throat; Moveless the lilies float; Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea Sighs only fitfully; The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; Peace on the world is laid.

It is the hour when Nature's caravan, That bears the pilgrim Man Across the desert of uncharted time To his far hope sublime, Rests in the green oasis of the year, As if the end drew near.

Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise For these fleet halcyon days?-- No courage to uplift thee from despair Born with the breath of prayer?

Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!

G.o.d stands in his tent door.

Children of Dream

The black ash grows in the swampy ground, The white ash in the dry; The thrush he holds to the woodland bound, The hawk to the open sky.

The trout he runs to the mountain brook, The swordfish keeps the sea; The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows.

The clover calls the bee.

The locust sings in the August noon, The frog in the April night; The iris loves the meadow-land, The laurel loves the height.

And each will hold his tenure old Of earth and sun and stream, For all are creatures of desire And children of a dream.

Roadside Flowers

We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds,-- Lovers of idle hours, Breakers of ordered bounds.

If only the earth will feed us, If only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us, The stragglers left behind.

And lo, the Lord of the Garden, He makes his sun to rise, And his rain to fall with pardon On our dusty paradise.

On us he has laid the duty,-- The task of the wandering breed,-- To better the world with beauty, Wherever the way may lead.

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.

The Garden of Saint Rose

This is a holy refuge, The garden of Saint Rose, A fragrant altar to that peace The world no longer knows.

Below a solemn hillside, Within the folding shade Of overhanging beech and pine Its walls and walks are laid.

Cool through the heat of summer, Still as a sacred grove, It has the rapt unworldly air Of mystery and love.

All day before its outlook The mist-blue mountains loom, And in its trees at tranquil dusk The early stars will bloom.

Down its enchanted borders Glad ranks of color stand, Like hosts of silent seraphim Awaiting love's command.

Lovely in adoration They wait in patient line, Snow-white and purple and deep gold About the rose-gold shrine.

And there they guard the silence, While still from her recess Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down In mellow loveliness.

She seems to say, "O stranger, Behold how loving care That gives its life for beauty's sake, Makes everything more fair!

"Then praise the Lord of gardens For tree and flower and vine, And bless all gardeners who have wrought A resting place like mine!"

The World Voice

I heard the summer sea Murmuring to the sh.o.r.e Some endless story of a wrong The whole world must deplore.