The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 3

pomp, with banners flowing,?The regiments of autumn stood:?I saw their gold and scarlet glowing?From every hillside, every wood.
Above the sea the clouds were keeping?Their secret leaguer, gray and still;?They sent their misty vanguard creeping?With muffled step from hill to hill.
All day the sullen armies drifted?Athwart the sky with slanting rain;?At sunset for a space they lifted,?With dusk they settled down again.
II
At dark the winds began to blow?With mutterings distant, low;?From sea and sky they called their strength?Till with an angry, broken roar,?Like billows on an unseen shore,?Their fury burst at length.
I heard through the night?The rush and the clamour;?The pulse of the fight?Like blows of Thor's hammer;?The pattering flight?Of the leaves, and the anguished?Moan of the forest vanquished.
At daybreak came a gusty song:?"Shout! the winds are strong.?The little people of the leaves are fled.?Shout! The Autumn is dead!"
III
The storm is ended! The impartial sun?Laughs down upon the battle lost and won,?And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host?In rolling lines retreating to the coast.
But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade,?And grateful friends of every fallen leaf,?Forget the glories of the cloud-parade,?And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.
For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat?On fields of triumph dirges of defeat;?And still we turn on gala-days to tread?Among the rustling memories of the dead.
1874.
A SNOW-SONG
Does the snow fall at sea??Yes, when the north winds blow,?When the wild clouds fly low,?Out of each gloomy wing,?Silently glimmering,?Over the stormy sea?Falleth the snow.
Does the snow hide the sea??Nay, on the tossing plains?Never a flake remains;?Drift never resteth there;?Vanishing everywhere,?Into the hungry sea?Falleth the snow.
What means the snow at sea??Whirled in the veering blast,?Thickly the flakes drive past;?Each like a childish ghost?Wavers, and then is lost;?In the forgetful sea?Fadeth the snow.
1875.
ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine?The art that reared thy costly shrine!?Thy carven columns must have grown?By magic, like a dream in stone.
Yet not within thy storied wall?Would I in adoration fall,?So gladly as within the glen?That leads to lovely Hawthornden.
A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green?And vine-clad pillars, while between,?The Esk runs murmuring on its way,?In living music night and day.
Within the temple of this wood?The martyrs of the covenant stood,?And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,?From Nature's solemn altar-stair.
Edinburgh, 1877.
SONGS OUT OF DOORS
LATER POEMS
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.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
Do you remember, father,--?It seems so long ago,--?The day we fished together?Along the Pocono??At dusk I waited for you,?Beside the lumber-mill,?And there I heard a hidden bird?That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"?"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"?Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
The place was all deserted;?The mill-wheel hung at rest;?The lonely star of evening?Was throbbing in the west;?The veil of night was falling;?The winds were folded still;?And everywhere the trembling air?Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"?"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"?Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
You seemed so long in coming,?I felt so much alone;?The wide, dark world was round me,?And life was all unknown;?The hand of sorrow touched me,?And made my senses thrill?With all the pain that haunts the strain?Of mournful whip-poor-will.?"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"?Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
What knew I then of trouble??An idle little lad,?I had not learned the lessons?That make men wise and sad.?I dreamed of grief and parting,?And something seemed to fill?My heart with tears, while in my ears?Resounded "whip-poor-will."?"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"?Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
'Twas but a cloud of sadness,?That lightly passed away;?But I have learned the meaning?Of sorrow, since that day.?For nevermore at twilight,?Beside the silent mill,?I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,?And hear the