The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 2

of the Northern Light,?And grows in silence to an amber dawn?Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes,?Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.
A joy that falls into the hollow heart?From some far-lifted height of love unseen,?Unknown, makes a more perfect melody?Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk,?Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.
Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky?And the fair ministries of Nature dear,?But as they set themselves unto the tune?That fills our life; as light mysterious?Flows from within and glorifies the world.
For so a common wayside blossom, touched?With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet?Than crowns the royal lily of the South;?And so a well-remembered perfume seems?The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.
1872.
THREE ALPINE SONNETS
I
THE GLACIER
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,?The silver-crested waves no murmur make;?But far away the avalanches wake?The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream;?Their momentary thunders, dying, seem?To fall into the stillness, flake by flake,?And leave the hollow air with naught to break?The frozen spell of solitude supreme.
At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring?Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls?Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring?With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls;?As if a poet's heart had felt the glow?Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.
Zermatt, 1872.
II
THE SNOW-FIELD
White Death had laid his pall upon the plain,?And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead;?The vault of heaven was glaring overhead?With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain;?And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain?For sign or trace of life, my spirit said,?"Shall any living thing that dares to tread?This royal lair of Death escape again?"
But even then I saw before my feet?A line of pointed footprints in the snow:?Some roving chamois, but an hour ago,?Had passed this way along his journey fleet,?And left a message from a friend unknown?To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.
Zermatt, 1872.
III
MOVING BELLS
I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair?And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells,?To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells?Go chiming after her across the fair?And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare?Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,?And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells?Of peace are woven through the purple air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems?To walk before the dark by falling rills,?And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;?She opens all the doors of night, and fills?With moving bells the music of my dreams,?That wander far among the sleeping hills.
Gstaad, August, 1909.
MATINS
Flowers rejoice when night is done,?Lift their heads to greet the sun;?Sweetest looks and odours raise,?In a silent hymn of praise.
So my heart would turn away?From the darkness to the day;?Lying open in God's sight?Like a flower in the light.
THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST
Who watched the worn-out Winter die??Who, peering through the window-pane?At nightfall, under sleet and rain?Saw the old graybeard totter by??Who listened to his parting sigh,?The sobbing of his feeble breath,?His whispered colloquy with Death,?And when his all of life was done?Stood near to bid a last good-bye??Of all his former friends not one?Saw the forsaken Winter die.
Who welcomed in the maiden Spring??Who heard her footfall, swift and light?As fairy-dancing in the night??Who guessed what happy dawn would bring?The flutter of her bluebird's wing,?The blossom of her mayflower-face?To brighten every shady place??One morning, down the village street,?"Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,--?And none had been awake to greet?The coming of the maiden Spring.
But look, her violet eyes are wet?With bright, unfallen, dewy tears;?And in her song my fancy hears?A note of sorrow trembling yet.?Perhaps, beyond the town, she met?Old Winter as he limped away?To die forlorn, and let him lay?His weary head upon her knee,?And kissed his forehead with regret?For one so gray and lonely,--see,?Her eyes with tender tears are wet.
And so, by night, while we were all at rest,?I think the coming sped the parting guest.
1873.
IF ALL THE SKIES
If all the skies were sunshine,?Our faces would be fain?To feel once more upon them?The cooling plash of rain.
If all the world were music,?Our hearts would often long?For one sweet strain of silence.?To break the endless song.
If life were always merry,?Our souls would seek relief,?And rest from weary laughter?In the quiet arms of grief.
WINGS OF A DOVE
I
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying?Far down the pathway of the west,?I saw a lonely dove in silence flying,
To be at rest.
Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow?Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest,?I'd fly away from every careful sorrow,
And find my rest.
II
But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling,?Home flew the dove to seek his nest,?Deep in the forest where his mate was calling
To love and rest.
Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander;?Lose not thy life in barren quest.?There are no happy islands over yonder;
Come home and rest.
1874.
THE FALL OF THE LEAVES
I
In warlike