The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 7

Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair, A prison for the soul of man, a grave Of all his dearest daring hopes! The world Wherein we live and move is meaningless, No spirit here to answer to our own!

The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth Adrift in s.p.a.ce, no Captain on the s.h.i.+p: Nothing in all the universe to prove Eternal wisdom and eternal love!

And man, the latest accident of Time,-- Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand, Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave, Who dupes his heart with immortality,-- Man is a living lie,--a bitter jest Upon himself,--a conscious grain of sand Lost in a desert of unconsciousness, Thirsting for G.o.d and mocked by his own thirst.

Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight, Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence Inhabiting this lofty lone abode, Speak to my heart again and set me free From all these doubts that darken earth and heaven!

Who sent thee forth into the wilderness To bless and comfort all who see thy face?

Who clad thee in this more than royal robe Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces?

Who gave thee power upon the soul of man To lift him up through wonder into joy?

G.o.d! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, G.o.d!

Let all the s.h.i.+ning pillars signal, G.o.d!

He only, on the mystic loom of light.

Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe His most majestic works: and He alone Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.

O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High, Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man, And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!

Now, far beyond all language and all art In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous, The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled In wordless wors.h.i.+p! This is holy ground; Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine.

Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise, If G.o.d were blind thy Beauty could not be!

February 24-26, 1913.

THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND

The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies!

With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colours ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear s.h.i.+ning after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them fair,-- Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer.

Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Ca.n.a.ls and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.

The Hague, November, 1916.

FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS

IN HOLLAND

The laggard winter ebbed so slow With freezing rain and melting snow, It seemed as if the earth would stay Forever where the tide was low, In sodden green and watery gray.

But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of colour long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.

And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In s.h.i.+ning pools of white and gold.

The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, Is gently seeping in, to strew The earth with heaven; and sudden rills Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, Spread into lakes of daffodils.

The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, Have overflowed their sandy beds, And fill the earth with faint perfume, The breath that Spring around her sheds.

And now the tulips break in bloom!

A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, A splendour and a mystery, Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: The roads are full of folks in glee, For lo,--to-day is Easter Day!

April, 1916.

ODE

G.o.d OF THE OPEN AIR

I

Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair With flowers below, above with starry lights And set thine altars everywhere,-- On mountain heights, In woodlands dim with many a dream, In valleys bright with springs, And on the curving capes of every stream: Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings Of morning, to abide Upon the secret places of the sea, And on far islands, where the tide Visits the beauty of untrodden sh.o.r.es, Waiting for wors.h.i.+ppers to come to thee In thy great out-of-doors!

To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, G.o.d of the open air.

II

Seeking for thee, the heart of man Lonely and longing ran, In that first, solitary hour, When the mysterious power To know and love the wonder of the morn Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; And thou didst meet thy child, Not in some hidden shrine, But in the freedom of the garden wild, And take his hand in thine,-- There all day long in Paradise he walked, And in the cool of evening with thee talked.

III

Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, And lost the child-like love that wors.h.i.+pped and was sure!

For men have dulled their eyes with sin, And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, And built their temple walls to shut thee in, And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.

But not for thee the closing of the door, O Spirit unconfined!

Thy ways are free As is the wandering wind, And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore Their fellows.h.i.+p with thee, In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.

IV

Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, Built up a secret stairway to the height Where stars like angel eyes were s.h.i.+ning clear.

From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, Disciples of the Persian seer Have hailed the rising sun and wors.h.i.+pped thee; And wayworn followers of the Indian sage Have found the peace of G.o.d beneath a spreading tree.

V

But One, but One,--ah, Son most dear, And perfect image of the Love Unseen,-- Walked every day in pastures green, And all his life the quiet waters by, Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye.

To him the desert was a place prepared For weary hearts to rest; The hillside was a temple blest; The gra.s.sy vale a banquet-room Where he could feed and comfort many a guest.

With him the lily shared The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; And every bird that sang beside the nest Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing.

He watched the shepherd bring His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, The fisherman at daybreak fling His net across the waters gray and cold, And all day long the patient reaper swing His curving sickle through the harvest-gold.

So through the world the foot-path way he trod, Breathing the air of heaven in every breath; And in the evening sacrifice of death Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to G.o.d.

Him will I trust, and for my Master take; Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, G.o.d of the open air, To thee I make my prayer.