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Title: Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics

Author: Bliss Carman

Release date: January 3, 2018 [eBook #56300]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ: A BOOK OF LYRICS *** 














i

LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ





iii

LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
A BOOK OF LYRICS:
BY
BLISS CARMAN





logo







CHARLES L. WEBSTER AND COMPANY


PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII










ivCopyright, 1893,


By BLISS CARMAN.


(All rights reserved.)


PRESS OF


Jenkins & McCowan,


NEW YORK.












vThe poems in this volume have been collected with
reference to their similarity of tone. They are variations
on a single theme, more or less aptly suggested by the
title, Low Tide on Grand Pré. It seemed better to bring
together between the same covers only those pieces of
work which happened to be in the same key, rather than to
publish a larger book of more uncertain aim.


B. C.


By Grand Pré, September, 1893.



vii

CONTENTS







 
PAGE




Low Tide on Grand Pré
11




Why
15




The Unreturning
18




A Windflower
19




In Lyric Season
21




The Pensioners
23




At the Voice of a Bird
27




When the Guelder Roses Bloom
31




Seven Things
44




A Sea Child
47




Pulvis et Umbra
48




Through the Twilight
61




Carnations in Winter
63




A Northern Vigil
65




The Eavesdropper
73




In Apple Time
77




Wanderer
79




Afoot
89




Wayfaring
94




The End of the Trail
103




The Vagabonds
111




Whither
118









ixTO


S. M. C.


Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit.







11

 LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ










The sun goes down, and over all


These barren reaches by the tide


Such unelusive glories fall,


I almost dream they yet will bide


Until the coming of the tide.






And yet I know that not for us,


By any ecstasy of dream,


He lingers to keep luminous


A little while the grievous stream,


Which frets, uncomforted of dream—






12A grievous stream, that to and fro


Athrough the fields of Acadie


Goes wandering, as if to know


Why one beloved face should be


So long from home and Acadie.






Was it a year or lives ago


We took the grasses in our hands,


And caught the summer flying low


Over the waving meadow lands,


And held it there between our hands?






The while the river at our feet—


A drowsy inland meadow stream—


At set of sun the after-heat


Made running gold, and in the gleam


We freed our birch upon the stream.






13There down along the elms at dusk


We lifted dripping blade to drift,


Through twilight scented fine like musk,


Where night and gloom awhile uplift,


Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.






And that we took into our hands


Spirit of life or subtler thing—


Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands


Of death, and taught us, whispering,


The secret of some wonder-thing.






Then all your face grew light, and seemed


To hold the shadow of the sun;


The evening faltered, and I deemed


That time was ripe, and years had done


Their wheeling underneath the sun.






14So all desire and all regret,


And fear and memory, were naught;


One to remember or forget


The keen delight our hands had caught;


Morrow and yesterday were naught.






The night has fallen, and the tide....


Now and again comes drifting home,


Across these aching barrens wide,


A sigh like driven wind or foam:


In grief the flood is bursting home.









15

 WHY










For a name unknown,


Whose fame unblown


Sleeps in the hills


For ever and aye;






For her who hears


The stir of the years


Go by on the wind


By night and day;






16And heeds no thing


Of the needs of spring,


Of autumn's wonder


Or winter's chill;






For one who sees


The great sun freeze,


As he wanders a-cold


From hill to hill;






And all her heart


Is a woven part


Of the flurry and drift


Of whirling snow;






17For the sake of two


Sad eyes and true,


And the old, old love


So long ago.









18

 THE UNRETURNING










The old eternal spring once more


Comes back the sad eternal way,


With tender rosy light before


The going-out of day.






The great white moon across my door


A shadow in the twilight stirs;


But now forever comes no more


That wondrous look of Hers.









19

 A WINDFLOWER










Between the roadside and the wood,


Between the dawning and the dew,


A tiny flower before the sun,


Ephemeral in time, I grew.






And there upon the trail of spring,


Not death nor love nor any name


Known among men in all their lands


Could blur the wild desire with shame.






20But down my dayspan of the year


The feet of straying winds came by;


And all my trembling soul was thrilled


To follow one lost mountain cry.






And then my heart beat once and broke


To hear the sweeping rain forebode


Some ruin in the April world,


Between the woodside and the road.






To-night can bring no healing now;


The calm of yesternight is gone;


Surely the wind is but the wind,


And I a broken waif thereon.









21

 IN LYRIC SEASON










The lyric April time is forth


With lyric mornings, frost and sun;


From leaguers vast of night undone


Auroral mild new stars are born.






And ever at the year's return,


Along the valleys gray with rime,


Thou leadest as of old, where time


Can naught but follow to thy sway.






