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Title: Among the Trees Again Author: Evaleen Stein Release date: December 7, 2015 [eBook #50634] Most recently updated: October 22, 2024 Language: English Credits: Produced by David Edwards, David Maranhao and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMONG THE TREES AGAIN *** ----------------------- _Among the Trees Again_ ----------------------- [Illustration: Among the Trees Again By Evaleen Stein The Bowen-Merrill Company Indianapolis ] COPYRIGHT 1902 THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY OCTOBER ----------------------- _To the memory of my beloved brother Orth Harper Stein_ ----------------------- _CONTENTS_ PAGE AMONG THE TREES AGAIN 3 APRIL CONTRADICTIONS 21 APRIL MORNING 8 AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE 34 AT NIGHT 50 BETWEEN SEASONS 40 BINDWEED 46 BY THE KANKAKEE 64 CACTUS LAND, THE 67 CASCADE RAVINE, THE 71 DREAM ECHOES 20 EARLY NOVEMBER 79 FISHER FOLK, THE 66 FOREBODING 74 GOLDEN WEDDING, THE 78 HOME FIELDS, THE 52 IDEALS 30 IMPATIENT 58 IN LATE SEPTEMBER 75 IN SUMMER DEEPS 54 IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL 16 IN THE MOONLIGHT 45 JANUARY THAW 84 JUNE 42 LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE LIFE BOAT, THE 69 LITTLE LOVE SONG, A 41 LITTLE SISTER, THE 88 MONTEZUMA 38 MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS 85 MY LITTLE MASTER 12 NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE, THE 14 ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY” 11 ON THE PRAIRIE 62 OVER THE SIERRA 61 PERFECT FRIENDSHIP, THE 83 PLEA, A 22 RAIN ON THE RIVER 59 REDBIRD, THE 6 SEA-DREAMS 28 SEA-GARDENS OF SANTA CATALINA, THE 89 SONG 55 SONG OF THOUGHT, A 44 SUMMER SHOWER, THE 49 SUNNY NOON 77 SYMPATHY 53 TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE” 31 THRUSH, THE 36 WHEREFORE WINGS? 81 WINTRY TINTS 82 WISHING-SPRING, THE 7 WOOD FANCY, A 35 _Among the Trees Again_ _I saw a meadow-land, one day; The grass stood green and high, But naught appealed in any way To stay the passer-by._ _Till suddenly the sunlight strayed Those leafy tangles through, And touched to fire, on every blade A golden network grew!_ _A million airy cobwebs gleamed So silken-soft and bright, That all the level lowland seemed A tracery of light._ _And as I watched the webs, I thought The field of life along, As slight as these, so I have wrought With slender threads of song._ _They bind the grass, and blossoms, too, The bee and butterfly, And some go faintly wavering through The tender azure sky._ _Yet still I wait that golden glow Whose fine transmuting art Must smite my web of song, and so Reveal it to the heart._ _Ah therefore, thou, I pray thee, touch These frail threads I have spun, With grace of sympathy, for such Might light them like the sun!_ _AMONG THE TREES AGAIN_ Aye, throb, my heart! is it not sweet to be, To breathe, to bide, by growing things once more! We did not guess before How close our life was locked in greenery. Hark! how the sparrows in the apple tree Are chattering, chirping, till their tiny throats Are fairly brimmed and quivering through and through With rollick notes! Good morrow, little birds! Good morrow! morrow!—O, I would I knew Some light-winged language, kindred singing words Wherein to say This day, this day, at last this happy day I come to be a neighbor unto you! Too long, too long, we heard strange footsteps pass, Harsh, strident echoes stricken out of stone; But never softened by green, growing grass, Or mellowed to faint, earthy undertone. And then, O heart, Did we not ofttimes feel ourselves apart, Alone, Wrought to vague discord by some touch unknown? Did we not weary with a nameless grief, In dreaming of tall clover, daisy sown, Or music blown From the wind-harping of some little leaf? It was not that within the city’s core There dwelt no sympathies, nor interests keen, No human ties to temper its fatigues. —’Twas only that we needed something more; Some note rang wrong; A foolish fancy, may be, but still strong, That life sang sweeter snatched between the green Close-lapping verdure of a fret of twigs. Where all the ground was paven out of sight, And only from a far-off strip of sky My mother Nature strove to speak to me, I could not harken to her voice aright; I knew not why, But ever to mine ears some whispering tree Seemed of the inmost golden soul of her, The best interpreter. And so what wonder, Life, that you and I, Shut out from such glad confidence, should miss And grieve for this. —But all this yearning we’ll forget; for now Within my window, So, By finger-tips, I’ll draw into mine arms this dancing bough, And stroke its silky buds across my lips. O generous-natured, friendly, neighbor tree! Weave gentle blessings in the shade and shine; And granting gracious patience to my plea, Some simple lesson of your lore make mine, Make mine, I pray! O, be a kindly teacher unto me, And I’ll pour out such worshipful heart-wine, Not any bird that sings to you all day, Or nestles to low, leafy lullaby, Shall hold you in such dear observance, nay, Nor love you half so tenderly as I. _THE REDBIRD_ Swept lightly by the south wind The elm leaves softly stirred, And in their pale green clusters There straightway bloomed a bird! His glossy feathers glistened With dyes as richly red As any tulip flaming From out the garden bed. But ah, unlike the tulips, In joyous strain, ere long, This redbird flower unfolded A heart of golden song! _THE WISHING-SPRING_ I knelt beside the fairy spring, Among the tasseled weeds; Far off, with dreamy murmuring, The wind piped through the reeds. Once, twice, the brimming cup I raised With trembling finger-tips, And in its limpid crystal gazed, Nor laid it to my lips. Ah me! the eager heart-desires, So thronging swift they came, My spirit surged like wind-swept fires, I knew not which to name. —Then all at once, I quickly quaffed The shining drops; but lo, The wish with that enchanted draught No man must ever know! _APRIL MORNING_ I lean upon the bridge’s rail, In idle joy, and gazing down, So watch the frothy bubbles sail, And bits of tangled grasses trail Along the current’s tawny brown. The river flows at full to-day; And though within the tide it pours There grow no mocking sycamores, Nor any crystal hints betray The spicewood thickets, nor the pale Soft willow wands of pearly gray, Whose interwoven mazes veil The fretted banks, yet here and there, Adown some swirling eddy, where A delving sunbeam shines, What mines Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold The waters hold! And so, by rapid currents rolled In billowy swells that break and chime In riotous tumult uncontrolled, The March flood plashes past the pier; But through its sweeping tones, I hear The sweet, receding murmurs rhyme The burden of the April time; And throbbing like a glad refrain, Now far, now full, now far again, The freshened breeze Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear The fitful, tinkling cadences. But listen! faint, from out the sheer Deep borders of the morning sky, Slips down the distance-softened cry Of shy wild geese that northward fly; It vibrates nearer, and more near, —And see! There! wheeling into sight, Far as the vision may descry. A level-winged advancing “V,” They keep their swift, unswerving flight. North, north, beyond that scudding fleece Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese, That join their ranks, and journey, too, On,—on,—into the farthest blue. Then, from the boundless space above, I drop my dazzled eyes to view The soft field-grass and meadow-rue, The restful, brown earth, that I love. A trick of blinding sun, maybe, That halo on the hills