THE POEMS
OF
HENRY VAN DYKE

[from an edition:]
Printed by The Scribner Press,
New York, U.S.A.

Dedicated in Friendship to
      KATRINA TRASK      
           AND           
    JOHN HUSTON FINLEY    

How long the echoes love to play
  Around the shore of silence, as a wave
  Retreating circles down the sand!
  One after one, with sweet delay,
The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave,
  Have lingered in the crescent bay,
  Until, by lightest breezes fanned,
They float far off beyond the dying day
      And leave it still as death.
        But hark,—
      Another singing breath
    Comes from the edge of dark;
      A note as clear and slow
    As falls from some enchanted bell,
    Or spirit, passing from the world below,
      That whispers back, Farewell.

      So in the heart,
    When, fading slowly down the past,
      Fond memories depart,
    And each that leaves it seems the last;
    Long after all the rest are flown,
    Returns a solitary tone,—
    The after-echo of departed years,—
    And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

At sunset, when the rosy light was 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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!

'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.

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 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.

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 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.

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 darker patches at his throat.
  And yet of all the well-dressed throng
  Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

A lofty place he does not love,
  But sits by choice, and well at ease,
  In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
  The meadow-brook; and there he sings
  Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

I like the tune, I like the words;
  They seem so true, so free from art,
  So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
  Could be my comrade everywhere,
  My little brother of the air,
I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear,
Because he'd bless me, every year,
With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

1895.

When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There's magic in that small bird's note—
See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat;
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines and sings
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,
You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this way,
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells
That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run—
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

Along the shady road I look—
Who's coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white—
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet—
Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
  “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

1895.

Afterthought of summer's bloom!
Late arrival at the feast,
Coming when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,
Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom,—
Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
Nodding in the autumn-wind;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming late and all alone?

Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
You possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour.
Glad, contented, free, and fearless,
Lift a sunny face to heaven
When a sunny day is given!
Make a summer of your own,
Blooming late and all alone!

Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadow rolled:
Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures. I remember,
In the flood of youth's delight
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That was summer! Now November
Sets the perfect flower apart;
Gives each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,—
Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light,
'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

        This is the carol the Robin throws
          Over the edge of the valley;
        Listen how boldly it flows,
          Sally on sally:
                  Tirra-lirra,
                  Early morn,
                  New born!
                  Day is near,
                  Clear, clear.
                  Down the river
                  All a-quiver,
                  Fish are breaking;
                  Time for waking,
                  Tup, tup, tup!
                  Do you hear?
                  All clear—
                  Wake up!

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;
Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,
While every voice cries out “Rejoice!” as if the world were new.

        This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,
          Unto his mate replying,
        Shaking the tune from his wings
          While he is flying:
                Surely, surely, surely,
                    Life is dear
                    Even here.
                    Blue above,
                    You to love,
                  Purely, purely, purely.

There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell,
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.

        This is the song of the Yellow-throat,
          Fluttering gaily beside you;
        Hear how each voluble note
          Offers to guide you:
                  Which way, sir?
                  I say, sir,
                  Let me teach you,
                  I beseech you!
                  Are you wishing
                  Jolly fishing?
                  This way, sir!
                  I'll teach you.

Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind,
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;
For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will give,
And all the day your heart will say, “'Tis luck enough to live.”

        This is the song the Brown Thrush flings
          Out of his thicket of roses;
        Hark how it bubbles and rings,
          Mark how it closes:
                  Luck, luck,
                  What luck?
                  Good enough for me,
                  I'm alive, you see!
                  Sun shining,
                  No repining;
                  Never borrow
                  Idle sorrow;
                  Drop it!
                  Cover it up!
                  Hold your cup!
                  Joy will fill it,
                  Don't spill it,
                  Steady, be ready,
                  Good luck!

1899.

Where's your kingdom, little king?
  Where the land you call your own,
  Where your palace and your throne?
Fluttering lightly on the wing
  Through the blossom-world of May,
  Whither lies your royal way,
            Little king?

