The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 3

Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume enchanted Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted, Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.

Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening?

Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden, Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long endeavour; Surely to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.

'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me: Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,-- Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with pa.s.sionate sorrow?

Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.

1894.

THE VEERY

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.

So pa.s.sionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; I longed to hear a simpler strain,--the wood-notes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; I only know one song more sweet,--the vespers of the veery.

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.

1895.

THE SONG-SPARROW

There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle-joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear.

What bird it is that, every year, Sings "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his heart with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade; and every day Repeats his small, contented lay; As if to say, we need not fear The season's change, if love is here With "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat Of many colours, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat.

And yet of all the well-dressed throng Not one can sing so brave a song.

It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing, to hear His "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear, Because he'd bless me, every year, With "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

1895.

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

When May bedecks the naked trees With ta.s.sels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery._"

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that s.h.i.+nes and sings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery._"

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

Tell her to leave her c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she.

She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook?

A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

1895.

A NOVEMBER DAISY

Afterthought of summer's bloom!

Late arrival at the feast, Coming when the songs have ceased And the merry guests departed, Leaving but an empty room, Silence, solitude, and gloom,-- Are you lonely, heavy-hearted; You, the last of all your kind, Nodding in the autumn-wind; Now that all your friends are flown, Blooming late and all alone?

Nay, I wrong you, little flower, Reading mournful mood of mine In your looks, that give no sign Of a spirit dark and cheerless!

You possess the heavenly power That rejoices in the hour.

Glad, contented, free, and fearless, Lift a sunny face to heaven When a sunny day is given!

Make a summer of your own, Blooming late and all alone!

Once the daisies gold and white Sea-like through the meadow rolled: Once my heart could hardly hold All its pleasures. I remember, In the flood of youth's delight Separate joys were lost to sight.

That was summer! Now November Sets the perfect flower apart; Gives each blossom of the heart Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,-- Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.