may prove— And yet, they are so dear to me, The golden glory that they wear Is like none other anywhere, And, in my heart, I hold it true. Though, surely, what least loving eye Could wander up the river there, And see aught otherwise than I? Or could deny That yonder little glimpse is fair? The slender point of jutting land Where, faintly burgeoning anew With rounds of downy buds, there stand A score of water-willow trees In clustered tufts, and twinkling through, Across the stream, beside of these, A line of shining yellow light; And half in sight, And hidden half, upon the right, By wild red-sumac shrubberies, A windmill, rising tall and white, Slow turning in the breeze. And then beyond—but how express, What word in any tongue conveys The depth of dreamy tenderness That laps, and wraps, and overlays The far blue hills, And spills and fills The valleys with pale purple haze? O, what sweet syllables confess The glad heart-happiness that plays Through all my pulses as I gaze, And drink the beauty, past all praise— The old, immortal blessedness Of April days! _ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY”_ A plaintive song, so strangely sweet and old, That all my soul within itself would fold And gently keep so quaint a melody, That like a bird’s its notes of liquid gold Might oft repeat their sweetness unto me. A tale of joyless splendor long ago, Of wedded lady and of loveless woe, How she to soothe her sick heart’s misery Cradled in vines her little child, and so Sang of dear love beneath a greenwood tree. And through it all there runs such saddest plaint, As sweet as lutes, now murmurous, now faint, Till, like the far-heard sighing of the sea, It sweeps in gathering passion past restraint, Then breaks, and croons in mournful minor key. Ah, well-a-day! I listen breathless till I half believe that sorrowing singer still Dreams on divinely by the whispering tree; For in your voice all tenderest heart-strings thrill, And all the woodland’s marvelous minstrelsy! _MY LITTLE MASTER_ O little poet, winging through The sheer, clear blue, Is it the sky you’re singing to? Or is it that afar you see Some leafy, laden apple-tree, And half concealed and half confessed, A nest? Ah, truly now, I would I knew The happy secret of your glee, That joy wherewith you birds are blest, Red-breast! So airy and so light of wing, You soar and sing, I pray, could you not softly fling, My merry minstrel, down to me Some echo of that melody That spills from out your tiny bill? Some trill Of all those liquid tones that ring So full of purest poetry, That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until They fill These vibrant seas of azure air, Whose blue tides bear Their witching sweetness everywhere? O little master, heed to me! And ah, so true, so tenderly, I’ll learn to sing how lovely grows This rose, Till, by and by, dear heart, I’ll dare To touch some bolder note, maybe, Some chord whence deeper music flows; Who knows? _THE NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE_ The roar of the seas where the freezing clouds lower, The shriek of the storm-wind, the turbulent tide, The conquering currents, all vaunt of their power, And taunt with the centuries’ secret they hide. Of towering icebergs and glittering floes, The sun of the midnight in luminous rings, Of hopes held at bay by beleaguering snows, Of man in his weakness the fierce ocean sings. Bright over the sky the aurora is red, And crimson as life-blood the snowflakes below; Swift updarting streamers of fire overspread All heaven and earth with a roseate glow. Hark! Hark! to the rumble, the thunderous roar Of the ancient ice-mountains that shatter and rend And crash with the tide dashing up on the shore, In turmoil titanic and toil without end. O, woe to the ship that the pitiless clutch Of those crushing ice-demons drags down to her doom! The path to the pole is o’er-scattered with such, And deep sleep the heroes the tempests entomb. Beneath the wan moon of the long arctic night The frost-smitten sea stretches boundless and lone; The Shores of the Dead Men loom spectral and white, In Helheim, the death-goddess waits for her own. But ho, to her hatred! the soul of the brave He bears not who dares not her fury defy! And ho, to her giants of wind and of wave! We crave but to meet and defeat them, or die! Farewell, and farewell!—the anchor rope strains, Loose cable and canvas, and hasten we forth! The fire of desire quivers hot in our veins, We must sail with the gale, to the north! to the north! Must speed with the blast to its ultimate goal, The path of its pinions must follow and find The lure of the ages, the boreal pole, And the measureless halls of the house of the wind! _IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL_ O golden day, wherein at last, Long leagues and wintry overpast, I stand beneath a sky as blue As April violets drenched in dew, And live within a dream come true! From rosy-berried pepper-trees The winds blow spicy fragrances; The palms sway softly to and fro, And down below, Between the glossy leaves of these, The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep The mission garden, where the bees Are hoarding deep Of heliotrope that hangs the wall As for some princely festival, While white and tall Bright lilies bloom in grace untold, And those rare roses, passing all In splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!” O heart, my heart, throb high and fast With rapture! for how couldst thou know Amid the far-off frost and snow Where all the skies are overcast And shrill and chill the north-winds blow, How couldst thou know December heavens anywhere Could show such rare Such tender and divinest guise, That earth and air Could weave such strange, resistless spell As this that folds us flower-wise At sweet San Gabriel! San Gabriel! the holy words Fall soft as music on the ear; I think they are as sweet to hear As any song of summer birds; And harkening them, the while in clear, Pure, quivering notes, The ancient bells begin to chime, In shadowy-wise before me floats A vision of the vanished time. I see again The little band from sunny Spain, Those godly ones, and full of grace, And without stain, Who, heeding neither toil nor pain, Desiring men of every race, That such might see sweet Jesus’ face, And that at length the Lord might reign Among all peoples, even so, Sought in the wilderness this place, And consecrated, long ago. And gazing on the sacred pile Their hands upreared in loving zeal, My heart goes forth to them the while, Those faithful fathers, true and leal! How oft along each cloistered aisle They counted o’er and o’er their beads, While in this garden, unawares, The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds. —And richly as the flowers, the prayers Bore fruit in gentle deeds! In arched embrasures, lifted high Against the sky, The bells in clear-cut beauty show; And loftier still, surmounting all, And blessing thus the ancient wall, A cross,—and on its summit, lo! A slender bird with pearly breast Sits peacefully at rest! Ah me! Ah me! I know not why This little bird with folded wings, The cross, the tender azure sky, Their pure, exceeding beauty brings Swift tears, and smites my heart, till I Am almost fain To hide mine eyes for very pain! Yet though thus for a little space I bow my face, Nor any grace Of rose or lily can I see, I know the while that memory, Clear-eyed and free, Upon my heart is graving deep Each least, sweet loveliness, to keep Through all the coming years for me. And it shall be, In afterwhiles, when far away, When wintry skies are bleak and gray And no birds sing, I shall grow glad remembering The sweetness of this scarlet day. _DREAM ECHOES_ A little while ago I caught, In cadence pure and clear, A waft of faintest music, wrought Upon my inner ear. A part of some elusive theme Whose sweetly solemn air My soul had harkened in a dream, I know not when nor where. I only know my heart-strings stirred With strange, forgotten pain, That crept upon me as I heard That unremembered strain. A sense of loneliness untold, So boundless, deep, unknown, I blindly reached my hands to hold Your palms within my own! _APRIL CONTRADICTIONS_ I watch the little pear buds break And slip their silky sheaths, And flowers on the maples make A thousand russet wreaths, —Then something blinds my sight, and I Am full of grief, yet know not why! A rosy purple half betrays The wealth the lilacs fold; The torches of the tulips blaze In flames of red and gold; Peach boughs are blossoming above, —But oh, the vague heartache thereof! The blue sky wears in gentle wise Its loveliness again; All April sunshine,—yet mine eyes Are brimmed with April rain! The presage of sweet days to be, So strange a sadness stirs in me! _A PLEA_ Two years ago, it is two years to-day,— It seems a score!