Part 5

All round us the secret of Nature Is telling itself to our sight, We may guess at her meaning but never Can know the full mystery of night.

But her power of enchantment is on us, We bow to the spell which she weaves, Made up of the murmur of waves And the manifold whisper of leaves.

Summer

Some men there are who find in nature all Their inspiration, hers the sympathy Which spurs them on to any great endeavor, To them the fields and woods are closest friends, And they hold dear communion with the hills; The voice of waters soothes them with its fall, And the great winds bring healing in their sound. To them a city is a prison house Where pent up human forces labour and strive, Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man; But where in winter they must live until Summer gives back the spaces of the hills. To me it is not so. I love the earth And all the gifts of her so lavish hand: Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, Thick branches swaying in a winter storm, And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake; But more than these, and much, ah, how much more, I love the very human heart of man. Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky, Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake Lazily reflecting back the sun, And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops The green crest of the hill on which I sit; And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer, The very crown of nature's changing year When all her surging life is at its full. To me alone it is a time of pause, A void and silent space between two worlds, When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps, Gathering strength for efforts yet to come. For life alone is creator of life, And closest contact with the human world Is like a lantern shining in the night To light me to a knowledge of myself. I love the vivid life of winter months In constant intercourse with human minds, When every new experience is gain And on all sides we feel the great world's heart; The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

"To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New"

As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty, Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging. So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.

The Way

At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water, While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.

It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons, Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine; No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers, And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen. And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longing to wander, The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song of Nature, Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."

Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road Where many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the trees and the flowers, The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing. And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water, Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean. But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset. It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water, And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire, Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water; And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight, yet he ventures His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him. O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city, The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!

Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha}

Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night! See where it casts the shadow of that tree Far out upon the grass. And every gust Of light night wind comes laden with the scent Of opening flowers which never bloom by day: Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk, The evening primrose, comrade of the stars. It seems as though the garden which you love Were like a swinging censer, its incense Floating before us as a reverent act To sanctify and bless our night of love. Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand; And tell me it is by your own free will That you are here, and that you like to be Just here, with me, under this sailing pine. I need to hear it often for my heart Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust. Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so, And yet I would not have it goodness, rather Excess of selfishness in you to need Me through and through, as flowers need the sun. I wonder can it really be that you And I are here alone, and that the night Is full of hours, and all the world asleep, And none can call to you to come away; For you have given all yourself to me Making me gentle by your willingness. Has your life too been waiting for this time, Not only mine the sharpness of this joy? Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though I were a priest before a holy shrine. I'm glad that you are beautiful, although Were you not lovely still I needs must love; But you are all things, it must have been so For otherwise it were not you. Come, close; When you are in the circle of my arm Faith grows a mountain and I take my stand Upon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once more Kiss me, and let me feel you very near Wanting me wholly, even as I want you. Have years behind been dark? Will those to come Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives? What does it matter, we have had to-night! To-night will make us strong, for we believe Each in the other, this is a sacrament. Beloved, is it true?

Roads

I know a country laced with roads, They join the hills and they span the brooks, They weave like a shuttle between broad fields, And slide discreetly through hidden nooks. They are canopied like a Persian dome And carpeted with orient dyes. They are myriad-voiced, and musical, And scented with happiest memories. O Winding roads that I know so well, Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill! They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune Gay as a honey-bee humming in June. 'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch; 'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze, And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.

A cow in a meadow shakes her bell And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air, Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where The sun splashed bright on the road ahead A startled rabbit quivered and fled. O Uphill roads and roads that dip down! You curl your sun-spattered length along, And your march is beaten into a song By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse And the panting breath of the dogs I love. The pageant of Autumn follows its course And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.

And the song and the country become as one, I see it as music, I hear it as light; Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone, The land of desire, my soul's delight. And always it beats in my listening ears With the gentle thud of a horse's stride, With the swift-falling steps of many dogs, Following, following at my side. O Roads that journey to fairyland! Radiant highways whose vistas gleam, Leading me on, under crimson leaves, To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.

How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls In quiet shafts of light through the high trees Which, arching, make a roof above the walls Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer Of vague romance, and time's long history; Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white, Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

What sound is that which echoes through the wood? Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe? Perchance a minute more will see the brood Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip Will rest the rushes he is wont to play. His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns, So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway As they the measure tread to the lilting flute. Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns.

A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun. How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange! Surely 't was here some tragedy was done, And here the chorus sang each coming change? Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood, These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark; That is no thrush which sings so rapturously, But the nightingale in his most passionate mood Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark! The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams Take on the semblances of finite things; So potent is the spell that what but seems Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings. The little woodland theatre seems to wait, All tremulous with hope and wistful joy, For something that is sure to come at last, Some deep emotion, satisfying, great. It grows a living presence, bold and shy, Cradling the future in a glorious past.

The Road to Avignon

A Minstrel stands on a marble stair, Blown by the bright wind, debonair; Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor, Above on the terrace a turret door Frames a lady, listless and wan, But fair for the eye to rest upon. The minstrel plucks at his silver strings, And looking up to the lady, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

The octagon tower casts a shade Cool and gray like a cutlass blade; In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin, The little green lizards run out and in. A sail dips over the ocean's rim, And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim. The minstrel touches his silver strings, And gazing up to the lady, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

Slowly she walks to the balustrade, Idly notes how the blossoms fade In the sun's caress; then crosses where The shadow shelters a carven chair. Within its curve, supine she lies, And wearily closes her tired eyes. The minstrel beseeches his silver strings, And holding the lady spellbound, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

Clouds sail over the distant trees, Petals are shaken down by the breeze, They fall on the terrace tiles like snow; The sighing of waves sounds, far below. A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose Then laden with honey and love he goes. The minstrel woos with his silver strings, And climbing up to the lady, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

Step by step, and he comes to her, Fearful lest she suddenly stir. Sunshine and silence, and each to each, The lute and his singing their only speech; He leans above her, her eyes unclose, The humming-bird enters another rose. The minstrel hushes his silver strings. Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings! Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

New York at Night