The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 8

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 I feared to miss
Arrive with you;?And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
My dreams come true;?And in the promise of your generous eyes
I read the mystic sign?Of joy more perfect made?Because so long delayed,?And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.?Ah, think not early love alone is strong;?He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:?Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,?You're doubly dear because you come so late.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,?Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;?Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;?Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings;?Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying,?Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,?Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,--?Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?
Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,?Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn;?Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing,?Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.?Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning;?Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest;?Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining?Jove's golden shower into Dan?e's breast!
Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted,?Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose,?Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted,?Full to the brim the yellow river flows.?Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,?Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.?Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!?The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!?All of his heart he pours into his lay,--?"Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:?Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"?Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,?Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:?Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,--?Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!
1904.
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.
LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES
Long, long, long the trail?Through the brooding forest-gloom,?Down the shadowy, lonely vale?Into silence, like a room?Where the light of life has fled,?And the jealous curtains close?Round the passionless repose?Of the silent dead.
Plod, plod, plod away,?Step by step in mouldering moss;?Thick branches bar the day?Over languid streams that cross?Softly, slowly, with a sound?Like a smothered weeping,?In their aimless creeping?Through enchanted ground.
"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"?Whispers through the woodland deep;?"Come to me and be at rest;?I am slumber, I am sleep."?Then the weary feet would fail,?But the never-daunted will?Urges "Forward, forward still!?Press along the trail!"
Breast, breast, breast the slope?See, the path is growing steep.?Hark! a little song of hope?Where the stream begins to leap.?Though the forest, far and wide,?Still shuts out the bending blue,?We shall finally win through,?Cross the long divide.
On, on, on we tramp!?Will the journey never end??Over yonder lies the camp;?Welcome waits us there, my friend.?Can we reach it ere the night??Upward, upward, never fear!?Look, the summit must be near;?See the line of light!
Red, red, red the shine?Of the splendour in the west,?Glowing through the ranks of pine,?Clear along the mountain-crest!?Long, long, long the trail?Out of sorrow's lonely vale;?But at last the traveller sees?Light between the trees!
March, 1904.
THE HERMIT THRUSH
O wonderful! How liquid clear?The molten gold of that ethereal tone,?Floating and falling through the wood alone,?A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!
_O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,?Long