    Far to northward lies a land
    Where the trees together stand
    Closely as the blades of wheat
    When the summer is complete.
    Rolling like an ocean wide
    Over vale and mountainside,
    Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine,—
    All those mighty trees are mine.
    There's a river flowing free,—
    All its waves belong to me.
    There's a lake so clear and bright
    Stars shine out of it all night;
    Rowan-berries round it spread
    Like a belt of coral red.
    Never royal garden planned
    Fair as my Canadian land!
    There I build my summer nest,
    There I reign and there I rest,
    While from dawn to dark I sing,
    Happy kingdom! Lucky king!

Back again, my little king!
  Is your happy kingdom lost
  To the rebel knave, Jack Frost?
Have you felt the snow-flakes sting?
  Houseless, homeless in October,
  Whither now? Your plight is sober,
            Exiled king!

    Far to southward lie the regions
    Where my loyal flower-legions
    Hold possession of the year,
    Filling every month with cheer.
    Christmas wakes the winter rose;
    New Year daffodils unclose;
    Yellow jasmine through the wood
    Flows in February flood,
    Dropping from the tallest trees
    Golden streams that never freeze.
    Thither now I take my flight
    Down the pathway of the night,
    Till I see the southern moon
    Glisten on the broad lagoon,
    Where the cypress' dusky green,
    And the dark magnolia's sheen,
    Weave a shelter round my home.
    There the snow-storms never come;
    There the bannered mosses gray
    Like a curtain gently sway,
    Hanging low on every side
    Round the covert where I bide,
    Till the March azalea glows,
    Royal red and heavenly rose,
    Through the Carolina glade
    Where my winter home is made.
    There I hold my southern court,
    Full of merriment and sport:
    There I take my ease and sing,
    Happy kingdom! Lucky king!

Little boaster, vagrant king,
  Neither north nor south is yours,
  You've no kingdom that endures!
Wandering every fall and spring,
  With your ruby crown so slender,
  Are you only a Pretender,
            Landless king?

    Never king by right divine
    Ruled a richer realm than mine!
    What are lands and golden crowns,
    Armies, fortresses and towns,
    Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings,—
    What are these to song and wings?
    Everywhere that I can fly,
    There I own the earth and sky;
    Everywhere that I can sing.
    There I'm happy as a king.

1900.

I put my heart to school
In the world where men grow wise:
“Go out,” I said, “and learn the rule;
Come back when you win a prize.”

My heart came back again:
“Now where is the prize?” I cried.—
“The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
And the teacher's name was Pride.”

I put my heart to school
In the woods where veeries sing
And brooks run clear and cool,
In the fields where wild flowers spring.

“And why do you stay so long
My heart, and where do you roam?”
The answer came with a laugh and a song,—
“I find this school is home.”

April, 1901.

A silken curtain veils the skies,
And half conceals from pensive eyes
  The bronzing tokens of the fall;
A calmness broods upon the hills,
And summer's parting dream distils
  A charm of silence over all.

The stacks of corn, in brown array,
Stand waiting through the tranquil day,
  Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
The tribes that find a shelter there
Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
  And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes down the West,
  I hear the whispering host returning;
On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—
  The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

Tertius and Henry van Dyke.

November, 1903.

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
Why the sweet Spring delays,
And where she hides,—the dear desire
  Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
  The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long 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!”

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.

  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.

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.

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 all over the world.
      Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
        The hour that calms the breast!
      Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
        Where it follows the turn to the west!

There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
  The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
  To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
      Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
        Of all the day the best!
      When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
        To his home by the way of the west!

1906.

Long, long, long the trail
  Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
  Into silence, like a room
    Where the light of life has fled,
  And the jealous curtains close
  Round the passionless repose
    Of the silent dead.

Plod, plod, plod away,
  Step by step in mouldering moss;
Thick branches bar the day
  Over languid streams that cross
    Softly, slowly, with a sound
  Like a smothered weeping,
  In their aimless creeping
    Through enchanted ground.

