The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 4

and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
The place was all deserted;
The mill-wheel hung at rest;
The lonely
star of evening
Was throbbing in the west;
The veil of night was
falling;
The winds were folded still;
And everywhere the trembling

air
Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
You seemed so long in coming,
I felt so much alone;
The wide,
dark world was round me,
And life was all unknown;
The hand of
sorrow touched me,
And made my senses thrill
With all the pain
that haunts the strain
Of mournful whip-poor-will.
"Whippoorwill!_
_whippoorwill!"
Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
What knew I then of trouble?
An idle little lad,
I had not learned the
lessons
That make men wise and sad.
I dreamed of grief and parting,

And something seemed to fill
My heart with tears, while in my ears

Resounded "whip-poor-will."
"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
'Twas but a cloud of sadness,
That lightly passed away;
But I have
learned the meaning
Of sorrow, since that day.
For nevermore at
twilight,
Beside the silent mill,
I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,

And hear the whip-poor-will.
"Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,--"whippoorwill!"
But if you still remember
In that fair land of light,
The pains and
fears that touch us
Along this edge of night,
I think all earthly
grieving,
And all our mortal ill,

To you must seem like a sad boy's
dream.
Who hears the whip-poor-will.
"Whippoorwill!_
_whippoorwill!"
A passing thrill,--"whippoorwill!"
1894.
THE LILY OF YORROW
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its
cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls
through the shadowy glades when the south wind is
blowing.

Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; Sweet are
the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower; Sweeter
by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.
Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume
enchanted
Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are
haunted, Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.
Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning Over
a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening? Who
can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?
Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden, Joy of
the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, Secrets that
cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.
Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long endeavour; Surely
to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never Tell of
the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.
'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me: Turning
aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,-- Then he
was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.
Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow?
Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: He has
discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.
1894.
THE VEERY
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When
first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. So passionate,
so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; I longed to hear a simpler
strain,--the wood-notes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; It sprinkles
down from far away like light and love together; He drops the golden
notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; I only know one song more
sweet,--the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard
the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: The ballad was a
pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet, with every setting
sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
New
England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And
when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, I fain would
hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.
1895.
THE SONG-SPARROW
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung

Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell

The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle-joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear.
What bird it is that, every year,

Sings "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."
He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide
the earth;
But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for
May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every day
Repeats
his small, contented lay;
As if to say, we need not fear
The season's
change, if love is here
With "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."
He does not wear a Joseph's-coat
Of many colours, smart and gay;

His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With