More Songs From Vagabondia | Page 4

are not greens,?They pucker up their foreheads?And ponder what it means.
And then those cave-like places,?Churches and Capitols,?Where they all come together?Like troops of talking dolls,
To govern, as they term it,?(It's really very odd!)?And have what they call worship?Of something they call God.
But Kitty, or whatever?May be her tender name,?Is more like us. She guesses?What sets the year aflame.
She knows beyond her senses;?Do tell her all you can!?The funny people need it,--?At least, so says The Man.
Good-by, dear. I must idle.?Sweet suns and happy rains!?How nice to have these humans?With their inventive brains,--
Their little scraps of paper!?They certainly evince?Remarkable discernment.?Your ever loving Quince.
AN EASTER MARKET.
Today, through your Easter market?In the lazy Southern sun,?I strolled with hands in pockets?Past the flower-stalls one by one.
Indolent, dreamy, ready?For anything to amuse,?Shyfoot out for a ramble?In his oldest hat and shoes.
Roses creamy and yellow,?Azaleas crimson and white,?And the flaky fresh carnations?My Orient of delight,--
Masses and banks of blossom?That dazzle and summon the eye,?Till the buyers are half bewildered?To know what they want. Not I.
Who would not rather be artist?And slip through the crowd unseen?To gather it all in a picture?And guess what the faces mean?
So down through the chaffering darkies?I pass to the sidewalk's end,?Through the smiling gingham bonnets?With their small farm-stuff to vend.
When, hello! my dreamer, sudden?As call at the dead of night,?What sets your pulses a-quiver,?What sets your fancy alight?
Sure of it! Mayflowers, mayflowers,?Scent of the North in spring!?Out in the vernal distance,?Heart of me, whither a-wing?
"Give me some!" Clutch the first handful,?Hungering rover of earth!?How I devour and kiss them,?Beauties that brought me to birth,
Away in the great north country,?The land of the lonely sun,?Where God has few for his fellows,?And the wolves of the snowdrift run.
Once more to the frost-bound valley?Comes April with rain in her jar;?I can hear the vesper sparrow?Under the silver star.
And many and dear and gracious?Are the dreams that walk at my side?From the land of the lingering shadows,?As out of the throng I stride.
Oh, well for you, mere onlooker,?Who drift through the world's great mart!?But we of the human sorrow?Have a joy beyond your art.
DAISIES.
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune?I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,?A host in the sunshine, an army in June,?The people God sends us to set our heart free.
The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,?The orioles whistled them out of the wood;?And all of their singing was, "Earth, it is well!"?And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good!"
THE MOCKING-BIRD.
Hear! hear! hear!?Listen! the word?Of the mocking-bird!?_Hear! hear! hear!?I will make all clear;?I will let you know?Where the footfalls go?That through the thicket and over the hill?Allure, allure._?How the bird-voice cleaves?Through the weft of leaves?With a leap and a thrill?Like the flash of a weaver's shuttle, swift and sudden and sure!
And la, he is gone--even while I turn?The wisdom of his runes to learn.?He knows the mystery of the wood,?The secret of the solitude;?But he will not tell, he will not tell,?For all he promises so well.
KARLENE.
Word of a little one born in the West,--?How like a sea-bird it comes from the sea,?Out of the league-weary waters' unrest?Blown with white wings, for a token, to me!
Blown with a skriel and a flurry of plumes?(Sea-spray and flight-rapture whirled in a gleam!)?Here for a sign of the comrade that looms?Large in the mist of my love as I dream.
He with the heart of an old violin,?Vibrant at every least stir in the place,?Lyric of woods where the thrushes begin,?Wave-questing wanderer, still for a space,--
What will the child of his be (so I muse),?Wood-flower, sea-flower, star-flower rare??Worlds here to choose from, and which will she choose,?She whose first world is an armsweep of air?
Baby Karlene, you are wondering now?Why you can't reach the great moon that you see?Just at your hand on the edge of the bough?That waves in the window-pane--how can it be?
All your world yet hardly lies out of reach?Of ten little fingers and ten little toes.?You are a seed for the sky there to teach?(And the sun and the wind and the rain) as it grows.
Just a green leaf piercing up to the day,?Pale fleck of June to come, just to be seen?Through the rough crumble of rubble and clay?Lifting its loveliness, dawn-child, Karlene!
Fragile as fairycraft, dew-dream of love,--?Never a clod that has marred the slim stalk,?Never a stone but its frail fingers move,?Bent on the blue sky and nothing can balk!
Blue sky and wind-laughters, that is thy dream.?Ah the brave days when thy leafage shall toss?High where gold noondays and sunsets a-stream?Mix with its moving and kiss it across.
There the great clouds shall go lazily by,?Coo! thee with shadows and dazzle with shine,?Drench thee with rain-guerdons, bless thee with sky,?Till all the knowledge of earth shall be thine.
Wind from the ice-floe and wind from the