“Yield, yield, yield thy quest,”
  Whispers through the woodland deep;
“Come to me and be at rest;
  I am slumber, I am sleep.”
    Then the weary feet would fail,
  But the never-daunted will
  Urges “Forward, forward still!
    Press along the trail!”

Breast, breast, breast the slope
  See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
  Where the stream begins to leap.
    Though the forest, far and wide,
  Still shuts out the bending blue,
  We shall finally win through,
    Cross the long divide.

On, on, on we tramp!
  Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
  Welcome waits us there, my friend.
    Can we reach it ere the night?
  Upward, upward, never fear!
  Look, the summit must be near;
    See the line of light!

Red, red, red the shine
  Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
  Clear along the mountain-crest!
  Long, long, long the trail
  Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
    But at last the traveller sees
    Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

O wonderful! How liquid clear
The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
Floating and falling through the wood alone,
A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!

O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,
Long light, low light, glory of eventide!
Love far away, far up,—up,—love divine!
Little love, too, for ever, ever near,
Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
In the leafy dark where you hide,
You are mine,—mine,—mine!

Ah, my belovèd, do you feel with me
The hidden virtue of that melody,
The rapture and the purity of love,
The heavenly joy that can not find the word?
Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
Come very near to me, and do not move,—
Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
And we will drink the wine of love with you.

May, 1908.

The tide flows in to the harbour,—
  The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,—
And the little ships riding at anchor,
  Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting
    To lift their wings to the wide wild air,
    And venture a voyage they know not where,—
  To fly away and be free!

The tide runs out of the harbour,—
  The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,—
And the little ships rocking at anchor,
  Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning
    To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand,
    To rest in the lee of the high hill land,—
To hold their haven and stay!

My heart goes round with the vessels,—
  My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,—
And the turn o' the tide passes through it,
  In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling
    At morn, to range where the far waves foam,
    At night, to a harbour in love's true home,
  With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.

O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
  Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue,
Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?
  What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,
  Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,—
Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,
  Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,
  Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;
Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only
  Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour
  Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?
What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender
  Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:
  “Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;
Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming
  Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.

“Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land,
  Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields,
Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky-land,
  Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields.”

O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!
  Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty fills—
Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,—
  I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.

Pasadena, March, 1913.

What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?
Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place
Of ancient secrets,—gray and ghostly gulf
Cleft in the green of this high forest land,
And crowded in the dark with giant forms!
Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?

A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound
Broods over thee: a living silence breathes
Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss.
The morning-stars that sang above the bower
Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb
With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn
Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet,
Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!
She peers into thy depths with silent prayer
For light, more light, to part thy purple veil.
O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,—
Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast
The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!

'Tis done,—the morning miracle of light,—
The resurrection of the world of hues
That die with dark, and daily rise again
With every rising of the splendid Sun!

Be still, my heart! Now Nature holds her breath
To see the solar flood of radiance leap
Across the chasm, and crown the western rim
Of alabaster with a far-away
Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by walls
Of changeful opal, deepen into gold
Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline,
Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade,
Purple of amethyst, and ruby red,
Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry;
Until the cataract of colour breaks
Upon the blackness of the granite floor.

How far below! And all between is cleft
And carved into a hundred curving miles
Of unimagined architecture! Tombs,
Temples, and colonnades are neighboured there
By fortresses that Titans might defend,
And amphitheatres where Gods might strive.
Cathedrals, buttressed with unnumbered tiers
Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky
A single spire of marble pure as snow;
And huge aërial palaces arise
Like mountains built of unconsuming flame.
Along the weathered walls, or standing deep
In riven valleys where no foot may tread,
Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments
Of perished æons and forgotten things.
My sight is baffled by the wide array
Of countless forms: my vision reels and swims
Above them, like a bird in whirling winds.
Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm;
But spacious order and a sense of peace
Brood over all. For every shape that looms
Majestic in the throng, is set apart
From all the others by its far-flung shade,
Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there.

How still it is! Dear God, I hardly dare
To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss
Will draw me down into eternal sleep.