22The trail is far through leagues of spring,


And long the quest to the white core


Of harvest quiet, yet once more


I gird me to the old unrest.






I know I shall not ever meet


Thy still regard across the year,


And yet I know thou wilt draw near,


When the last hour of pain and loss






Drifts out to slumber, and the deeps


Of nightfall feel God's hand unbar


His lyric April, star by star,


And the lost twilight land reveal.









23

 THE PENSIONERS










We are the pensioners of Spring,


And take the largess of her hand


When vassal warder winds unbar


The wintry portals of her land;






The lonely shadow-girdled winds,


Her seraph almoners, who keep


This little life in flesh and bone


With meagre portions of white sleep.






24Then all year through with starveling care


We go on some fool's idle quest,


And eat her bread and wine in thrall


To a fool's shame with blind unrest.






Until her April train goes by,


And then because we are the kin


Of every hill flower on the hill


We must arise and walk therein.






Because her heart as our own heart,


Knowing the same wild upward stir,


Beats joyward by eternal laws,


We must arise and go with her;






25Forget we are not where old joys


Return when dawns and dreams retire;


Make grief a phantom of regret,


And fate the henchman of desire;






Divorce unreason from delight;


Learn how despair is uncontrol,


Failure the shadow of remorse,


And death a shudder of the soul.






Yea, must we triumph when she leads.


A little rain before the sun,


A breath of wind on the road's dust,


The sound of trammeled brooks undone,






26Along red glinting willow stems


The year's white prime, on bank and stream


The haunting cadence of no song


And vivid wanderings of dream,






A range of low blue hills, the far


First whitethroat's ecstasy unfurled:


And we are overlords of change,


In the glad morning of the world,






Though we should fare as they whose life


Time takes within his hands to wring


Between the winter and the sea,


The weary pensioners of Spring.









27

AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD
 
Consurgent ad vocem volucris.










Call to me, thrush,


When night grows dim,


When dreams unform


And death is far!






When hoar dews flush


On dawn's rathe brim,


Wake me to hear


Thy wildwood charm,






28As a lone rush


Astir in the slim


White stream where sheer


Blue mornings are.






Stir the keen hush


On twilight's rim


When my own star


Is white and clear.






Fly low to brush


Mine eyelids grim,


Where sleep and storm


Will set their bar;






29For God shall crush


Spring balm for him,


Stark on his bier


Past fault or harm,






Who once, as flush


Of day might skim


The dusk, afar


In sleep shall hear






Thy song's cool rush


With joy rebrim


The world, and calm


The deep with cheer.






30Then, Heartsease, hush!


If sense grow dim,


Desire shall steer


Us home from far.









31

 WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM










When the Guelder roses bloom,


Love, the vagrant, wanders home.






Love, that died so long ago,


As we deemed, in dark and snow,






Comes back to the door again,


Guendolen, Guendolen.






32In his hands a few bright flowers,


Gathered in the earlier hours,






Speedwell-blue, and poppy-red,


Withered in the sun and dead,






With a history to each,


Are more eloquent than speech.






In his eyes the welling tears


Plead against the lapse of years.






33And that mouth we knew so well,


Hath a pilgrim's tale to tell.






Hear his litany again:


"Guendolen, Guendolen!"






"No, love, no, thou art a ghost!


Love long since in night was lost.






"Thou art but the shade of him,


For thine eyes are sad and dim."






34"Nay, but they will shine once more,


Glad and brighter than before,






"If thou bring me but again


To my mother Guendolen!






"These dark flowers are for thee,


Gathered by the lonely sea.






"And these singing shells for her


Who first called me wanderer,






35"In whose beauty glad I grew,


When this weary life was new."






Hear him raving! "It is I.


Love once born can never die."






"Thou, poor love, thou art gone mad


With the hardships thou hast had.






"True, it is the spring of year,


But thy mother is not here.






36"True, the Guelder roses bloom


As long since about this room,






"Where thy blessed self was born


In the early golden morn






"But the years are dead, good lack!


Ah, love, why hast thou come back,






"Pleading at the door again,


'Guendolen, Guendolen'?"






37When the Guelder roses bloom,


And the vernal stars resume






Their old purple sweep and range,


I can hear a whisper strange






As the wind gone daft again,


"Guendolen, Guendolen!"






"When the Guelder roses blow,


Love that died so long ago,






38"Why wilt thou return so oft,


With that whisper sad and soft






"On thy pleading lips again,


'Guendolen, Guendolen'!"






Still the Guelder roses bloom,


And the sunlight fills the room,






Where love's shadow at the door


Falls upon the dusty floor.






