Later Poems Part 17

I heard the mountain wind Conversing with the trees Of an old sorrow of the hills, Mysterious as the sea's.

And all that haunted day It seemed that I could hear The echo of an ancient speech Ring in my listening ear.

And then it came to me, That all that I had heard Was my own heart in the sea's voice And the wind's lonely word.

Songs of the Gra.s.s

I

ON THE DUNES.

Here all night on the dunes In the rocking wind we sleep, Watched by sentry stars, Lulled by the drone of the deep.

Till hark, in the chill of the dawn A field lark wakes and cries, And over the floor of the sea We watch the round sun rise.

The world is washed once more In a tide of purple and gold, And the heart of the land is filled With desires and dreams untold.

II

LORD OF MORNING.

Lord of morning, light of day, Sacred color-kindling sun, We salute thee in the way,-- Pilgrims robed in rose and dun.

For thou art a pilgrim too, Overlord of all our band.

In thy fervor we renew Quests we do not understand.

At thy summons we arise, At thy touch put glory on.

And with glad unanxious eyes Take the journey thou hast gone.

III

THE TRAVELLER.

Before the night-blue fades And the stars are quite gone, I lift my head At the noiseless tread Of the angel of dawn.

I hear no word, yet my heart Is beating apace; Then in glory all still On the eastern hill I behold his face.

All day through the world he goes, Making glad, setting free; Then his day's work done, On the galleon sun He sinks in the sea.

The Choristers

When earth was finished and fas.h.i.+oned well, There was never a musical note to tell How glad G.o.d was, save the voice of the rain And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain And the rivers among the hills.

And so G.o.d made the marvellous birds For a choir of joy transcending words, That the world might hear and comprehend How rhythm and harmony can mend The spirits' hurts and ills.

He filled their tiny bodies with fire, He taught them love for their chief desire, And gave them the magic of wings to be His celebrants over land and sea, Wherever man might dwell.

And to each he apportioned a fragment of song-- Those broken melodies that belong To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn The healing of gladness and discern In beauty how all is well.

So music dwells in the glorious throats Forever, and the enchanted notes Fall with rapture upon our ears, Moving our hearts to joy and tears For things we cannot say.

In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain His pure, serene, half-wistful strain; And when twilight falls the sleeping hills Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills In the blue dusk far away.

In the great white heart of the winter storm The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm, And his note is brave to rally the soul From doubt and panic to self-control And elation that knows no fear.

The bluebird comes with the winds of March, Like a shred of sky on the naked larch; The redwing follows the April rain To whistle contentment back again With his st.u.r.dy call of cheer.

The orioles revel through orchard boughs In their coats of gold for spring's carouse; In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call, And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall Under the evening star.

On the verge of June when peonies blow And joy comes back to the world we know, The bobolinks fill the fields of light With a tangle of music silver-bright To tell how glad they are.

The tiny warblers fill summer trees With their exquisite lesser litanies; The tanager in his scarlet coat In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat His canticle of the sun.

The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky, And the sea-gull--each has a piercing cry, Like outposts set in the lonely vast To cry "all's well" as Time goes past And another hour is gone.

But of all the music in G.o.d's plan Of a mystical symphony for man, I shall remember best of all-- Whatever hereafter may befall Or pa.s.s and cease to be-- The hermit's hymn in the solitudes Of twilight through the mountain woods, And the field-larks crying about our doors On the soft sweet wind across the moors At morning by the sea.

The Weed's Counsel

_Said a traveller by the way Pausing, "What hast thou to say, Flower by the dusty road, That would ease a mortal's load?"_

Traveller, hearken unto me!

I will tell thee how to see Beauties in the earth and sky Hidden from the careless eye.

I will tell thee how to hear Nature's music wild and clear,-- Songs of midday and of dark Such as many never mark, Lyrics of creation sung Ever since the world was young.

And thereafter thou shalt know Neither weariness nor woe.

Thou shalt see the dawn unfold Artistries of rose and gold, And the sunbeams on the sea Dancing with the wind for glee.

The red lilies of the moors Shall be torches on the floors, Where the field-lark lifts his cry To rejoice the pa.s.ser-by, In a wide world rimmed with blue Lovely as when time was new.

And thereafter thou shalt fare Light of foot and free from care.

I will teach thee how to find Lost enchantments of the mind All about thee, never guessed By indifferent unrest.

Thy distracted thought shall learn Patience from the roadside fern, And a sweet philosophy From the flowering locust tree,-- While thy heart shall not disdain The consolation of the rain.

Not an acre but shall give Of its strength to help thee live.

With the many-wintered sun Shall thy hardy course be run.

And the bright new moon shall be A lamp to thy felicity.

When green-mantled spring shall come Past thy door with flute and drum, And when over wood and swamp Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, No misgiving shalt thou know, Pa.s.sing glad to rise and go.

So thy days shall be unrolled Like a wondrous cloth of gold.