—since that sweet, bloomy May When on the barren sea you sailed away. The peach-trees then were in a rosy glow, And down below, The tulip buds had just begun to show. —And yet, dear heart, I know Though all the heaven smiled in tender blue, It shone not so to you. Sorrow had hooded all your skies in gray, And when these dancing boughs put on their gay, Bright May-time bravery, they only grieved A heart bereaved. And though glad robins sang to you to stay, And by the stream the first sweet-flags unfurled Seemed nature’s truce to sorrow,—every way Held warring memories wherewith to gainsay And send you wandering over half the world. Ah, well do I remember how my prayers Went with you, dear, and followed unawares; So speeding ever, winging far and wide About the path wherein your ship should ride, And pleading Heaven that most gentle airs And tempered tide Might bear you safely to the farther side. Then, when I knew your voyage over,—then, —For surely now, at last, I may confess, Now that I have outgrown its bitterness, Though, sometimes, I can almost feel again, Remembering those days, that keen distress, Yes, jealousy it was! not any less, That constantly Wrapped all my thoughts of you beyond the sea!— I feared lest other lives, more large and wide Than mine has been, might, day by day, divide And win your life and love away from me. And I was fearful for dear nature, too; I could not bear To think that heaven anywhere should wear A hue more deeply, more divinely blue Than this home sky that we together knew; Or that there grew Strange bud or bloom to make the earth more fair. —A most unworthy fancy, it is true; Since nature is but nature everywhere, The same kind mother, in whatever land; So too, maybe, could we but understand, All hearts and loves are only as a part Of one great Heart Whose universal pulses so expand That any lesser life that therein beats Should no more dream of this word “jealousy” Than yonder shining flakes of bloom should be Jealous, forsooth, of the whole hawthorn tree That is but one with their own mass of sweets. And so, at last, through blind, unreasoning grief Beyond belief, Brightly within my heart there did uprise Love’s loyalty, rebuking in this wise: “Has she not spoken, oft and oft again, These three plain words ‘I love you’? Wherefore, then, What right have you To deem mere distance could her love undo? To fancy aught exists that could estrange Her heart from yours, wherein there is no change, Or judge her own to be less simply true?” And then, in shame, I swiftly put aside All faintest questioning; thenceforth to abide In trust as pure, as boundless, and as wide As still sea-deeps, unvexed of any tide. Nay, I have learned to cherish rightly, too, All light and life that minister to you. I hold most dear Whatever least thing brings you smallest cheer; And, day by day, my ceaseless prayer is this, That from the changeful, many-colored grace Of time and place, Your grief may come to weave a chrysalis Round its dead hopes, till waking, by and by, It shall find wings to bear it to the sky. —But, dear,—God knows I would not do you wrong, Nor touch one heart-string if it be not strong,— But O, so long, So long it seems! You have been gone so long! The feather-grass is growing green and high, And, piping gaily in an azure throng, The bluebirds spangle all the air with song; Again aflame the rosy peach boughs burn; —Can not you, too, return? On slender stems the nodding wind-flowers blow, And bloodroots grow Where high the hedges fling their lacing frets Along the lanes; while, softly sifting through Tall plumy weeds and silver spider-nets, The yellow sunbeams filter down below Until I know Not any fair Italian sky is blue As is our earth to-day with violets! Nor do I think that even that Syrian sun You watched ride high above Damascus’ towers, In purer light or richer splendor glowed Than any one Of these most lovely golden dawns of ours That wake the birds along the river road. The green ravines are newly fringed with fern; From out the brake a robin red-breast calls; The stream repeats, at rippling intervals, “Can you not now return?” But what avail in striving to compare Earth’s endless beauties, whether east or west! All lands are lovely, and I am aware That unto me this little spot seems fair, More rare Than all the gathered glories of the rest, Because I love it best. And so, in truth, I feel that chief I plead A selfish need; I too, like nature, long to greet the spring! Indeed I think I never have confessed, Nor have you guessed How much of May it is your gift to bring. You never knew how wintry was the cloud Of haunting sadness, that would ofttimes shroud My inmost being, and creep up to chill The warmer currents of my life,—until, In knowing you, I felt a pulse like that sweet, joyous thrill That breaks the buds when all the skies are blue! The bitter storms of grief I did not fear When you were near. But sometimes now I have grown half afraid That unforgotten frost of pain that used To wrap my nature will again invade The singing streams your April touch had loosed. Spring’s subtler spells alone I can not learn, —Ah, will you not return? Yet if it chance that prayed-for peace you sought Be not at length to full perfection wrought, If still in vain Time strives with memory,—then, dear, I would fain Let be as naught All I have uttered; and I will refrain From any whispered wish, or word, or thought, That might to you in anywise complain. However much my eager heart may miss, How much for you my very soul may yearn, I will seek patience, confident in this, That some time, surely, Love shall conquer pain, And then, dear heart, I know you will return. _SEA-DREAMS_ I sat upon the mossy rocks Beside the southern sea, While overhead the summer clouds Were drifting lazily. I watched their purple shadows trail Across the sea and hide Within the hollows of the waves That rode the rising tide. Sometimes the little flakes of foam Dashed up in twinkling spray; And out along their silver paths The ships sailed far away. As through the sun I followed them With straining, eager eyes, From out the sparkling waves I saw A shining vision rise. It seemed a ghostly castle white, With battlement and tower, That hung on the horizon’s verge By some unearthly power. I saw its spectral turrets gleam As white as ivory, And wondered who the wizard king That reigned upon the sea. —But while, with breathless gaze, I watched This castle, by and by It vanished in the underworld Beyond the sea and sky! _IDEALS_ I would that I could weave a song As airy and as