A Little Window | Page 3

outlined against?The peaceful Eden hills,?Miles to the south.?And when I wait for the big bridge to lift?For a freighter with its important tugs,?I pull out of line, off to the side,?And let the other cars go by,?And look, and look.?I never seem to get enough.
_From a Train Window_
Once, before dawn,?In the Mohawk valley,?Dots of light flashed?And floated off?Into the blackness,?Like sparks of flame?Blasted from the engine.?Then more and more,?Mile after mile,?Almost never ending--?Millions of fire-flies,?Like tiny torches,?Dancing over swamp lands?In the night air.
_Scotland_
(_The Highlands_)
Mountains,?Veiled in shifting vapors,?Mountains,?Bleak, foreboding,?Mountains,?Stark and overpowering.?Torrents,?Tumbling, crashing,?Dragging boulders?In their rushing,?Lakes,?Forlorn and lonesome?Heather?In magenta patches,?Sheep, and cattle?Black and somber,?Winding roads?Through massive passes.?Rain,?Sun,?Flowers,?Mist,?Rain,--?Loved Scotland!
_Friends_
(_At Lake Windermere, England_)
Across the lake?Lying calm and black?Under the night,?Floats the wail?Of the pipes:?And beyond, loom?Langdale Pikes, dim,?Shadowy sentinels.?Over all, the stars,?Like friends, faithful?And changeless.
_A Poem of Color_
Stretched on the ground beneath the Hawthorn,?The perfume of its blossoms mingled with falling petals, floats
down to me.?Winged things alight there on the blanket of fragrance above,--a
bunting, blue as the sky, a warbler, all gold, an Admiral, wings banded with crimson,?Make a poem of color of the Hawthorn tree.
_Dream_
(_Stratford-on-Avon_)
One warm June evening?I sat in the churchyard?Of old Trinity. I sat there for hours?On an ancient stone, forgetting time.?The Avon, as silent as the centuries it had known,?Glided past, carrying me on with its memories.?From the lush meadow across the river came the bleating of lambs, And from the limes floated the song of blackbirds.?All about the scent of roses hung heavy.?Then, over the roof of Trinity, the moon arose.?Shakespeare saw the Avon, thus, and loved it,--?Winding on in the moonlight.
_Escape_
How simple life can be!?A cabin,?Mountains, afar and near,?A brook,?Deer, blowing at night.?Perchance,?Rain on the roof,?Then,?The loved books,?A fire on the hearth,?And endless time?To think.?How simple life is!
_Question_
(_Locheven_)
Would you choose?The formal garden?With lilac hedges?And vistas of velvet lawn?And marble fountain?Shining pool and?Marble bench o'er-topped?By drooping willow;?Massed color in trim beds,?And stately garden house?Festooned with wisteria?And guarded by strutting peacock?
Or,
The wood's garden,?The wild garden,?Tumbling over itself?With pale Jacks, and violets--?Blue and gold, and?Baby ferns, tucked?Within sheltering gnarled roots!?And mossy mounds, starred?With Trillium and Crane's bill;?And patches of lavender sunlight,?(No, it's wild Phlox,?In the flickering light)--?And fire-flies and flapping owls,?At twilight, and furry rabbits,?Bobbing ahead up the path.
Which would you choose?
_When You Were a Little Girl_
When you were a little girl?And you went driving with Grandfather,?If it rained, didn't he braid up the horse's tail?Binding it round with a bright silver band,?And fasten on the side curtains of the carriage?And pull the rubber "boot" over the dashboard??And do you remember how the horse's feet?Went "Plop, plop," in and out of the mud,?And you felt the mist blow in on your face?When you managed to peer out over the curtain??And didn't you snuggle up close to Grandfather?And hug the Fairy Tale book?Which he was going to listen to?When the rain stopped and you lunched?Beside the road?
Didn't your Grandfather always drive over?To the cheese factory, and bring out?The fresh cheese curd to you??Can't you remember the taste, even now??And sometimes, when it stormed hard, and thundered?And lightened, and the crashing made the horse?Want to run, wouldn't your Grandfather always say:?"Steady there, now, boy! Steady, boy!" so gently,?That neither you nor the horse were afraid after that?Because Grandfather said everything was all right,?And he knew. And wasn't your Grandmother?Waiting in the doorway, watching a bit anxiously,?Until you turned into the yard?
Mine was.
_Flight_
So still lay the city,?So very quietly it slept,?That from high in the west?I heard the honking of geese?Winging southward.?Yearningly I listened?As they swept over,?Yearningly I cried--?O wild things, that I?Could fly as do you!?Then out of the silent darkness,?Like a flying star,?Flashed a plane?With its skyborne humans.?And all of a sudden?I remembered that I, too,?Could take to wings.
_Petit Trianon_
(_Versailles, France_)
When the long drawn notes of a bird's song?Echoes through the trees,?It brings to remembrance the songs?Of the blackbirds at Petit Trianon:?Chiming, reverberating, floating down?From the tops of the tall cedars?As from an invisible, celestial choir.
Nor can I forget the ages-old wisteria?Clambering over gray palace walls,?Nor the gamut of color in the azaleas there--?Pink, orange, cerise, yellow--?In pale green foliage.
_Joy_
When your heavens are as brass?And joy has fled, and?Every door is shut,?Do not forget the one?That opens inward--?The door of your heart,?Whose handle is on the inside?And which only you can open.?Go out through that door?And find one whose skies?Are darker than yours,?Whose burden is heavier;?Bring him back with you?Into your heart.
There can you cleanse him with love,?And clothe him with garments of truth,?And put the ring of his unity?With God upon his hand;?There feed him with the word,?And let him go.?Then will your heavens be?As radiant light,?And your happiness and joy?Such as never were?On land or sea.
_Twilight Song Service_
(_"B.A." Chestnut Hill, Mass._)
In the deepening twilight there floats?From the chapel above, the loved hymns of healing--?Hymns of comfort, of courage, welling up