39And his eyes are sad and grave


With the tenderness they crave,






Seeing in the broken rhyme


The significance of time,






Wondrous eyes that know not sin


From his brother death, wherein






I can see thy look again,


Guendolen, Guendolen.






40And love with no more to say,


In this lovely world to-day






Where the Guelder roses bloom,


Than the record on a tomb,






Only moves his lips again,


"Guendolen, Guendolen!"






Then he passes up the road


From this dwelling, where he bode






41In the by-gone years. And still,


As he mounts the sunset hill






Where the Guelder roses blow


With their drifts of summer snow,






I can hear him, like one dazed


At a phantom he has raised,






Murmur o'er and o'er again,


"Guendolen, Guendolen!"






42And thus every year, I know,


When the Guelder roses blow,






Love will wander by my door,


Till the spring returns no more;






Till no more I can withstand,


But must rise and take his hand






Through the countries of the night,


Where he walks by his own sight,






43To the mountains of a dawn


That has never yet come on,






Out of this fair land of doom


Where the Guelder roses bloom,






Till I come to thee again,


Guendolen, Guendolen.









44

SEVEN THINGS










The fields of earth are sown


From the hand of the striding rain,


And kernels of joy are strewn


Abroad for the harrow of pain.








I.








The first song-sparrow brown


That wakes the earliest spring,


When time and fear sink down,


And death is a fabled thing.









45

II.










The stealing of that first dawn


Over the rosy brow,


When thy soul said, "World, fare on,


For Heaven is here and now!"








III.








The crimson shield of the sun


On the wall of this House of Doom,


With the garb of war undone


At last in the narrow room.








IV.








A heart that abides to the end,


As the hills for sureness and peace,


And is neither weary to wend


Nor reluctant at last of release.









46

V.










Thy mother's cradle croon


To haunt thee over the deep,


Out of the land of Boon


Into the land of Sleep.








VI.








The sound of the sea in storm,


Hearing its captain cry,


When the wild, white riders form,


And the Ride to the Dark draws nigh.








VII.








But last and best, the urge


Of the great world's desire,


Whose being from core to verge


Only attains to aspire.









47

 A SEA CHILD










The lover of child Marjory


Had one white hour of life brim full;


Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,


Hath him to lull.






The daughter of child Marjory


Hath in her veins, to beat and run,


The glad indomitable sea,


The strong white sun.









48

 PULVIS ET UMBRA










There is dust upon my fingers,


Pale gray dust of beaten wings,


Where a great moth came and settled


From the night's blown winnowings.






Harvest with her low red planets


Wheeling over Arrochar;


And the lonely hopeless calling


Of the bell-buoy on the bar,






49Where the sea with her old secret


Moves in sleep and cannot rest.


From that dark beyond my doorway,


Silent the unbidden guest






Came and tarried, fearless, gentle,


Vagrant of the starlit gloom,


One frail waif of beauty fronting


Immortality and doom;






Through the chambers of the twilight


Roaming from the vast outland,


Resting for a thousand heart-beats


In the hollow of my hand.






50"Did the volley of a thrush-song


Lodge among some leaves and dew


Hillward, then across the gloaming


This dark mottled thing was you?






"Or is my mute guest whose coming


So unheralded befell


From the border wilds of dreamland,


Only whimsy Ariel,






"Gleaning with the wind, in furrows


Lonelier than dawn to reap,


Dust and shadow and forgetting,


Frost and reverie and sleep?






51"In the hush when Cleopatra


Felt the darkness reel and cease,


Was thy soul a wan blue lotus


Laid upon her lips for peace?






"And through all the years that wayward


Passion in one mortal breath,


Making thee a thing of silence,


Made thee as the lords of death?






"Or did goblin men contrive thee


In the forges of the hills


Out of thistle-drift and sundown


Lost amid their tawny rills,






52"Every atom on their anvil


Beaten fine and bolted home,


Every quiver wrought to cadence


From the rapture of a gnome?






"Then the lonely mountain wood-wind,


Straying up from dale to dale,


Gave thee spirit, free forever,


Thou immortal and so frail!






"Surely thou art not that sun-bright


Psyche, hoar with age, and hurled


On the northern shore of Lethe,


To this wan Auroral world!






53"Ghost of Psyche, uncompanioned,


Are the yester-years all done?


Have the oars of Charon ferried


All thy playmates from the sun?






"In thy wings the beat and breathing


Of the wind of life abides,


And the night whose sea-gray cohorts


Swing the stars up with the tides.






"Did they once make sail and wander


Through the trembling harvest sky,


Where the silent Northern streamers


Change and rest not till they die?






54"Or from clouds that tent and people


The blue firmamental waste,


Did they learn the noiseless secret


Of eternity's unhaste?






