The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 2

flown,
Returns a solitary tone,--
The after-echo of departed
years,--
And touches all the soul to tears.
1871.
DULCIORA
A tear that trembles for a little while
Upon the trembling eyelid, till
the world
Wavers within its circle like a dream,
Holds more of
meaning in its narrow orb
Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.
A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved,
Like the faint pulsing 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