The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 8

earth-bound, it seems to me You
are the voice of the spring.
Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted, Piper the gold of the world
cannot pay, Up from the limbo of things long departed Memories you
bring me to-day.
You are the echo of songs that are over, You are the promise of songs
that will come, You know the music, oh, light-winged rover, Sealed in
the souls of the dumb.
All of the past that we wearily sigh for, All of the future for which our
hearts long, All Love would live for, and all Love would die for
Wordless, you weave in a song.
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, My spirit answers each note
that you sing, And while I listen--earth-bound--it seems to me You are
the voice of the spring.

A SONG OF ROSES
'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow, To every vagrant passing
breeze they dip a courtesy low, 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is
here, you know.
One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red, Some heart will

wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled, And for the white rose
sing a song--the white rose for the dead.
And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold, King Midas must
have touched their leaves in mystic days of old, Or they were made of
sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.
And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee And the
cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee, You old,
old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.
'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow! They come again, as
sweet, my dear, as those of long ago. 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June
is here you know.

PRAIRIE
Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold Beneath the burnished blue
of the sky, A silver-white sea lies still and cold, And a bitter wind
blows by.
But nothing passes the door all day, Though my watching eyes grow
worn and dim, Save a lean, grey wolf that swings away To the far
horizon rim.
Then, one by one, the stars glisten out Like frozen tears on a purple
pall-- The darkness folds my cabin about And the snow begins to fall.
I will make a hearth-fire red and bright And set a light by the window
pane For one who follows the trail to-night That will bring him home
again.
Love will ride with him my heart to bless-- Joy will out-step him across
the floor-- What matters the great white loneliness When we bar the
cabin door?

THE CLIMBER
He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top, His hands at rest, his
forehead bound with bay; And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied
The downward winding way.
The great procession of the stars went by Far overhead, beyond the
mountain's rim, But the unconquered worlds of time and space, As
nothing were to him.
There from his vantage ground, so still and high, He watched the storm

clouds when they rolled below, And felt the wind mount up to where he
stood Amid eternal snow.
And sometimes in the valleys and the plains He saw the little children
at their play; In cottage homes he saw the candle-light Gleam out at
close of day.
But he and loneliness kept feast and fast, The while with weary eyes,
by night and day; They watched the path that led to common things--
The downward winding way.
"'Twas there," he said, "that gladness passed me by, In yonder valley,
where I sought the truth; And there, a few leagues up the rocky slope, I
said good-bye to Youth.
"There, where the pine trees catch the sun's last gold, Love reached its
hands to me and bade me stop; Oh, madness of the ones who climb," he
said, "Up to the mountain top!"

THE DAISY
An angel found a daisy where it lay On Heaven's highroad of
transparent gold, And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray, Tell me
what manner of strange bloom I hold. You came a long, long
way--perchance you know In what far country such fair flowers blow?"
Then spoke the other: "Turn thy radiant face And gaze with me down
purple depth of space. See, where the stars lie spilled upon the night,
Like amber beads that hold a yellow light. Note one that burns with
faint yet steady glow; It is the Earth--and there these blossoms grow.
Some little child from that dear, distant land Hath borne this hither in
his dimpled hand."
Still gazed he down. "Ah, friend," he said, "I, too, Oft crossed the fields
at home where daisies grew."

THE VISION
Long had she knelt at the