light, As are the roundelays that throng Within my heart to-night. I would that I might set to tune The beauty of this hour, When, like a primrose bud, the moon Breaks into golden flower. And all the happy, lilting notes, Beyond divinest words, That nestle in the downy throats Of little sleeping birds, The breeze-borne scent of mignonette, That in the garden grows, Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet Upon the briar-rose, These things it is, whose voices I Have sought for overlong; Yet still their cunning tones defy The artifice of song. _TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE”_ Thou wonder of the warrior prow, Supreme, immortal Victory! Before thy majesty I bow And all my soul flames forth to thee! Within the shadow of thy wings A thousand voices sound for me; In far, tumultuous murmurings, I catch the echo of the sea; The salty surge that rolls more near, Till loud and clear In mighty thunder tones I hear The rush of old Ægean tides, The bright, white waves that from the shore Sweep seaward with unceasing roar; In dawning skies the day-star guides, Across the surf the seabirds call, Whilst white and tall With swift sails swelling over all, The shield-hung warship rides. And like the heaven-born dreams that soar From hero spirits, eagle-wise, And urge to deeds of great emprise And fly before The eager, throbbing hearts that know No goal but victory, even so, Above the restless breakers’ roar, Upon the high cliff evermore Thou standest with bright wings outspread, In all thy fresh-wrought godlihead, Beloved of the conqueror! And as I gaze I seem to trace The features of thy fearless face, The matchless marvel of its grace That like a star Across the seas of Samothrace Shone forth afar; I hear the southern winds intone Whilst backward blown Thy trailing garments, fluttering From out the slender girdle, cling About thy limbs and so confess Their lines of perfect loveliness; Then suddenly o’er everything Great shouts and martial echoes ring! I see thee, storm-like, rushing past Thy hand upon the carven mast, And harken whilst thy proud lips fling The loud, triumphal trumpet blast! O glorious image! what if time Hath smitten with ungentle touch Thy perfect beauty? Still sublime Thou art a conqueror, and still All men unite to name thee such! Before thee all my pulses thrill, Old hopes and dreams awake in me; O Victory, Lead, lead but thou mine eager will, I follow fast and far until Some day my ship shall harbor thee! _AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE_ As to the summer air the rose Pours forth her perfume all the day, For every careless wind that blows To scatter far away, So gives my heart to thee the rare Fine fragrance of its sweetest thought, And thou art heedless as the air Whereto the rose is naught! _A WOOD FANCY_ The mandrakes lift, like little mosques, Their domes between the vines, And butterflies for worshipers Are flocking to their shrines. And from tall, tapering mullein towers And minarets of green, The honey-bee muezzins drone To bloodroot buds between, That pilgrim-wise along the road Come trooping to the light, In pale green caftans closely wound And turbans spotless white. While all the way with budding things Is tufted thicker than The praying mats the Persian weaves In streets of Ispahan. And listen! with a lordly note Like joyous burst of drums, In gorgeous gown of gold and black The oriole sultan comes! _THE THRUSH_ The creamy dogwood branches, The rosy redbud trees, The drifts of sweet wild-plum bloom O’erhung by honey bees, The gleaming buckeye blossoms The south wind blew apart, Oh, all the woods awaking, They overfilled my heart! Then clear, from out a thicket, There rang that golden note That flutes from none but only The tawny thrush’s throat; So charged with all sweet secrets The April has to tell, I bowed my head and harkened, Enchanted by its spell. Till presently that magic Heart-melting melody Drew all my soul to meet it In sudden ecstasy. My spirit found its pinions In blessed bird-like birth, And knew the joyous passion That thrilled through all the earth. The while the thrush was singing, I heard the violets stir, And through the dreamy woodlands The breaking buds confer; I half divined the glories Of all the springs to be, —When, O, the song was silent! The thrush had flown, ah me! _MONTEZUMA_ On a lofty mountain summit In a tawny, desert land, Lo, a mighty human profile, But not hewn by human hand; In the living rock forever Looming dark, majestic, grand. O’er its outline, heaven fronting, When the dawn’s first radiance streams With its rosy touch, and tender, Then this face of granite seems As a sleeper’s unawakened From the thrall of peaceful dreams. But when down the western heavens Sinks the setting sun, blood-red, Then the mountain mists that mantle Cover close that quiet head, As men draw a pall of purple Round about their kingly dead. And the stars, like lighted tapers, Flicker forth in golden rows From the heaven’s holy altar, Whilst the night-wind as it blows Seems to chant a solemn requiem For the passing soul’s repose. Head of royal Montezuma, So the ancient legends tell; Montezuma, granite shrouded By some great enchanter’s spell, Lying lordly by the borders Of the land he loved so well. But in silence unrevealing Still that calm face fronts the sky; Heeding neither tears nor laughter, Nor if sun or storm go by; Keeping still its primal counsel, In repose, serene and high. _BETWEEN SEASONS_ The cherry trees are haunted By hordes of robber jays, And warmer winds are fanning The poppies to a blaze. And loosed in fitful flurries, The sweet syringas fall, To lie like little snow-drifts Against the garden wall. Upon the laden lattice, In softly rounding shapes, A wealth of tiny clusters Are growing into grapes. Heigho! a drowsy shimmer Enfolds the sunny hours; And humming-birds are hidden In scarlet trumpet-flowers. The tenderness of springtime Is almost overpast; But O, the gracious summer, It comes, it comes at last! _A LITTLE LOVE SONG_ My heart was like a sunless, cold, Unlovely land of ice and snow, Wherein no blessed buds unfold, Nor singing waters flow. Then all at once the April skies Laughed in your look, and at that hour My spirit melted, torrent-wise, My life broke into flower! O dearest heart, I had not guessed What marvel of immortal seeds Lay hidden deep within my breast, Beneath its barren weeds! But now I know, but now I know The glory of the flower of love, The joyous splendor of its glow, The subtile pain thereof! _JUNE_ High overhead, By summer breezes sped, From every latest burgeoned bough The last, spring petals fall; And red, red, red, Along the garden bed, The poppy plants are holding now Their crimson carnival. Clear, sweet, and strong, I hear the robin’s song, And catch the merry caroling Of some bold bobolink; And phlox flowers throng The garden ways along, While peonies and roses bring Their pageantries of pink. White, gold, and green, The lily spires are seen, And hollyhocks, in stately rows, With tufted buds are set; Tall, in between, The growing sunflowers lean, And thick the sweet alyssum shows Among the mignonette. Ho! truant May! Have you, then, gone astray, Unwitting that in realms of June Return were no avail? Ah, well-a-day! So wings the spring away; The summer’s ever oversoon, But June, sweet June, all hail! _A SONG OF THOUGHT_ O, the ships have sails for the swelling gales, The falcon flies in the wake of the wind, In the speed of the steed of the Bedouin breed The blood leaps high to the hoof-beats’ lead, As the leagues are left behind. But what care I For the birds that fly, Or all the vessels that sail the sea; The blasts that blow Till