"Where learned they to rove and loiter,


By the margin of what sea?


Was it with outworn Demeter,


Searching for Persephone?






"Or did that girl-queen behold thee


In the fields of moveless air?


Did these wings which break no whisper


Brush the poppies in her hair?






55"Is it thence they wear the pulvil—


Ash of ruined days and sleep,


And the two great orbs of splendid


Melting sable deep on deep!






"Pilot of the shadow people,


Steering whither by what star


Hast thou come to hapless port here,


Thou gray ghost of Arrochar?"






For man walks the world with mourning


Down to death, and leaves no trace,


With the dust upon his forehead,


And the shadow in his face.






56Pillared dust and fleeing shadow


As the roadside wind goes by,


And the fourscore years that vanish


In the twinkling of an eye.






Beauty, the fine frosty trace-work


Of some breath upon the pane;


Spirit, the keen wintry moonlight


Flashed thereon to fade again.






Beauty, the white clouds a-building


When God said and it was done;


Spirit, the sheer brooding rapture


Where no mid-day brooks no sun.






57So. And here, the open casement


Where my fellow-mate goes free;


Eastward, the untrodden star-road


And the long wind on the sea.






What's to hinder but I follow


This my gypsy guide afar,


When the bugle rouses slumber


Sounding taps on Arrochar?






"Where, my brother, wends the by-way,


To what bourne beneath what sun,


Thou and I are set to travel


Till the shifting dream be done?






58"Comrade of the dusk, forever


I pursue the endless way


Of the dust and shadew kindred,


Thou art perfect for a day.






"Yet from beauty marred and broken,


Joy and memory and tears,


I shall crush the clearer honey


In the harvest of the years.






"Thou art faultless as a flower


Wrought of sun and wind and snow,


I survive the fault and failure.


The wise Fates will have it so.






59"For man walks the world in twilight,


But the morn shall wipe all trace


Of the dust from off his forehead,


And the shadow from his face.






"Cheer thee on, my tidings-bearer!


All the valor of the North


Mounts as soul from flesh escaping


Through the night, and bids thee forth.






"Go, and when thou hast discovered


Her whose dark eyes match thy wings,


Bid that lyric heart beat lighter


For the joy thy beauty brings."






60Then I leaned far out and lifted


My light guest up, and bade speed


On the trail where no one tarries


That wayfarer few will heed.






Pale gray dust upon my fingers;


And from this my cabined room


The white soul of eager message


Racing seaward in the gloom.






Far off shore, the sweet low calling


Of the bell-buoy on the bar,


Warning night of dawn and ruin


Lonelily on Arrochar.









61

 THROUGH THE TWILIGHT










The red vines bar my window way;


The Autumn sleeps beside his fire,


For he has sent this fleet-foot day


A year's march back to bring to me


One face whose smile is my desire,


Its light my star.






Surely you will come near and speak,


This calm of death from the day to sever!


And so I shall draw down your cheek


Close to my face—So close!—and know


God's hand between our hands forever


Will set no bar.






62Before the dusk falls—even now


I know your step along the gravel,


And catch your quiet poise of brow,


And wait so long till you turn the latch!


Is the way so hard you had to travel?


Is the land so far?






The dark has shut your eyes from mine,


But in this hush of brooding weather


A gleam on twilight's gathering line


Has riven the barriers of dream:


Soul of my soul, we are together


As the angels are!









63

 CARNATIONS IN WINTER










Your carmine flakes of bloom to-night


The fire of wintry sunsets hold;


Again in dreams you burn to light


A far Canadian garden old.






The blue north summer over it


Is bland with long ethereal days;


The gleaming martins wheel and flit


Where breaks your sun down orient ways.






64There, when the gradual twilight falls,


Through quietudes of dusk afar,


Hermit antiphonal hermit calls


From hills below the first pale star.






Then in your passionate love's foredoom


Once more your spirit stirs the air,


And you are lifted through the gloom


To warm the coils of her dark hair.









65

 A NORTHERN VIGIL










Here by the gray north sea,


In the wintry heart of the wild,


Comes the old dream of thee,


Guendolen, mistress and child.






The heart of the forest grieves


In the drift against my door;


A voice is under the eaves,


A footfall on the floor.






66Threshold, mirror and hall,


Vacant and strangely aware,


Wait for their soul's recall


With the dumb expectant air.






Here when the smouldering west


Burns down into the sea,


I take no heed of rest


And keep the watch for thee.






I sit by the fire and hear


The restless wind go by,


On the long dirge and drear,


Under the low bleak sky.






67When day puts out to sea


And night makes in for land,


There is no lock for thee,


Each door awaits thy hand!