What force has formed this masterpiece of awe?
What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste?
O river, gleaming in the narrow rift
Of gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep,—
Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil,
And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,—
Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springs
Amid the Utah hills, have carved this road
Of glory to the Californian Gulf.
But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost,
'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves,
Too far away to make their fury heard!

At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slave
Of gravitation,—yellow torrent poured
From distant mountains by no will of thine,
Through thrice a hundred centuries of slow
Fallings and liftings of the crust of Earth,—
At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails.
Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blind
Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly down
To cut this gash across the layered globe,
The sole creative cause of all I see?
Are force and matter all? The rest a dream?

Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair,
A prison for the soul of man, a grave
Of all his dearest daring hopes! The world
Wherein we live and move is meaningless,
No spirit here to answer to our own!
The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth
Adrift in space, no Captain on the ship:
Nothing in all the universe to prove
Eternal wisdom and eternal love!
And man, the latest accident of Time,—
Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand,
Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave,
Who dupes his heart with immortality,—
Man is a living lie,—a bitter jest
Upon himself,—a conscious grain of sand
Lost in a desert of unconsciousness,
Thirsting for God and mocked by his own thirst.

Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight,
Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence
Inhabiting this lofty lone abode,
Speak to my heart again and set me free
From all these doubts that darken earth and heaven!
Who sent thee forth into the wilderness
To bless and comfort all who see thy face?
Who clad thee in this more than royal robe
Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones
For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces?
Who gave thee power upon the soul of man
To lift him up through wonder into joy?
God! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, God!
Let all the shining pillars signal, God!
He only, on the mystic loom of light.
Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe
His most majestic works: and He alone
Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower
To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.

O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High,
Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man,
And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!

Now, far beyond all language and all art
In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous,
The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled
In wordless worship! This is holy ground;
Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine.
Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise,
If God were blind thy Beauty could not be!

February 24-26, 1913.

The heavenly hills of Holland,—
  How wondrously they rise
Above the smooth green pastures
  Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
  With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon
  The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden
  The summits of that range,
Nor walked those mystic valleys
  Whose colours ever change;
Yet we possess their beauty,
  And visit them in dreams,
While ruddy gold of sunset
  From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather
  They melt into the light;
When fog and mist surround us
  They're hidden from our sight;
But when returns a season
  Clear shining after rain,
While the northwest wind is blowing,
  We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them,
  Their pictures show them fair,—
Old Hobbema and Ruysdael,
  Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape,
  Rich polders, long-armed mills,
Canals and ancient cities,—
  Float Holland's heavenly hills.

The Hague, November, 1916.

The laggard winter ebbed so slow
With freezing rain and melting snow,
It seemed as if the earth would stay
Forever where the tide was low,
In sodden green and watery gray.

But now from depths beyond our sight,
The tide is turning in the night,
And floods of colour long concealed
Come silent rising toward the light,
Through garden bare and empty field.

And first, along the sheltered nooks,
The crocus runs in little brooks
Of joyance, till by light made bold
They show the gladness of their looks
In shining pools of white and gold.

The tiny scilla, sapphire blue,
Is gently seeping in, to strew
The earth with heaven; and sudden rills
Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through,
Spread into lakes of daffodils.

The hyacinths, with fragrant heads,
Have overflowed their sandy beds,
And fill the earth with faint perfume,
The breath that Spring around her sheds.
And now the tulips break in bloom!

A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea,
A splendour and a mystery,
Floods o'er the fields of faded gray:
The roads are full of folks in glee,
For lo,—to-day is Easter Day!

April, 1916.

  Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
    With flowers below, above with starry lights
  And set thine altars everywhere,—
          On mountain heights,
  In woodlands dim with many a dream,
          In valleys bright with springs,
And on the curving capes of every stream:
Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings
          Of morning, to abide
Upon the secret places of the sea,
  And on far islands, where the tide
Visits the beauty of untrodden shores,
Waiting for worshippers to come to thee
          In thy great out-of-doors!
To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer,
          God of the open air.

Seeking for thee, the heart of man
        Lonely and longing ran,
In that first, solitary hour,
        When the mysterious power
To know and love the wonder of the morn
Was breathed within him, and his soul was born;
        And thou didst meet thy child,
        Not in some hidden shrine,
But in the freedom of the garden wild,
        And take his hand in thine,—
There all day long in Paradise he walked,
And in the cool of evening with thee talked.

  Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure,
  Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure,
And lost the child-like love that worshipped and was sure!
  For men have dulled their eyes with sin,
  And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt,
  And built their temple walls to shut thee in,
  And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.
    But not for thee the closing of the door,
          O Spirit unconfined!
            Thy ways are free
          As is the wandering wind,
  And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore
        Their fellowship with thee,
  In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.

  Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by,
  Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky;
  And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night,
  For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier,
  Built up a secret stairway to the height
  Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear.
  From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age,
    Disciples of the Persian seer
  Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee;
  And wayworn followers of the Indian sage
Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree.

  But One, but One,—ah, Son most dear,
And perfect image of the Love Unseen,—
  Walked every day in pastures green,
And all his life the quiet waters by,
Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye.
To him the desert was a place prepared
      For weary hearts to rest;
  The hillside was a temple blest;
  The grassy vale a banquet-room
Where he could feed and comfort many a guest.
      With him the lily shared
The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom;
And every bird that sang beside the nest
Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing.
    He watched the shepherd bring
His flock at sundown to the welcome fold,
  The fisherman at daybreak fling
His net across the waters gray and cold,
And all day long the patient reaper swing
His curving sickle through the harvest-gold.
So through the world the foot-path way he trod,
Breathing the air of heaven in every breath;
And in the evening sacrifice of death
Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God.
Him will I trust, and for my Master take;
Him will I follow; and for his dear sake,
        God of the open air,
      To thee I make my prayer.

From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded,
From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded,
From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion,
From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion,
(Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!)
I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air.

By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me,
By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me,
By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion,
Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean,
(Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the eyes!)
Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and skies.

While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading,
And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading;
While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under,
Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder,
(Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!)
Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth.

By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom unbidden,
By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden,
By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation,
By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migration,
(Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast!)
Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest.

For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces,
For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places,
For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers,
For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers,
For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,—
I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!

        These are the gifts I ask
        Of thee, Spirit serene:
        Strength for the daily task,
        Courage to face the road,
  Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load,
  And, for the hours of rest that come between,
  An inward joy in all things heard and seen.
        These are the sins I fain
        Would have thee take away:
        Malice, and cold disdain,
        Hot anger, sullen hate,
  Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great,
  And discontent that casts a shadow gray
  On all the brightness of the common day.
        These are the things I prize
        And hold of dearest worth:
        Light of the sapphire skies,
        Peace of the silent hills,
  Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass,
  Music of birds, murmur of little rills,
  Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass,
        And, after showers,
        The smell of flowers
      And of the good brown earth,—
And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth.
        So let me keep
      These treasures of the humble heart
    In true possession, owning them by love;
    And when at last I can no longer move
      Among them freely, but must part
    From the green fields and from the waters clear,
        Let me not creep
  Into some darkened room and hide
  From all that makes the world so bright and dear;
        But throw the windows wide
        To welcome in the light;
    And while I clasp a well-belovèd hand,
        Let me once more have sight
    Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,—
        Then gently fall on sleep,
And breathe my body back to Nature's care,
My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.

1904.

In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, near the River Nile, a party of English explorers, in the winter of 1897, discovered a fragment of a papyrus book, written in the second or third century, and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words, “Jesus says.” It is to the fifth of these Sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers.

      Hear a word that Jesus spake
        Nineteen hundred years ago,
        Where the crimson lilies blow
      Round the blue Tiberian lake:
      There the bread of life He brake,
        Through the fields of harvest walking
        With His lowly comrades, talking
        Of the secret thoughts that feed
        Weary souls in time of need.
      Art thou hungry? Come and take;
      Hear the word that Jesus spake!
'Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely blest;
Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and courage, joy and rest.