the trees bend low, Or the barbs of Araby! I spring to birth with the dust of earth, Yet span the heaven from pole to pole; Or flashing far as the farthermost star, I know no barrier, bound nor bar To hold from my boldest goal. The storm’s red spark As it cleaves the dark, With my viewless wings it can not keep pace; More fleet than light My measureless flight To the starless ends of space! _IN THE MOONLIGHT_ The moonbeams filter softly through The leaves upon the linden tree; And as I sit alone, dear heart, My spirit yearns for thee! Yet in some gracious-wise to-night We do not seem far worlds apart; I reach my empty arms and dream I fold thee to my heart. I close my brimming eyes, and see The strange, sweet beauty of thy smile, And fancy that our palms are met In loving clasp the while. In soft, clear tones, I seem to hear The long-hushed voice I loved so well; —I tremble, lest a breath should break This moment’s happy spell! O brother mine, could it be true Thine own dear presence hovers near To comfort with this heavenly peace Thy little sister here? _BINDWEED_ Along the lane I idly pass Unheeding where the footpath goes, And loiter through the ripe wild-grass That down the open roadway grows In feathery, tall tufts that rise In filmy tangles, misty-wise; The grass that when the south wind blows, Shines out and shows Shot through with silver lights and rose, And tiny gold and violet seeds That quiver off each gleaming stem And powder all the wayside weeds, And like a glory cover them. With eager palms I gently press Soft sheaves of it against my lips In sheer delight; and so caress And fondle with light finger-tips, And watch its beauty when the bright, Clear spears of light Pierce through its slender leaves and smite Their rose and purple, till my sight Is dazzled with its loveliness! In verdant nets along the way The tendrils of a wild-grape vine Through elder thickets intertwine; And poising lightly on a spray Of fruited bramble stems where shine Close clustering berries, red as wine, A little thistle-bird, still gay In April’s yellow plumage, clings With airy grace, and slowly swings, And lifts his wings In dainty, drowsy flutterings; They flicker like bright flakes of gold, And fan his body, small and slim, While lovingly the winds enfold And summer’s heart broods over him. The sky is softer than the blue Of cornflower buds beneath the dew; And down below Upon the marshy meadow swales The bindweed weaves its rosy veils Where thick the blowing rushes grow Among the tasseled reeds and rue; And up between the mossy rails It lightly climbs, and clambers through The growing corn, and barley, too, And winds the fallow weeds and trails Along the creek where cowslips grew. O lavish stems, that fondly fling Close clasp about the earth, and cling In wreaths of fragrant flowering, Ev’n as ye do To that dear soil wherefrom ye spring, So does my love cleave thereunto! And so my full heart-blossoms bind The bright midsummer fields, and find Sweet fellowships with everything! _THE SUMMER SHOWER_ The air is shot with spangling drops, But heedless of the rain The sun laughs, through a silver veil, Upon the golden grain. And lightly arching up the east In faintly penciled lines, That throb and flush to tinted bars, A double rainbow shines. It seems to touch the fragrant earth, Till, tangled in the breeze, It winds a film of irised light About the distant trees. In frothy clusters down the road The blooming elders lean, With dripping buds that shine like pearls Within a sea of green. And heaped around them, pink as shells, The roses are in flower, While earth and sky are freshly keyed To sweetness by the shower. _AT NIGHT_ Come, draw more near! Clasp hands with me! Ah close, and closer still! The night spreads to infinity! And through my heart a sudden chill, —I pray loose not your loving hold!— A fear, a loneliness untold Smites sharply, till mine eyes o’erfill! Nor have I strength nor stress of will To set my spirit free. The cold, the darkness, and the dread Immensity of space, The great, wan moon, whose ghostly face For ages has been dead, The weird lights wheeling overhead, The unknown worlds that onward roll, In endless wanderings ever led, That find no goal, The spectral mists that overspread With pallid light the lesser stars, The lurid glow that glimmers red Across the front of Mars, —O dearest heart, when all is said, I am afraid! and from the whole Wide waste of worlds I hide my sight, And from the boundless night! The ancient mystery of the skies, Their silent depths from pole to pole, The void, the vastness terrifies! —O, let me rather search your eyes, And with your sweet, warm touch disperse This terror of the universe That strikes into my soul! _THE HOME FIELDS_ The fields are full of sunlight, And leafy golden-green, And misty purple shadows Are flitting in between; The flaky elder flowers Are drenched with honey-dew, And all the distant woodlands Stand veiled in tender blue. Half seen between green thickets Of grape-vine and wild rose, In twinkling swirls of silver The lazy river flows; While down the grassy roadside The milkweed balls are bright, And waving prince’s-feather Is tipped with snowy white. Ah, ever-dearest home-land, ’Tis here my spirit sings! And as my heart caresses The sweet, familiar things, Such rare midsummer magic Distills through all the air, I think these fields are fairer Than any anywhere! _SYMPATHY_ To-night a little child lies dead; I never saw its face; I try to fancy now instead Its lines of baby grace. And for the sake of her who weeps These lonely watches through So wakefully my spirit keeps A weary vigil, too. A thousand thoughts appeal to me In close-besieging crowd; But through them all I only see A little, snow-white shroud. Nor may I set dull grief at naught, However I am fain; Since when the heart-strings are distraught, The will must strive in vain. Ah me! there breaks the dawning sun, In golden light serene; Yet still I mourn this little one, Whom I have never seen! _IN SUMMER DEEPS_ Through sunny spaces overhead A gray hawk’s lazy pinions spread, And poppies open wide and red Where golden harvests grew. In rosy wreaths upon the swales And fallow fields the bindweed trails, And late-sown buckwheat swiftly pales To blossoming anew. The pond within the pasture land Reflects the cattle as they stand In depths of dipping sedges and Of tangled meadow-rue. In silver splashes through the green, Fine, filmy spider-webs are seen, And crumpled cockle-flowers between Are rifts of tender blue. On stately stalks of standing corn A wealth of cresting plumes are borne, And tawny tasseled tufts adorn The ripened barley, too. So, steeping nature far and wide, Deep sweeps the flood of summer-tide, Till all things that therein abide Are richly tinctured through. _SONG_ O, fresh from off the ocean The salt wind riots through The fragrant fern and bay-leaves And dripping honey-dew. The morning’s on the moorland, And flashing, far away, I glimpse the foam-white seagulls And feathers of the spray. O hasten! let us hasten! The tide sings up the sand The song my heart has harkened Across long leagues of land. So far, far have I journeyed, Such weary ways, O sea! Breathe, breathe me breath of life now, And steep the soul of me! _IMPATIENT_ Some day, when summer’s overpast, And loosed by frost, in gold and brown These greenly clinging leaves drift down, When shrill winds hush The robin red-breast and the thrush, When all the skies are overcast With racks of rain, so chill and gray Not any burgeoning may be,— Some day, Across far foreign lands and vast Unbounded spaces of the sea, So homeward, homeward, journeying fast, At last She will come back to me! I reckon