When night goes over the hill


And dawn comes down the dale,


It's O for the wild sweet will


That shall no more prevail!






When the zenith moon is round,


And snow-wraiths gather and run,


And there is set no bound


To love beneath the sun,






68O wayward will, come near


The old mad willful way,


The soft mouth at my ear


With words too sweet to say!






Come, for the night is cold,


The ghostly moonlight fills


Hollow and rift and fold


Of the eerie Ardise hills!






The windows of my room


Are dark with bitter frost,


The stillness aches with doom


Of something loved and lost.






69Outside, the great blue star


Burns in the ghostland pale,


Where giant Algebar


Holds on the endless trail.






Come, for the years are long,


And silence keeps the door,


Where shapes with the shadows throng


The firelit chamber floor.






Come, for thy kiss was warm,


With the red embers' glare


Across thy folding arm


And dark tumultuous hair!






70And though thy coming rouse


The sleep-cry of no bird,


The keepers of the house


Shall tremble at thy word.






Come, for the soul is free!


In all the vast dreamland


There is no lock for thee,


Each door awaits thy hand.






Ah, not in dreams at all,


Fleering, perishing, dim,


But thy old self, supple and tall,


Mistress and child of whim!






71The proud imperious guise,


Impetuous and serene,


The sad mysterious eyes,


And dignity of mien!






Yea, wilt thou not return,


When the late hill-winds veer,


And the bright hill-flowers burn


With the reviving year?






When April comes, and the sea


Sparkles as if it smiled,


Will they restore to me


My dark Love, empress and child?






72The curtains seem to part;


A sound is on the stair,


As if at the last ... I start;


Only the wind is there.






Lo, now far on the hills


The crimson fumes uncurled,


Where the caldron mantles and spills


Another dawn on the world!









73

 THE EAVESDROPPER










In a still room at hush of dawn,


My Love and I lay side by side


And heard the roaming forest wind


Stir in the paling autumn-tide.






I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad


Because the round day was so fair;


While memories of reluctant night


Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.






74Outside, a yellow maple tree,


Shifting upon the silvery blue


With small innumerable sound,


Rustled to let the sunlight through.






The livelong day the elvish leaves


Danced with their shadows on the floor;


And the lost children of the wind


Went straying homeward by our door.






And all the swarthy afternoon


We watched the great deliberate sun


Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,


Counting his hilltops one by one.






75Then as the purple twilight came


And touched the vines along our eaves,


Another Shadow stood without


And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.






The silence fell on my Love's lips;


Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad


With pondering some maze of dream,


Though all the splendid year was glad.






Restless and vague as a gray wind


Her heart had grown, she knew not why.


But hurrying to the open door,


Against the verge of western sky






76I saw retreating on the hills,


Looming and sinister and black,


The stealthy figure swift and huge


Of One who strode and looked not back.









77

 IN APPLE TIME










The apple harvest days are here,


The boding apple harvest days,


And down the flaming valley ways,


The foresters of time draw near.






Through leagues of bloom I went with Spring,


To call you on the slopes of morn,


Where in imperious song is borne


The wild heart of the golden wing.






78I roamed through alien summer lands,


I sought your beauty near and far;


To-day, where russet shadows are,


I hold your face between my hands.






On runnels dark by slopes of fern,


The hazy undern sleeps in sun.


Remembrance and desire, undone,


From old regret to dreams return.






The apple harvest time is here,


The tender apple harvest time;


A sheltering calm, unknown at prime,


Settles upon the brooding year.









79

 WANDERER




I








Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?


What saith the morning unto thee?


"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, come hither,


Into the eld of the East with me!"






Saith the wide wind of the low red morning,


Making in from the gray rough sea.


"Wanderer, come, of the footfall weary,


And heavy at heart as the sad-heart sea.






80"For long ago, when the world was making,


I walked through Eden with God for guide;


And since that time in my heart forever


His calm and wisdom and peace abide.






"I am thy spirit and thy familiar,


Child of the teeming earth's unrest!


Before God's joy upon gloom begot thee


I had hungered and searched and ended the quest.






"I sit by the roadside wells of knowledge;


I haunt the streams of the springs of thought;


But because my voice is the voice of silence,


The heart within thee regardeth not.






81"Yet I await thee, assured, unimpatient,


Till thy small tumult of striving be past.


How long, O wanderer, wilt thou a-weary,


Keep thee afar from my arms at the last?"








II








Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?


What saith the high noon unto thee?


"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, turn hither,


Far to the burning South with me,"






Saith the soft wind on the high June headland,


Sheering up from the summer sea,


"While the implacable warder, Oblivion,


Sleeps on the marge of a foamless sea!






