Songs out of Doors Part 3

If life were always merry, Our souls would seek relief, And rest from weary laughter In the quiet arms of grief.

THE AFTER-ECHO

How long the echoes love to play Around the sh.o.r.e of silence, as a wave Retreating circles down the sand!

One after one, with sweet delay, The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, Have lingered in the crescent bay, Until, by lightest breezes fanned, They float far off beyond the dying day And leave it still as death.

But hark,-- Another singing breath Comes from the edge of dark; A note as clear and slow As falls from some enchanted bell, Or spirit, pa.s.sing from the world below, That whispers back, Farewell.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,-- The after-echo of departed years,-- And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

DULCIORA

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, And grows in silence to an amber dawn Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

A joy that falls into the hollow heart From some far-lifted height of love unseen, Unknown, makes a more perfect melody Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky And the fair ministries of Nature dear, But as they set themselves unto the tune That fills our life; as light mysterious Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, a.s.sumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

MATINS

Flowers rejoice when night is done, Lift their heads to greet the sun; Sweetest looks and odours raise, In a silent hymn of praise.

So my heart would turn away From the darkness to the day; Lying open in G.o.d's sight Like a flower in the light.

THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST

Who watched the worn-out Winter die?

Who, peering through the window-pane At nightfall, under sleet and rain Saw the old graybeard totter by?

Who listened to his parting sigh, The sobbing of his feeble breath, His whispered colloquy with Death, And when his all of life was done Stood near to bid a last good-bye?

Of all his former friends not one Saw the forsaken Winter die.

Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?

Who heard her footfall, swift and light As fairy-dancing in the night?

Who guessed what happy dawn would bring The flutter of her bluebird's wing, The blossom of her mayflower-face To brighten every shady place?

One morning, down the village street, "Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,-- And none had been awake to greet The coming of the maiden Spring.

But look, her violet eyes are wet With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; And in her song my fancy hears A note of sorrow trembling yet.

Perhaps, beyond the town, she met Old Winter as he limped away To die forlorn, and let him lay His weary head upon her knee, And kissed his forehead with regret For one so gray and lonely,--see, Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.

1873.

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.