up, in daily sum, The time until that scarlet date; I think the fall will never come, So wearily I wait! The hours seem leaguing to belate The days, that never crept so slow; And yet, I used to love the summer so! But now my heart may only fret And pray for it to go. And yearning so, with lashes wet, I half forget The greenery on every bough, How red the poppies are, and how Amid the tufted mignonette The scented south-winds gently blow; I heed them not,—I only know Time never seemed so long as now! I search the azure skies in vain, No hint of autumn rain! No hint of fall from bluebirds, nor Green fields of growing grain. Then idly reckoning, as before, I strive anew to make less far That glad date on the calendar; To number less the days that are, The changes fixed for sun and star, The moons that yet must wax and wane; Thus evermore With fresh impatience, o’er and o’er, I count the hours;—yet still am fain To tell them over once again. O hasten, hasten, autumn days! Sear swift this dewy, summer green! I am grown weary with delays; Speed! Speed! Bring bitter winds and chill, nor heed The mellow sweets between! What if the dead leaves strew the ways, And southward all the songs take wing? Despite all cheerless frosts that be, My eager heart awaits the spring, So knowing she will surely bring The birds and May to me. _RAIN ON THE RIVER_ The skies are gray, where far and wide, Beyond the water-willows, The marshes spread their emerald tide Of blossom-crested billows. And on the vague horizon’s rim, In vaporous purple masses, The distant woods show soft and dim Across the lush, green grasses. An east wind stirs the ivory balls Upon the button-bushes; And hark! a hidden rain-bird calls From out the blowing rushes. Within the water, yonder spray Of rosy mallow flowers Turns faint and pale, till not more gray The cloudy heaven lowers. And all the birches’ tender green An ashen hue is growing; While mottled with a silver sheen The ruffled waves are flowing. Then softly through the forest leaves, That turn, and toss, and quiver, The rain, with murmurous cadence, weaves A roundel in the river. It dots the waves with dancing pearls, It gleams, and streams, and twinkles; It sweeps and sinks in silvery swirls, And rings, and sings, and tinkles. The clustering sedges dip and sway, Till, after fitful failing, The sun bursts gaily through the gray, And craggy clouds are sailing Where, southward, in a brilliant sky, As light as any feather, The little moon curves white and high, In token of fair weather. _OVER THE SIERRA_ From out the depths of the abyss, Faint echoes of a torrent’s roar O’er crags whence lordly eagles soar To poise above the precipice. A dizzy pathway, sheer and steep; A startled catching of the breath; And, bearing menaces of death, A loosened snow-drift’s sudden sweep! Then, blown from out the upper sky, Keen, fitful gusts of icy air, So light, so tenuous and rare, The heart leaps strangely swift thereby. The white moon floating in the calm Still ether space, so near, it seems, To grasp his eager childhood dreams, One need but thither reach his palm. A sense of majesties and mights, An exaltation born of these; —The summit’s awful silences; A glimpse of Godhead from the heights! _ON THE PRAIRIE_ Across the dewy prairie The morning wind is borne, Beyond the new-mown hayfields, And through the tasseled corn. Upon the silver-maples It lifts the swinging leaves, And steals a subtile sweetness From rows of golden sheaves. Within the sunny orchard The harvest apples fall, While from the tossing branches The saucy jay-birds call. In crinkled, fringy clusters The scarlet poppies burn, Where, softly opening, eastward The yellow sunflowers turn. And nibbling in the garden, Between the cherry trees, I see a robber rabbit Among the pink sweet-peas. While with a fitful fanning, The lazy wind-mill swings, About the bloomy peaches A robin redbreast sings. And in the far horizon There dwells such tender hue, These azure cornflower blossoms Are not so sweet and blue. _BY THE KANKAKEE_ Beneath the forest trees I lie, And watch the deep blue summer sky, And count the white cranes floating by On level wings; And in the undergrowth I hear A bittern softly treading near, While through the willows, sweet and clear, A wood-thrush sings. And flashing, plashing, close to me, With murmurous, melting melody, The swirling, crystal Kankakee Flows deep and swift Through liquid tints and tones untold Of topaz, turquoise, bronze and gold, That in its lucent depths unfold And drift, and sift, Till down among the pearly shells A wealth of changeful color dwells; And like a string of silver bells The ripples ring Through trailing water-weeds that raise Their tangled, yellow blossom-sprays Where in a green and golden maze Tall rushes swing. And far across the glassy tide, The marshes shimmer, low and wide, Where birds and bees and wild things hide In reedy grass Whose wavering, evanescent hues Pale, darken, change, and interfuse, Till my enchanted senses lose All things that pass, And only feel an exquisite Glad throb of light and life complete; While like some subtile essence sweet, The wilderness, The perfumes warm of wave and wood The silence of the solitude, All merge and mingle in my mood, Till half I guess The secrets that the winds impart, And draw so near to nature’s heart I feel her inmost pulses start; While happily I sink upon her fragrant breast, Like yonder thrush within its nest, And deep, entrancing sense of rest Steals over me. _THE FISHER FOLK_ I know a little village Where fisher folk abide; The dark pine woods behind it, The southern sea beside. There rosy pink crape-myrtles In every dooryard grow, And through the glossy live-oaks The salt sea breezes blow. At break of day the fishers Sail out to sea to reap The harvest that they sowed not, The harvest of the deep. Then, when their nets are emptied, They set their sails for land, To heap the shining fishes Upon the shining sand. Where little barefoot children Await them, eager-eyed, And play the while with sea-shells Cast upward by the tide. And all seem so content there, From worldly care so free, I would that I could find it, This secret of the sea! _THE CACTUS LAND_ Land of strange, unearthly beauty, Tawny Desert, over me Thou hast cast the deep enchantment Of some subtile sorcery! These thine endless barren reaches Where no fruitful harvests grow, Unto some bring nameless heartache; But to me thou dost not so! Here, where all the air seems newly From the springs of life distilled, Every breath is like a beaker With rare, sparkling rapture filled! And my heart exults and glories In the strange, compelling power Of enchanting, changeful color, That is thy supremest dower. Joy to me thine ever cloudless Sky of purest turquoise hue, And thy rosy mountain ranges Wrapped in pale, translucent blue. Beautiful the rainbow ether Shifting, shimmering evermore, In diaphanous, dazzling splendors Over all thy boundless floor, Where the low-boughed silver sage-bush Softly tufts the tawny land, And the tropic Spanish bayonet Clusters tall on every hand. While for leagues and leagues the cactus, Child of sun and sand and bare Rainless regions, lifts its columns Through the rare, transparent air. Wild and splendid in thy freedom, Unsubdued as is the sea, From the first, O lordly Desert, Thou hast drawn my heart to thee! Desolate thou art, and silent, Barren both of fruit and flower; Yet I love thine arid grandeur That defies man’s utmost power! _THE LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE LIFE-BOAT_ Beneath his pillow, hid away From careless sight, the nurses say, And safe from any stranger’s view, As miser might some treasure rare, So does