Songs Out of Doors | Page 5

for their own sake are earth and sky
And the fair ministries of
Nature dear,
But as they set themselves unto the tune
That fills our
life; as light mysterious
Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched
With tender thought,
assumes a grace more sweet
Than crowns the royal lily of the South;

And so a well-remembered perfume seems
The breath of one who
breathes in Paradise.
1872.
MATINS
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
Lift their heads to greet the sun;

Sweetest looks and odours raise,
In a silent hymn of praise.
So my heart would turn away
From the darkness to the day;
Lying
open in God's sight
Like a flower in the light.
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST
Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Who, peering through the
window-pane
At nightfall, under sleet and rain
Saw the old
graybeard totter by?
Who listened to his parting sigh,
The sobbing
of his feeble breath,
His whispered colloquy with Death,
And when
his all of life was done
Stood near to bid a last good-bye?
Of all his
former friends not one
Saw the forsaken Winter die.
Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?
Who heard her footfall, swift
and light
As fairy-dancing in the night?
Who guessed what happy
dawn would bring
The flutter of her bluebird's wing,
The blossom
of her mayflower-face
To brighten every shady place?
One morning,
down the village street,
"Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,--
And
none had been awake to greet
The coming of the maiden Spring.
But look, her violet eyes are wet
With bright, unfallen, dewy tears;

And in her song my fancy hears
A note of sorrow trembling yet.

Perhaps, beyond the town, she met
Old Winter as he limped away

To die forlorn, and let him lay
His weary head upon her knee,
And

kissed his forehead with regret
For one so gray and lonely,--see,

Her eyes with tender tears are wet.
And so, by night, while we were all at rest,
I think the coming sped
the parting guest.
1873.
WHEN TULIPS BLOOM
I
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air

Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity
Fair;
When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,

And leads the eyes to sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees
grow;
Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary
trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May
was made.
II
I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough

Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.
The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
For yellow coats, to match
the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show's
begun.
The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:

Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as
these?

III
I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the
ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells
to woods around.
The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,

Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently
sing, "Good cheer."
And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his
psalm.
How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with
music's balm!
IV
'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No
heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line.
Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where
I may wade through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and
dream:
Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
'Tis
all I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's
heart.
1894.
SPRING IN THE NORTH
I
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
Why the sweet Spring
delays,
And where she hides,--the dear desire
Of every heart that
longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
Of maple-buds

along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
The waiting
wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago,
It seemed that
Spring was near!
But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and
earth grew sere,
And sullen clouds drooped low
To veil the sadness
of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
Beat on the
window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That braved the tempest,
buffeted and tossed
With rumpled feathers down the wind again.

Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the wild flowers in their
tomb?
I searched the woods in vain
For blue hepaticas, and
trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,
Starring
the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
But every night the frost
To
all my longing spoke a silent nay,
And told me Spring was far away.

Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except a broken and
discouraged note,--
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat

Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang my
heart a hint,--
"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"
II
But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness
treasured up,
What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a
single cup,
Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart,