The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 63

Oh, wot's the use o' "red G.o.ds," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff?

The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!

An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

California, 1913.

A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES

For Archie Rutledge

Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Just about the proper size For the trout of d.i.c.key's Run,-- Luck go with them every one!

Dainty little feathered beauties, Listen now, and learn your duties: Not to tangle in the box; Not to catch on logs or rocks, Boughs that wave or weeds that float, Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat!

Not to lure the glutton frog From his banquet in the bog; Nor the lazy chub to fool, Splas.h.i.+ng idly round the pool; Nor the sullen horned pout From the mud to hustle out!

None of this vulgarian crew, Dainty flies, is game for you.

Darting swiftly through the air Guided by the angler's care, Light upon the flowing stream Like a winged fairy dream; Float upon the water dancing, Through the lights and shadows glancing, Till the rippling current brings you, And with quiet motion swings you, Where a speckled beauty lies Watching you with hungry eyes.

Here's your game and here's your prize!

Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast!

Then remember well your duty,-- Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is _Salvelinus Fontinalis._

So, you plumed illusions, go, Let my comrade Archie know Every day he goes a-fis.h.i.+ng I'll be with him in well-wis.h.i.+ng.

Most of all when lunch is laid In the dappled orchard shade, With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too, Sitting as we used to do Round the white cloth on the gra.s.s While the lazy hours pa.s.s, And the brook's contented tune Lulls the sleepy afternoon,-- Then's the time my heart will be With that pleasant company!

June 17, 1913.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A deeper crimson in the rose, A fir-tree standeth lonely A flawless cup: how delicate and fine A little fir grew in the midst of the wood A mocking question! Britain's answer came A silent world,--yet full of vital joy A silken curtain veils the skies, A tear that trembles for a little while Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, Afterthought of summer's bloom!

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, All along the Brazos River, All day long in the city's canyon-street, All hail, ye famous Farmers!

All night long, by a distant bell All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, At sunset, when the rosy light was dying

Children of the elemental mother, "Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death!

Come home, my love, come home!

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, Count not the cost of honour to the dead!

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, _Deeds not Words_: I say so too!

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; "Do you give thanks for this?--or that?" No, G.o.d be thanked Do you remember, father,-- Does the snow fall at sea?

Ere thou sleepest gently lay

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine Far richer than a thornless rose Flowers rejoice when night is done, For that thy face is fair I love thee not: Four things a man must learn to do From the misty sh.o.r.es of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon, Furl your sail, my little boatie:

Give us a name to fill the mind Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, G.o.d said, "I am tired of kings,"-- Great Nature had a million words,

Hear a word that Jesus spake Heart of France for a hundred years, Her eyes are like the evening air, Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Here the great heart of France, Home, for my heart still calls me: Honour the brave who sleep Hours fly, How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, "How can I tell," Sir Edmund said, _How long is the night, brother,_ How long the echoes love to play

I count that friends.h.i.+p little worth I envy every flower that blows I have no joy in strife, I love thine inland seas, I never seen no "red G.o.ds"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; I never thought again to hear I put my heart to school I read within a poet's book I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer I would not even ask my heart to say If all the skies were suns.h.i.+ne, If I have erred in showing all my heart, If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage: If on the closed curtain of my sight In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and confusion, In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest, In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, In the pleasant time of Pentecost, Into the dust of the making of man, In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) It's little I can tell It was my lot of late to travel far

"Joy is a Duty,"--so with golden lore Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, Just to give up, and trust

Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,

Let me but do my work from day to day, Let me but feel thy look's embrace, "Lights out" along the land, Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, Limber-limbed, lazy G.o.d, stretched on the rock, Lord Jesus, Thou hast known Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede Long, long ago I heard a little song, Long, long, long the trail Lover of beauty, walking on the height Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay!

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not to the swift, the race: Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,

O dark the night and dim the day O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, O Lord our G.o.d, Thy mighty hand O mighty river! strong, eternal Will, O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, O Music hast thou only heard O who will walk a mile with me O wonderful! How liquid clear O youngest of the giant brood Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, Oh, why are you s.h.i.+ning so bright, big Sun, Once, only once, I saw it clear,-- One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, Only a little shrivelled seed,

Peace without Justice is a low estate,--

Read here, O friend unknown, Remember, when the timid light

Saints are G.o.d's flowers, fragrant souls Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul: s.h.i.+p after s.h.i.+p, and every one with a high-resounding name, Sign of the Love Divine Some three-score years and ten ago Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand Stand fast, Great Britain!

The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, The cornerstone in Truth is laid, The cradle I have made for thee The day returns by which we date our years: The fire of love was burning, yet so low The gabled roofs of old Malines The glory of s.h.i.+ps is an old, old song, The grief that is but feigning, The heavenly hills of Holland,-- The laggard winter ebbed so slow The land was broken in despair, The melancholy gift Aurora gained The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, The mountains that inclose the vale The nymphs a shepherd took The other night I had a dream, most clear The record of a faith sublime, The river of dreams runs quietly down The roar of the city is low, The rough expanse of democratic sea The shadow by my finger cast The tide, flows in to the harbour,-- The time will come when I no more can play The winds of war-news change and veer: The worlds in which we live at heart are one, There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire: There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, There is a bird I know so well, They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold This is the soldier brave enough to tell This is the window's message, Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair "Through many a land your journey ran, 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, Two dwellings, Peace, are thine Two hundred years of blessing I record "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe: 'Twas far away and long ago,

Under the cloud of world-wide war,

Waking from tender sleep, We men that go down for a livin' in s.h.i.+ps to the sea,-- We met on Nature's stage, What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, What is Fortune, what is Fame?

What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?

What shall I give for thee, What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, When down the stair at morning When May bedecks the naked trees When Stavoren town was in its prime When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark When tulips bloom in Union Square, When to the garden of untroubled thought Where's your kingdom, little king?

Who knows how many thousand years ago Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, Who watched the worn-out Winter die?

Winter on Mount Shasta, With eager heart and will on fire, With memories old and wishes new With two bright eyes, my star, my love Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls

Ye G.o.ds of battle, lords of fear, Yes, it was like you to forget, You dare to say with perjured lips, You only promised me a single hour: Yours is a garden of old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers;