Later Poems Part 21

Is my will as sweet as the wild grape, Spreading delight on the air For the pa.s.ser-by's enchantment, Subtle and unaware?

Have I as brave a spirit, Sprung from the self-same mould, As this weed from its own contentment Lifting its shaft of gold?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine's crimson's sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of pa.s.sing days.

These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, filled full of gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee's call of valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries;

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty of peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friends.h.i.+p, Where beneficent truth is supreme,-- Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That cannot rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

Lines for a Picture

When the leaves are flying Across the azure sky, Autumn on the hill top Turns to say good-by;

In her gold-red tunic, Like an Eastern queen, With untarnished courage In her wilding mien.

All the earth below her Answers to her gaze, And her eyes are pensive With remembered days.

Yet, with cheek ensanguined, Gay at heart she goes On the great adventure Where the north wind blows.

The Deserted Pasture

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have.

The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year.

Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For b.u.t.tercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October pa.s.ses In gorgeous livery,-- In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive And pitch their tents therein.

Autumn

Now when the time of fruit and grain is come, When apples hang above the orchard wall, And from the tangle by the roadside stream A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air, Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan, Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay And tattered colors of the Orient, Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills.

The woods of Wilton at her coming wear Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand: The maples glow with their Pompeian red, The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold; And while the crickets fife along her march, Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.

November Twilight

Now Winter at the end of day Along the ridges takes her way,

Upon her twilight round to light The faithful candles of the night.

As quiet as the nun she goes With silver lamp in hand, to close

The silent doors of dusk that keep The hours of memory and sleep.

She pauses to tread out the fires Where Autumn's festal train retires.

The last red embers smoulder down Behind the steeples of the town.

Austere and fine the trees stand bare And moveless in the frosty air,

Against the pure and paling light Before the threshold of the night.

On purple valley and dim wood The timeless hush of solitude

Is laid, as if the time for some Transcending mystery were come,

That shall illumine and console The penitent and eager soul,

Setting her free to stand before Supernal beauty and adore.

Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico It is the hour of prayer. And lo,

Above the earth, serene and still, One star--our star--o'er Lonetree Hill!