The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 2

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green And vine-clad pillars, while between, The Esk runs murmuring on its way, In living music night and day.

Within the temple of this wood The martyrs of the covenant stood, And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

Edinburgh, 1877.

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

LATER POEMS

WHEN TULIPS BLOOM

I

When tulips bloom in Union Square, And timid breaths of vernal air Go wandering down the dusty town, Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow, And leads the eyes to sunset skies Beyond the hills where green trees grow;

Then weary seems the street parade, And weary books, and weary trade: I'm only wis.h.i.+ng to go a-fis.h.i.+ng; For this the month of May was made.

II

I guess the p.u.s.s.y-willows now Are creeping out on every bough Along the brook; and robins look For early worms behind the plough.

The thistle-birds have changed their dun, For yellow coats, to match the sun; And in the same array of flame The Dandelion Show's begun.

The flocks of young anemones Are dancing round the budding trees: Who can help wis.h.i.+ng to go a-fis.h.i.+ng In days as full of joy as these?

III

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound Leaks upward slowly from the ground, While on the wing the bluebirds ring Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear Behind the bush; and very near, Where water flows, where green gra.s.s grows, Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wis.h.i.+ng to go a-fis.h.i.+ng In days so sweet with music's balm!

IV

'Tis not a proud desire of mine; I ask for nothing superfine; No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record, or my line.

Only an idle little stream, Whose amber waters softly gleam, Where I may wade through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart From foaming pools, and try my art: 'Tis all I'm wis.h.i.+ng--old-fas.h.i.+oned fis.h.i.+ng, And just a day on Nature's heart.

1894.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

Do you remember, father,-- It seems so long ago,-- The day we fished together Along the Pocono?

At dusk I waited for you, Beside the lumber-mill, And there I heard a hidden bird That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

The place was all deserted; The mill-wheel hung at rest; The lonely star of evening Was throbbing in the west; The veil of night was falling; The winds were folded still; And everywhere the trembling air Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

You seemed so long in coming, I felt so much alone; The wide, dark world was round me, And life was all unknown; The hand of sorrow touched me, And made my senses thrill With all the pain that haunts the strain Of mournful whip-poor-will.

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

What knew I then of trouble?

An idle little lad, I had not learned the lessons That make men wise and sad.

I dreamed of grief and parting, And something seemed to fill My heart with tears, while in my ears Resounded "whip-poor-will."

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

'Twas but a cloud of sadness, That lightly pa.s.sed away; But I have learned the meaning Of sorrow, since that day.

For nevermore at twilight, Beside the silent mill, I'll wait for you, in the falling dew, And hear the whip-poor-will.

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

But if you still remember In that fair land of light, The pains and fears that touch us Along this edge of night, I think all earthly grieving, And all our mortal ill, To you must seem like a sad boy's dream.

Who hears the whip-poor-will.

"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"

A pa.s.sing thrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

1894.

THE LILY OF YORROW

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.

Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower; Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.