82"Come where the urge of desire availeth,


And no fear follows the children of men;


For a handful of dust is the only heirloom


The morrow bequeaths to its morrow again.






"Touch and feel how the flesh is perfect


Beyond the compass of dream to be!


'Bone of my bone,' said God to Adam;


'Core of my core,' say I to thee.






"Look and see how the form is goodly


Beyond the reach of desire and art!


For he who fashioned the world so easily


Laughed in his sleeve as he walked apart.






83"Therefore, O wanderer, cease from desiring;


Take the wide province of seaway and sun!


Here for the infinite quench of thy craving,


Infinite yearning and bliss are one."








III








Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?


What saith the evening unto thee?


"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, haste hither,


Into the glad-heart West with me!"






Saith the strong wind of the gold-green twilight,


Gathering out of the autumn hills,


"I am the word of the world's first dreamer


Who woke when Freedom walked on the hills.






84"And the secret triumph from daring to doing,


From musing to marble, I will be,


Till the last fine fleck of the world is finished,


And Freedom shall walk alone by the sea.






"Who is thy heart's lord, who is thy hero?


Bruce or Cæsar or Charlemagne,


Hannibal, Olaf, Alaric, Roland?


Dare as they dared and the deed's done again!






"Here where they come of the habit immortal,


By the open road to the land of the Name,


Splendor and homage and wealth await thee


Of builded cities and bruited fame.






85"Let loose the conquering toiler within thee;


Know the large rapture of deeds begun!


The joy of the hand that hews for beauty


Is the dearest solace beneath the sun."








IV








Wanderer, wanderer, whither away?


What saith the midnight unto thee?


"Wanderer, wanderer, hither turn home,


Back to thy North at last to me!"






Saith the great forest wind and lonely,


Out of the stars and the wintry hills.


"Weary, bethink thee of rest, and remember


Thy waiting auroral Ardise hills!






86"Was it not I, when thy mother bore thee


In the sweet, solemn April night,


Took thee safe in my arms to fondle,


Filled thy dream with the old delight?






"Told thee tales of more marvelous summers


Of the far away and the long ago,


Made thee my own nurse-child forever


In the tender dear dark land of the snow?






"Have I not rocked thee, have I not lulled thee,


Crooned thee in forest, and cradled in foam,


Then with a smile from the hearthstone of childhood


Bade thee farewell when thy heart bade thee roam?






87"Ah, my wide-wanderer, thou blessed vagrant,


Dear will thy footfall be nearing my door.


How the glad tears will give vent at thy coming,


Wayward or sad-heart to wander no more!"








V








Morning and midday I wander, and evening,


April and harvest and golden fall;


Seaway or hillward, taut sheet or saddle-bow,


Only the night wind brings solace at all.






Then when the tide of all being and beauty


Ebbs to the utmost before the first dawn,


Comes the still voice of the morrow revealing


Inscrutable valorous hope—and is gone.






88Therefore is joy more than sorrow, foreseeing


The lust of the mind and the lure of the eye


And the pride of the hand have their hour of triumph,


But the dream of the heart will endure by-and-by.









89

 AFOOT










There's a garden in the South


Where the early violets come,


Where they strew the floor of April


With their purple, bloom by bloom.






There the tender peach-trees blow,


Pink against the red brick wall,


And the hand of twilight hushes


The rain-children's least footfall,






90Till at midnight I can hear


The dark Mother croon and lean


Close above me. And her whisper


Bids the vagabonds convene.






Then the glad and wayward heart


Dreams a dream it must obey;


And the wanderer within me


Stirs a foot and will not stay.






I would journey far and wide


Through the provinces of spring,


Where the gorgeous white azaleas


Hear the sultry yorlin sing.






91I would wander all the hills


Where my fellow-vagrants wend,


Following the trails of shadows


To the country where they end.






Well I know the gypsy kin,


Roving foot and restless hand,


And the eyes in dark elusion


Dreaming down the summer land.






On the frontier of desire


I will drink the last regret,


And then forth beyond the morrow


Where I may but half forget.






92So another year shall pass,


Till some noon the gardener Sun


Wanders forth to lay his finger


On the peach-buds one by one.






And the Mother there once more


Will rewhisper her dark word,


That my brothers all may wonder,


Hearing then as once I heard.






There will come the whitethroat's cry,


That far lonely silver strain,


Piercing, like a sweet desire,


The seclusion of the rain.






93And though I be far away,


When the early violets come


Smiling at the door with April,


Say, "The vagabonds are home!"









94

 WAYFARING










Across the harbor's tangled yards


We watch the flaring sunset fail;


Then the forever questing stars


File down along the vanished trail,






To no discovered country, where


They will forgather when the hands


Of the strong Fates shall take away


Their burdens and unloose their bands.






