The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 8

ago,
It seemed that
Spring was near!
But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and
earth grew sere,
And sullen clouds drooped low
To veil the sadness
of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
Beat on the
window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That
braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed
With rumpled feathers down
the wind again.
Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the
wild flowers in their tomb?
I searched the woods in vain
For blue
hepaticas, and trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring's
delight,
Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
But every
night the frost
To all my longing spoke a silent nay,
And told me
Spring was far away.
Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except
a broken and discouraged note,--
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose
throat
Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang
my heart a hint,--
"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"
II
But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness
treasured up,
What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a
single cup,
Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart,
here are the early flowers
That lingered on their way,
Thronging in
haste to kiss the feet of May,
Entangled with the bloom of later
hours,--
Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and
iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze

Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
Filling the air with praise,

As if a chime of golden bells had pealed!
The frozen songs within the
breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
Melt into rippling
floods
Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and bluebird, thrush
and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Mingle their melody; the

living spark
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart
leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep
beneath the sun's caress,
Trembling with tenderness,
While all the
woods expand,
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,

To veil a joy 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 Danäe'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