Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 7

the manifold
whisper of leaves.
Summer
Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the
sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the
fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion

with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And
the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a
prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where
beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they
must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it
is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:

Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches
swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide
wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love
the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue
mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily
reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze

Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the
distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;

And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of
nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me
alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two
worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering
strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And
closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the
night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of
winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When
every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great
world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
"To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New"
As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,
Poised on the
fircrested rock, over the pool which below him Gleams in the wavering
sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging. So for a moment I stand,
my feet planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the future which
is so soon to possess me.
The Way

At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses
Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses
Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the
water, While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning
with singing.
It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,
Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by
sunshine; No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to
the flowers, And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty
with pollen. And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought
save the longing to wander,
The wind, and the bees, and the flowers,
all singing the great song of Nature,
Are minstrels of change and of
promise, they herald the joy of the Future."
Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road Where
many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the trees and the
flowers,
The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious
communing. And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,
Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean. But
on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset. It lies
fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water, And
spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire, Flung by
man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water; And he
looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight, yet he ventures
His
life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him. O Arches!
be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city, The beautiful
city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!
Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha}
Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
See where it casts
the shadow of that tree
Far out upon the grass. And every gust
Of
light night wind comes laden with the scent
Of opening flowers
which never bloom by day:
Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks,
and that
Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
The evening

primrose, comrade of the stars.
It seems as though the garden which
you love
Were like a swinging censer, its incense
Floating before us
as a reverent act
To sanctify and bless our night of love.
Tell me
once more you love me, that 't is you
Yes, really you, I touch, so,
with my hand;
And tell me it is by your own free will
That you are
here, and that you like to be
Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.

I need to hear it often