95Westward and lone the hill-road gray


Mounts to the skyline sheer and wan,


Where many a weary dream puts forth


To strike the trail where they are gone.






The sleepless guide to that outland


Is the great Mother of us all,


Whose molded dust and dew we are


With the blown flowers by the wall.






Girt with the twilight she is grave,


The strong companion, wise and free;


She leads beyond the dales of time,


The earldom of the calling sea—






96Beyond these dull green miles of dike,


And gleaming breakers on the bar—


To the white kingdom of her lord,


The nameless Word, whose breath we are.






And all the world is but a scheme


Of busy children in the street,


A play they follow and forget


On summer evenings, pale with heat.






The dusty courtyard flags and walls


Are like a prison gate of stone,


To every spirit for whose breath


The long sweet hill-winds once have blown.






97But waiting in the fields for them


I see the ancient Mother stand,


With the old courage of her smile,


The patience of her sunbrown hand.






They heed her not, until there comes


A breath of sleep upon their eyes,


A drift of dust upon their face;


Then in the closing dusk they rise,






And turn them to the empty doors;


But she within whose hands alone


The days are gathered up as fruit,


Doth habit not in brick and stone.






98But where the wild shy things abide,


Along the woodside and the wheat,


Is her abiding, deep withdrawn;


And there, the footing of her feet.






There is no common fame of her


Upon the corners, yet some word


Of her most secret heritage


Her lovers from her lips have heard.






Her daisies sprang where Chaucer went;


Her darkling nightingales with spring


Possessed the soul of Keats for song;


And Shelley heard her skylark sing;






99With reverent clear uplifted heart


Wordsworth beheld her daffodils;


And he became too great for haste,


Who watched the warm green Cumner hills.






She gave the apples of her eyes


For the delight of him who knew,


With all the wisdom of a child,


"A bank whereon the wild thyme grew."






Still the old secret shifts, and waits


The last interpreter; it fills


The autumn song no ear hath heard


Upon the dreaming Ardise hills.






100The poplars babble over it


When waking winds of dawn go by;


It fills her rivers like a voice,


And leads her wanderers till they die.






She knows the morning ways whereon


The windflowers and the wind confer;


Surely there is not any fear


Upon the farthest trail with her!






And yet, what ails the fir-dark slopes,


That all night long the whippoorwills


Cry their insatiable cry


Across the sleeping Ardise hills?






101Is it that no fair mortal thing,


Blown leaf, nor song, nor friend can stray


Beyond the bourne and bring one word


Back the irremeable way?






The noise is hushed within the street;


The summer twilight gathers down;


The elms are still; the moonlit spires


Track their long shadows through the town.






With looming willows and gray dusk


The open hillward road is pale,


And the great stars are white and few


Above the lonely Ardise trail.






102And with no haste nor any fear,


We are as children going home


Along the marshes where the wind


Sleeps in the cradle of the foam.









103

 THE END OF THE TRAIL










Once more the hunters of the dusk


Are forth to search the moorlands wide,


Among the autumn-colored hills,


And wander by the shifting tide.






All day along the haze-hung verge


They scour upon a fleeing trace,


Between the red sun and the sea,


Where haunts the vision of your face.






104The plane at Martock lies and drinks


The long Septembral gaze of blue;


The royal leisure of the hills


Hath wayward reveries of you.






Far rovers of the ancient dream


Have all their will of musing hours:


Your eyes were gray-deep as the sea,


Your hands lay open in the flowers!






From mining Rawdon to Pereau,


For all the gold they delve and share,


The goblins of the Ardise hills


Can horde no treasure like your hair.






105The swirling tide, the lonely gulls,


The sweet low wood-winds that rejoice—


No sound nor echo of the sea


But hath tradition of your voice.






The crimson leaves, the yellow fruit,


The basking woodlands mile on mile—


No gleam in all the russet hills


But wears the solace of your smile.






A thousand cattle rove and feed


On the great marshes in the sun,


And wonder at the restless sea;


But I am glad the year is done,






106Because I am a wanderer


Upon the roads of endless quest,


Between the hill-wind and the hills,


Along the margin men call rest.






