Songs Out of Doors | Page 5

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, 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