he guard, with jealous care, A baby’s shoe. And evermore by day and night, With burning eyeballs fever-bright, This wan survivor of the sea Scans each blank, closing wall in turn, In dim endeavor to discern If sail there be. And then the weary sigh that slips Suspiring from those parching lips No heart may hear nor bleed therefor! As, with hot tears that fall like rain, He soothes a dying baby’s pain And o’er and o’er Croons snatches of soft lullabies To empty arms held cradle-wise. —O human heart-break, love and grief! God pity him in his distress, Ev’n as the sea was pitiless Beyond belief! God comfort, as with straining breath, Unheeding either life or death, Yet still with faint unwitting smile, His fingers fondly seek and fold The little sea-stained shoe, and hold And stroke the while. _THE CASCADE RAVINE_ From off the traveled road that lay Between wide fields of wheat and corn, An old gate, gray and weather-worn, Led down a shady woodland way. One scarce might trace the narrow path, So green it was and overgrown With springtime’s seeded aftermath; Tall grasses that had never known The mower’s scythe or sickle’s scath, And rosy mayweed lightly sown Where’er the summer winds had blown; And all their tangled stems the red Sweet clover blossoms overspread. Near by, through scented, leafy veils Of wreathing vines, and dewy, dense Green underwood, a brood of quails Sped swiftly past the ragged rails That tilted off a mossy fence; And over it, on airy wing, A robin paused in glad content Where budding elder-bushes leant And brambles clambered flowering. Then, suddenly, a low, sweet sound Rose, faintly quivering on the breeze, And all that blossom-studded ground Seemed charged with murmurous mysteries! As if all rarest forest keys In dreamful chords divinely blent, Sang forth from some sweet instrument; While pulsing through, with rhythmic beat, In slumberous melodies there went The soft susurrus of the trees, The wind that wandered through the wheat, And all the changeful strains of these. And as I listened, marveling Where those light, liquid tones might be, Forgetting all and everything Save that enchanting minstrelsy, I wandered slowly through the wood, Till all at once the parted green Revealed its secret, for I stood Upon the verge of a ravine Wherein the sunbeams broke between Tall rustling hemlock boughs, and bright As burnished silver in the light, A tiny stream ran tinkling through, While hidden somewhere out of sight, A little spring made music, too. The shining water slipped and slipped Adown the mossy rocks, and dripped From off fine fringing ferns, in drops Of endless threaded pearls that tipped The tasseled sedge and alder tops With flickering light,—and then it sipped A drowsy draught of sun, and dipped Beneath small clustering buds, and hid Among lush marigolds, and slid Between tall serried ranks of reeds, And stroked their little leaves and lipped The flower-spangled jewel-weeds; Then, speeding suddenly amid Faint shimmering spray, it lightly tripped Across white pebbly sand, and stripped The marsh flowers’ gold, and fled, half seen, A splash of silver through the green. And all the while that music sweet Kept softly murmuring at my feet, As down the rocks in ceaseless streams The limpid cascades poured, and still The slumberous light in yellow beams Bathed the green hemlock boughs,—until I seemed to lose all waking will, And all my soul was lulled to dreams; Wherethrough there floated, drowsy-wise, Bright glints of bird-wings, gracious gleams Of tender, sunlit summer skies, And fleet, sweet visions of the rare Deep, shadowy hearts the forests bear. _FOREBODING_ The scarlet briars trailed across The grave I journeyed far to see; Upon the stone, half hid in moss, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” The birds flew southward down the sky; Upon a golden linden tree The leaves that fluttered seemed to sigh, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” My father’s father slept below So dreamless deep and silently, I spelled the message soft and slow, “Prepare for death, and follow me.” —Ah me! ’twas years ago the birds Fled swift o’er that far golden tree; And wherefore now come back these words, “Prepare for death, and follow me”? _IN LATE SEPTEMBER_ Among the hardy marigolds The spicy gillyflower unfolds, And in the elm a catbird scolds With saucy, outspread wings; To mellow sweets the pippins speed, The sunflower disks are brown with seed, And round about them finches feed In clinging, yellow rings. The latest poppy fires are dead, But bright as blossoms overhead In shining sheaves of bronze and red, The frost-tipped pear leaves show; While from their branches blackbirds sing Or break to noisy chattering; And slender silken cobwebs string The tall grass down below. Along the uplands, faintly seen Across the fallow fields between, The winter wheat grows bravely green Despite the coming cold; And studding all the stubbled ground In tasseled shocks the corn is bound, The ripened ears heaped close around In piles of purest gold. To smoky wreaths along the ways The newly kindled brush-heaps blaze, And filmy veils of purple haze Mesh all the amber air; Among the fleeces of the sheep The yellow sunbeams softly creep, And sweet contentment, wide and deep, Rests gently everywhere. _SUNNY NOON_ The rose-trees and the barberries Are strung with coral beads; And fitful breezes lightly sift The ripened poppy-seeds. Still, heedless of the nipping frost, Along the garden bed The white and purple gillyflowers Their spicy fragrance shed. And weaving richest tapestries Upon the lattice frame, The woodbine laces in and out In gold, and rose, and flame. Along the wall the grapevines trace Their brown and twisted frets, And all the trailing clematis Is hung with soft aigrettes. Through fringes that the larches wave The sky shows fair and blue, And somewhere, from beneath the eaves, I hear the pigeons coo. The glory of the noonday sun Pervades the dreamy air, And the sweet heart of beauty throbs In music everywhere. _THE GOLDEN WEDDING_ More sweet than all the buds that blow Where summer’s rarest roses grow, More splendid than white lily spires, Or shining, scarlet poppy fires, Love’s fragrant flower,—even so, The blossom of the heart’s desires. And richer than all fields enfold Or all earth’s burdened branches hold, Than any autumn vintage red, Or yellow sheaves new harvested, Love’s ripened fruit of mellow gold, The sum of life, when all is said. _EARLY NOVEMBER_ O the sweetness of the jangle Of the sheep-bells, in the tangle Of the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees! —Ah, the silence when it ceases! But the beauty of the fleeces, And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices! And beyond them, and the network Of the dogwood, and the fretwork Of the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land, I can see the color showing Where the winter-wheat is growing, With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band. While among the many-seeded Tufts of russet weeds, unheeded, Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field; Their white feathers like the glosses Of the shining silver bosses That adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield. In long loops from off the hedges, Trailing downward to the edges Of the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound; Fairy clues that lead my eager Errant fancy to beleaguer Some concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground. Till the sun begins the lighting Of his western fires, that smiting Through the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame; An irradiating splendor That transfigures all the slender Little leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name! O, I know the year is going! Neither reaping-time nor sowing Will restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead: Yet I cherish all their sweetness In the ripeness and completeness Of the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested. _WHEREFORE WINGS?