Songs Out of Doors | Page 7

on logs or rocks,?Boughs that wave or weeds that float,?Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat!?Not to lure the glutton frog?From his banquet in the bog;?Nor the lazy chub to fool,?Splashing idly round the pool;?Nor the sullen horned pout?From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew,?Dainty flies, is game for you.?Darting swiftly through the air?Guided by the angler's care,?Light upon the flowing stream?Like a winged fairy dream;?Float upon the water dancing,?Through the lights and shadows glancing,?Till the rippling current brings you,?And with quiet motion swings you,?Where a speckled beauty lies?Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here's your game and here's your prize!?Hover near him, lure him, tease him,?Do your very best to please him,?Dancing on the water foamy,?Like the frail and fair Salome,?Till the monarch yields at last,?Rises, and you have him fast!?Then remember well your duty,--?Do not lose, but land, your booty;?For the finest fish of all is?_Salvelinus Fontinalis_.
So, you plumed illusions, go,?Let my comrade Archie know?Every day he goes a-fishing?I'll be with him in well-wishing.?Most of all when lunch is laid?In the dappled orchard shade,?With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,?Sitting as we used to do?Round the white cloth on the grass?While the lazy hours pass,?And the brook's contented tune?Lulls the sleepy afternoon,--?Then's the time my heart will be?With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
A NOON-SONG
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,?For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;?But who will give praise to the fulness of light,?And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,?The noon with golden crest;?When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns?With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength!?How slowly he crept as the morning wore by!?Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length?To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,?The toil that may not rest,?Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,?To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,?The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,?The river runs softly, the birds are all still,?The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,?The hour that calms the breast!?Little inn half-way on the road of the day,?Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,?The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,?The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,?To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.?Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,?Of all the day the best!?When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns?To his home by the way of the west!
1906.
TURN O' THE TIDE
The tide flows in to the harbour,--?The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,-- And the little ships riding at anchor,?Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their wings to the wide wild air,?And venture a voyage they know not where,--?To fly away and be free!
The tide runs out of the harbour,--?The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,-- And the little ships rocking at anchor,?Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand,?To rest in the lee of the high hill land,--?To hold their haven and stay!
My heart goes round with the vessels,--?My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,-- And the turn o' the tide passes through it,?In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling?At morn, to range where the far waves foam,?At night, to a harbour in love's true home,?With the hearts that understand!
Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.
SIERRA MADRE
O mother mountains! billowing far to the snowlands,?Robed in a?rial amethyst, silver, and blue,?Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands??What have their groves and gardens to do with you?
Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,?Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,--?Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,?Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.
You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,?Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;?Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only?Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.
Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour?Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim??What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender?Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?
Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:?"Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;?Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming?Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.
"Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry