Songs Out of Doors | Page 2

every year,

With _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_
1895.
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,

And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I
hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,

_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There's
magic in that small bird's note--
See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat;

A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines
and sings
_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,

You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary's lovely garden
grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this
way,
_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells

That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She
does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she
brings
_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy
bed;
The waters babble as they run--
One thing is lacking, only one:

If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,

_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_
Along the shady road I look--
Who's coming now across the brook?


A woodland maid, all robed in white--
The leaves dance round her
with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
Sing, merry
bird, the charm's complete,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"
1895.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
Do you remember, father,--
It seems so long ago,--
The day we
fished together
Along the Pocono?
At dusk I waited for you,

Beside the lumber-mill,
And there I heard a hidden bird
That
chanted, "whip-poor-will,"
"_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"
Sad
and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
The place was all deserted;
The mill-wheel hung at rest;
The lonely
star of evening
Was throbbing in the west;
The veil of night was
falling;
The winds were folded still;
And everywhere the trembling
air
Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
"_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
You seemed so long in coming,
I felt so much alone;
The wide,
dark world was round me,
And life was all unknown;
The hand of
sorrow touched me,
And made my senses thrill
With all the pain
that haunts the strain
Of mournful whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
What knew I then of trouble?
An idle little lad,
I had not learned the
lessons
That make men wise and sad.
I dreamed of grief and parting,

And something seemed to fill
My heart with tears, while in my ears

Resounded "whip-poor-will."
"_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
'Twas but a cloud of sadness,
That lightly passed away;
But I have
learned the meaning
Of sorrow, since that day.
For nevermore at
twilight,
Beside the silent mill,
I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,


And hear the whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"

Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
But if you still remember
In that fair land of light,
The pains and
fears that touch us
Along this edge of night,
I think all earthly
grieving,
And all our mortal ill,
To you must seem like a sad boy's
dream
Who hears the whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill!
whippoorwill!_"
A passing thrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"
1894.
WINGS OF A DOVE
I
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Far down the pathway of the
west,
I saw a lonely dove in silence flying,
To be at rest.
Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow
Thy wandering wings, thy
freedom blest,
I'd fly away from every careful sorrow,
And find my rest.
II
But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling,
Home flew the dove to
seek his nest,
Deep in the forest where his mate was calling
To love and rest.
Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander;
Lose not thy life in
barren quest.
There are no happy islands over yonder;
Come home and rest.

1874.
THE HERMIT THRUSH
O wonderful! How liquid clear
The molten gold of that ethereal tone,

Floating and falling through the wood alone,
A hermit-hymn
poured out for God to hear!
_O holy, holy! holy! Hyaline,
Long light, low light, glory of eventide!

Love far away, far up,--love divine!
Little love, too, for ever, ever
near,
Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
In the leafy dark
where you hide,
You are mine,--mine,--mine!_
Ah, my belovèd, do you feel with me
The hidden virtue of that
melody,
The rapture and the purity of love,
The heavenly joy that
can not find the word?
Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
Come very near to me,
and do not move,--
Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
The
cool, green cup of air with harmony,
And we will drink the wine of
love with you.
May, 1908.
SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN
Children of the elemental mother,
Born upon some lonely island
shore
Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper,
Where the
crested billows plunge and roar;
Long-winged, tireless roamers and
adventurers,
Fearless breasters of the wind and sea,
In the far-off
solitary places
I have seen you floating wild and free!
Here the high-built cities rise around you;
Here the cliffs that tower
east and west,
Honeycombed with human habitations,
Have no
hiding for the sea-bird's nest:
Here the river flows begrimed and
troubled;
Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume,
Restless, up and

down the watery highway,
While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.
Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion,
Clank and clamour of the
vast machine
Human hands have built for human bondage--
Yet
amid it all you float serene;
Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping
lightly
Down to glean your harvest from the wave;
In your heritage
of air and water,
You