Because there lies upon my lips


A whisper of the wind at morn,


A murmur of the rolling sea


Cradling the land where I was born;






Because its sleepless tides and storms


Are in my heart for memory


And music, and its gray-green hills


Run white to bear me company;






107Because in that sad time of year,


With April twilight on the earth


And journeying rain upon the sea,


With the shy windflowers was my birth;






Because I was a tiny boy


Among the thrushes of the wood,


And all the rivers in the hills


Were playmates of my solitude;






Because the holy winter night


Was for my chamber, deep among


The dark pine forests by the sea,


With woven red auroras hung,






108Silent with frost and floored with snow,


With what dream folk to people it


And bring their stories from the hills,


When all the splendid stars were lit;






Therefore I house me not with kin,


But journey as the sun goes forth,


By stream and wood and marsh and sea,


Through dying summers of the North;






Until, some hazy autumn day,


With yellow evening in the skies


And rime upon the tawny hills,


The far blue signal smoke shall rise,






109To tell my scouting foresters


Have heard the clarions of rest


Bugling, along the outer sea,


The end of failure and of quest.






Then all the piping Nixie folk,


Where lonesome meadow winds are low,


Through all the valleys in the hills


Their river reeds shall blow and blow,






To lead me like a joy, as when


The shining April flowers return,


Back to a footpath by the sea


With scarlet hip and ruined fern.






110For I must gain, ere the long night


Bury its travelers deep with snow,


That trail among the Ardise hills


Where first I found you years ago.






I shall not fail, for I am strong,


And Time is very old, they say,


And somewhere by the quiet sea


Makes no refusal to delay.






There will I get me home, and there


Lift up your face in my brown hand,


With all the rosy rusted hills


About the heart of that dear land.









111

 THE VAGABONDS




"Such as wake on the night and sleep on the day, and
haunt customable taverns and alehouses and routs about,
and no man wot from whence they came, nor whither they
go."—Old English Statute.








We are the vagabonds of time,


And rove the yellow autumn days,


When all the roads are gray with rime


And all the valleys blue with haze.






We came unlooked for as the wind


Trooping across the April hills,


When the brown waking earth had dreams


Of summer in the Wander Kills.






112How far afield we joyed to fare,


With June in every blade and tree!


Now with the sea-wind in our hair


We turn our faces to the sea.






We go unheeded as the stream


That wanders by the hill-wood side,


Till the great marshes take his hand


And lead him to the roving tide.






The roving tide, the sleeping hills,


These are the borders of that zone


Where they may fare as fancy wills


Whom wisdom smiles and calls her own.






113It is a country of the sun,


Full of forgotten yesterdays,


When time takes Summer in his care,


And fills the distance of her gaze.






It stretches from the open sea


To the blue mountains and beyond;


The world is Vagabondia


To him who is a vagabond.






In the beginning God made man


Out of the wandering dust, men say;


And in the end his life shall be


A wandering wind and blown away.






114We are the vagabonds of time,


Willing to let the world go by,


With joy supreme, with heart sublime,


And valor in the kindling eye.






We have forgotten where we slept,


And guess not where we sleep to-night,


Whether among the lonely hills


In the pale streamers' ghostly light






We shall lie down and hear the frost


Walk in the dead leaves restlessly,


Or somewhere on the iron coast


Learn the oblivion of the sea.






115It matters not. And yet I dream


Of dreams fulfilled and rest somewhere


Before this restless heart is stilled


And all its fancies blown to air.






Had I my will!... The sun burns down


And something plucks my garment's hem;


The robins in their faded brown


Would lure me to the south with them.






'Tis time for vagabonds to make


The nearest inn. Far on I hear


The voices of the Northern hills


Gather the vagrants of the year.






116Brave heart, my soul! Let longings be!


We have another day to wend.


For dark or waylay what care we


Who have the lords of time to friend?






And if we tarry or make haste,


The wayside sleep can hold no fear.


Shall fate unpoise, or whim perturb,


The calm-begirt in dawn austere?






There is a tavern, I have heard,


Not far, and frugal, kept by One


Who knows the children of the Word,


And welcomes each when day is done.






117Some say the house is lonely set


In Northern night, and snowdrifts keep


The silent door; the hearth is cold,


And all my fellows gone to sleep....






Had I my will! I hear the sea


Thunder a welcome on the shore;


I know where lies the hostelry


And who should open me the door.









118

 WHITHER










What shall we do, dearie,


Dreaming such dreams?


Will they come true, dearie?


Never, it seems.






Leave the wise thrush alone;


He knows such things.


How rich the silences


Fall when he sings!






119When shall we come, dearie,


Into that land


Once was our home, dearie,


Perfect as planned?






When the wind calling us,


Some summer day,


Into the long ago


Lures us away.






Where shall we go, dearie,


Wandering thus?


Far to and fro, dearie,


Life leads for us.






120Thou with the morrow's sun


Hillward and free,


I to the vast and hoar


Lone of the sea.








1886-1893.




Transcriber's Note




The original spelling and punctuation has been retained.


Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been
preserved.