The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 5

magic in that small bird's note--?See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat;?A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,?A spark of light that shines and sings?"Witchery--witchery--witchery."
You prophet with a pleasant name,?If out of Mary-land you came,?You know the way that thither goes?Where Mary's lovely garden grows:?Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,?And try to call her down this way,?"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,?And all her little silver bells?That blossom into melody,?And all her maids less fair than she.?She does not need these pretty things,?For everywhere she comes, she brings?"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
The woods are greening overhead,?And flowers adorn each mossy bed;?The waters babble as they run--?One thing is lacking, only one:?If Mary were but here to-day,?I would believe your charming lay,?"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
Along the shady road I look--?Who's coming now across the brook??A woodland maid, all robed in white--?The leaves dance round her with delight,?The stream laughs out beneath her feet--?Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,?"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
1895.
A NOVEMBER DAISY
Afterthought of summer's bloom!?Late arrival at the feast,?Coming when the songs have ceased?And the merry guests departed,?Leaving but an empty room,?Silence, solitude, and gloom,--?Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;?You, the last of all your kind,?Nodding in the autumn-wind;?Now that all your friends are flown,?Blooming late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,?Reading mournful mood of mine?In your looks, that give no sign?Of a spirit dark and cheerless!?You possess the heavenly power?That rejoices in the hour.?Glad, contented, free, and fearless,?Lift a sunny face to heaven?When a sunny day is given!?Make a summer of your own,?Blooming late and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white?Sea-like through the meadow rolled:?Once my heart could hardly hold?All its pleasures. I remember,?In the flood of youth's delight?Separate joys were lost to sight.?That was summer! Now November?Sets the perfect flower apart;?Gives each blossom of the heart?Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,--?Blooming late and all alone.
November, 1899.
THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin throws?Over the edge of the valley;?Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:
_Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born!
Day is near,
Clear, clear.
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking,
Tup, tup, tup!
Do you hear?
All clear--
Wake up!_
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.
This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,?Unto his mate replying,?Shaking the tune from his wings
While he is flying:
_Surely, surely, surely,
Life is dear
Even here.