The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 3

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 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