_ Heigho, sparrow! Reckless of the rain; When chill the cheerless wind grows, Chirping might and main! Is it naught, then, when the rose Blows again? Beating, sleeting on your draggled coat! Surely, ’tis enough to drown Any happy note Nestling in that downy brown Little throat. Ah me, sparrow! Had I but your power, Think you in the freezing sleet I would waste an hour? —I’d sing my sweetest to a sweet Orange flower! _WINTRY TINTS_ The sky is like an opal, And the horizon’s ring Is yellow, like a band of gold, To hold so rich a thing. The wheat-fields are as fleecy As any cloud that blows, But tawny tufts of standing corn Prick lightly through the snows. Beside the drift-bound wind-mill A pearly shadow plays In tones of tender violet, And vague, elusive grays. And tinged with quiet olive The hedges fine and bare, Whose thorny masses down the road An alien softness wear. O, subtile chords of color Are fingered by the frost! Though touched and tuned to colder key, No grace of earth is lost. For see! a deep red ruby The opal heaven grows, And yonder pool of ice is one Great golden-hearted rose! _THE PERFECT FRIENDSHIP_ There is a garden so divinely fair That in its magic bound, surpassing sweet, The golden buds, so Persian songs repeat, Spring forth immortal in enchanted air; But, ah, a close there is, more heavenly rare, Where, cherished warm within the heart’s retreat, Love’s whitest lilies burgeon to complete And fragrant flowering lovely past compare. O dearest friend, such lilies have I found Within my heart, undreamed-of but for thee! Nor any fabled buds of genie’s ground Are sweeter in their immortality; When thou art near, like notes of happy birds, My thoughts uprise in songs that need no words. _JANUARY THAW_ The brook has broken through its glass, And where the snows were drifted Round tangled blades of last year’s grass, The yellow sun is sifted. Uncovered by the melting night And warm, deceiving day-time, The myrtle bed is green and bright As in the midst of Maytime! I almost fancy that I hear The hum of bees in clover, And from the maples, glad and clear, The first red-robin lover. A mock spring laughs in mocking skies, (O little buds, be wary!) And masking in sweet April’s guise The youthful year makes merry. _MORNING ON THE MOUNTAIN_ Upon the gray crags, steep and sheer, The columbines’ gold tassels swing, And wind-flowers cling, Where, lightly poised, the mountain deer Drink in the dewy atmosphere In long, deep draughts of sun and spring; From haunts that know no hunter’s snare The hermit-thrush and wood-dove wing, Whilst through green openings squirrels fare And here and there Great, silvery moths go fluttering. Along the valley, in a trail Of purple light, the mist clouds sail, And, soft and pale As wreaths of newly risen smoke, They wrap the red-wood trees and veil The topmost crests of pine and oak, And balsam boughs and juniper Wherethrough the west winds faintly stir The underwood, and gently stroke The tall young ferns, and smooth the fur Of countless happy forest-folk. Wild little hearts, that throb unknown Save to the fondling winds alone, Bright eyes, that sparkle free of fear, O earth is sweet, and life is dear! Here in these forests, still your own, In primal peace, this many a year God keep you here! Here where across the waking lands Young willows wave their bloomy wands, Whilst up the heights and far away The pine trees climb in singing bands And feathery spruces surge and sway And clap their cones, like little hands, For gladness of the day! Up, up, they clamber on until The tenuous air smites keen and chill, And far winds blow From leagues of everlasting snow; And then the mountain buds, more bold, Their sheaths unfold And light their golden fires and glow With flame unquenched by frost or cold. Whilst ever o’er them, shimmering high Against the sky, A glittering, crystal radiance streams, Wherein the mountain floats and gleams Through frosty fleeces, till it seems That some great morning star, instead Of earth, hangs trembling overhead, A dream of all most lovely dreams! An airy miracle, overspread With veils of silvery tissue spun Of ice and mist and snow and sun. A dazzle of all lights in one! I watch it till, tall towering there Through brightening air, Such special splendor does it wear It seems the sun’s own citadel, At sight whereof my lips grow dumb With joy I find no voice to tell; So stricken silent, as with some Deep gladness of o’ermastering spell; Nor any song of mine may dare To follow where The summit’s utmost radiant peak, Bright as God’s chosen cherubim, Soars through the smiling sky to seek And fearless front the face of Him. _THE LITTLE SISTER_ Along the street a tiny pair Of childish figures lately went; The boy’s face wore a fearless air, The little sister’s sweet content. He closely clasped her chubby hand, And led her through the throng, while she Seemed perfectly to understand He would protect her loyally. And as I watched them pass from sight, My heart began to ache, for so I held my brother’s fingers tight And toddled down the long ago. Then all at once, beyond control, The tears uprose in blinding rain, Such hopeless yearning stirred my soul To lay my hand in his again! _THE SEA-GARDENS OF SANTA CATALINA_ Lightly let the boat go drifting, Neither hand nor oar uplifting, Let no motion fret the ocean, and no sail be now unfurled; Stranger than Aladdin’s story, Lo, the dream-surpassing glory And the marvel unimagined of the limpid underworld! Gaze within the magic mirror Of the water, crystal clearer Than the gleaming glass enchanted, made by Merlin’s sorcery And behold the secrets hidden Through the ages, till unbidden Sons of men came sailing, sailing down the blue Pacific sea. See the pearl-encrusted portals Of the caverns, wherein mortals Dare not pierce with earthly vision, dare not fare with feet profane; Coral-columned halls with golden Thrones in emerald deeps withholden, Lit with sparkling amber splendor, where the merry mermen reign. See the long kelp banners flying From their gardens underlying All the rare, transparent surface of this sunny, southern sea; Grasses, shot with silver spangles, Wreathed and caught in starry tangles Of the purple ocean-pansy and the fringed anemone. And the brilliant sea-weeds scattered Like a gay mosaic shattered In a million shining fragments over all the ocean floor; While the bright-hued fish go darting In swift journeys, meeting, parting, Weaving gold and scarlet patterns through the water evermore. Through the light that throbs and quivers Down the depths, and breaks and shivers Into splintered flakes of brightness, that so melt and interfuse Into all such strangest ranges Of translucent color changes, That the eye is thrilled, bewildered, with their rare enchanting hues. —Ah, would thus upon the gleaming Southern sea, in happy dreaming, We might drift and drift forever! never shoreward guide the keel! Azure skies, forever smiling, Into visions sweet beguiling, And beneath our boat the splendor of those rosy dreams made real! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Original spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been kept unchanged. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMONG THE TREES AGAIN *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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