Songs Out of Doors | Page 6

here are the early flowers
That lingered on their way,
Thronging in
haste to kiss the feet of May,
Entangled with the bloom of later
hours,--
Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and
iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze

Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,

Filling the air with praise,

As if a chime of golden bells had pealed!
The frozen songs within the
breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
Melt into rippling
floods
Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and bluebird, thrush
and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Mingle their melody; the
living spark
Of love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart

leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,

Trembling with tenderness,
While all the woods expand,
In
shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
To veil a joy too
sacred to be seen.
III
Come, put your hand in mine,
True love, long sought and found at
last,
And lead me deep into the Spring divine
That makes amends
for all the wintry past.
For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
Arrive with you;
And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
My
dreams come true;
And in the promise of your generous eyes
I read
the mystic sign
Of joy more perfect made
Because so long delayed,

And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
He loveth best whose heart
has learned to wait:
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,

You're doubly dear because you come so late.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
Tho' to the bough the rusty
leafage clings;
Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;
Every
little pine-wood grows alive with wings;
Blue-jays are fluttering,
yodeling and crying,
Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,

Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,--
Who has waked
the birds up? What has come to pass?
Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,
Tremble in the
March-wind, ragged and forlorn,
Red are the hillsides of the early
ploughing,
Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.
Earth seems
asleep, but she is only feigning;
Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet

unrest;
Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining
Jove's golden
shower into Danäe's breast!
Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted,
Now on the
peach-tree, the glory of the rose,
Far o'er the hills a tender haze is
drifted,
Full to the brim the yellow river flows.
Dark cypress
boughs with vivid jewels glisten,
Greener than emeralds shining in
the sun.
Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!
The
mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!
All of his heart he pours
into his lay,--
"Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:
Winter
is forgotten: here's a happy day!"
Fair in your face I read the flowery
presage,
Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:
Sweet in
your voice I hear the season's message,--
Love, love, love, and Spring
in the South!
1904.
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
But if it's sumpin'
takin', then Spring has got it sure;
An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner
yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their
shacks.
It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,
But it changes all
the lookin's of every blessed thing;
The buddin' woods look bigger,
the mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I
couldn't tell ye why.
It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
Between the
reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!
Machines an' barns an'
buildin's, they never give no sign;
But the livin' things look lively
w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits
is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,-- A single-foot o'
sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail--
But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring
ain't goin' ter fail.
She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out. She's runnin'
down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout?
She's loafin' down the
canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups
is jest a-peekin' thru.
A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin'
fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
With little tips o' brightness
the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candlestick!
The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around,
Jest like a mist o'
greenness 'at hangs above the ground;
A million manzanitas 'ill soon
be full o' pink;
So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!
We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge;
We'll foot
the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge;
We'll take the trail to
Nowhere, an' travel till we tire,
An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an'
sleep beside the fire.
We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps
we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen
goddess or