      But this word the Master said
        Long ago and far away,
        Silent and forgotten lay
      Buried with the silent dead,
      Where the sands of Egypt spread
        Sea-like, tawny billows heaping
        Over ancient cities sleeping,
        While the River Nile between
        Rolls its summer flood of green
      Rolls its autumn flood of red:
      There the word the Master said,
Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, and torn,
Hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection morn.

      Now at last the buried word
        By the delving spade is found,
        Sleeping in the quiet ground.
      Now the call of life is heard:
      Rise again, and like a bird,
        Fly abroad on wings of gladness
        Through the darkness and the sadness,
        Of the toiling age, and sing
        Sweeter than the voice of Spring,
      Till the hearts of men are stirred
      By the music of the word,—
Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry:
“Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave the wood and there am I.”

Brother-men who look for Jesus, long to see Him close and clear,
Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master near.

Born in Egypt, 'neath the shadow of the crumbling gods of night,
He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart toward the Light.

Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for the vision of the Lord;
Vainly pondered many volumes where the creeds of men were stored;

Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and day;
Vainly haunted shrines and churches where the Christians came to pray.

One by one he dropped the duties of the common life of care,
Broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit waste and bare,

Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelling-place,
And reward the loss of all things with the vision of His face.

Still the blessed vision tarried; still the light was unrevealed;
Still the Master, dim and distant, kept His countenance concealed.

Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruitless quest;
Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought no rest.

Lingering in the darkened temple, ere the lamp of faith went out,
Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of doubt.

“Hear me, O my Lord and Master,” from the altar-step he cried,
“Let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied!

“Only once I long to see Thee, in the fulness of Thy grace:
Break the clouds that now enfold Thee, with the sunrise of Thy face!

“All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for Thee;
Every hope have I forsaken, save this one, my Lord to see.

“Loosed the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands my heart;
Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see Thee as Thou art.

“From Thy distant throne in glory, flash upon my inward sight,
Fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendour of Thy light.

“All Thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies, I disown;
Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face alone.

“I have watched and I have waited as one waiteth for the morn:
Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest me forlorn.

“Now I seek Thee in the desert, where the holy hermits dwell;
There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a lonely cell.

“There at last Thou wilt be gracious; there Thy presence, long-concealed,
In the solitude and silence to my heart shall be revealed.

“Thou wilt come, at dawn or twilight, o'er the rolling waves of sand;
I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch Thy pierced hand.

“Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before Thee; bless my journey with a word;
Tell me now that if I follow, I shall find Thee, O my Lord!”

Felix listened: through the darkness, like a murmur of the wind,
Came a gentle sound of stillness: “Never faint, and thou shalt find.”

Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy land of heat,
Egypt's blazing sun above him, blistering sand beneath his feet.

Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never erred,
Till he reached the river-headland called the Mountain of the Bird.

There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy flock,
Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the highest rock.

Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly;
But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky.

There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his bed;
There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, brought him bread.

Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft,
Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave he left.

On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the band,
Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's hand.

Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely sealed,
While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix kneeled.

“Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be priced!
Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to find the Christ.”

Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but no answering voice he heard;
Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Mountain of the Bird.

Then he said, “The saint is silent; he would teach my soul to wait:
I will tarry here in patience, like a beggar at his gate.”

Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude abode,
In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside the pilgrim-road.

So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting there without complaint,—
Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed the saint.

Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain with gold,
While the River Nile beneath him, silvery coiling, sea-ward rolled.

Night by night he saw the planets range their glittering court on high,
Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount her throne and rule the sky.

Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary pomp attired;
Never morn and never midnight brought the vision long-desired.

Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion makes his gift;
Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes to lift.

Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint above him stands,
Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his hands.

'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting! Look, thou happy pilgrim, look!
Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book.

Read! perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the words may lie:
“Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood, and there am I.”

Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple words as these?
Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil 'mid rocks and trees?

Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Mountain of the Bird
Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master's word.

Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the haunts of men:
He must turn his footsteps backward to the common life again.

From a quarry near the river, hollowed out amid the hills,
Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, clinking drills.

Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a Babel of the spot:
There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found his lot.