Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.
Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic cares deride,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.
There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.
Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns.
Green boughs of home, that come between
Mine eyes and this far distant scene,
I see whene'er my thought escapes,
Your old serene familiar shapes;
Each lissom willow tree that dips
Into the stream her golden whips,
The sassafras beside the gate,
Where twilight strollers linger late;
The hemlock groups that dimly hold
Their own against the noonday gold,
The maple lines that give the view
A green or luminous avenue;
Those oldest apple trees whose forms
Have braved a hundred years of storms,
And turn a face as blithe and free
To greet their second century;
The younger orchard's heavy edge,
Framed in the honey locust hedge;
Fruit-flushed, snow-burdened or bloom-bright,
It comes to my home-longing sight;
The billowly woods across the road,
Where all the winds of heaven strode,
And sang in every towering stem,
Would that I were at home with them!
For under these down-bending boughs
A thousand tender memories house,
Oh, while your old companions roam,
Your peace be theirs, green boughs of home!
Ethelwyn Wetherald.
The little tree I planted out
And often muse upon,
May be alive to grow and thrive
And out into the sunlight strive,
When I am dead and gone.
So it shall be my legacy
To toilers in the sun,
So sweet its shade, each man and maid
May be induced to take a spade
And plant another one.
THE EARTH AND THE HEAVEN, IN THE EVENING
The Earth draws off her robe of broidered flowers,
And in green kirtle standeth for a space
Ere she doth wrap her for the slumberous hours
In her white shift of mist, and veils her face:
She standeth in her kirtle green, and saith
Her evening prayer, whose incense is her breath.
Here are no unquiet sounds and no alarms;
Hence all that is not gentle doth depart.
She takes her weary children in her arms
That she may warm them at her kindly heart:
Are any poor, knowing that they do lie
Lapped in her light embraces silently?
The Heaven doth wear upon her holy breast
The argent moon, her badge; her livery,
That is a royal, rich, and azure vest,
Shows she doth serve a mighty majesty:
And a fair weed, purple and cinnamon,
She now above that silken vest doth on.
How might man image her in his own guise?
As a crowned spirit quiet as forest lawns,
Void of all woes and of all sad surprise,
Facing eternal sunsets and bright dawns,
And brooding o'er him that he may not mark
The outer tempests and the empty dark.
I heard a wood thrush in the dusk
Twirl three notes and make a star-
My heart that walked with bitterness
Came back from very far.
Three shining notes were all he had,
And yet they made a starry call-
I caught life back against my breast
And kissed it, scars and all.
The apple-trees in orchard-land
With ruddy fruit well-loaded stand:
Ripe apples fall from off the bough-
In Devon now.
Against the whitewashed cottage wall
The many sunflowers, straight and tall,
Lift golden cups, the reddest rose
In Devon blows.
The heather's fading on the hills,
But autumn's mellow sunlight fills
The brackens full as they can hold
Of Devon gold.
Oh! western land beside the sea,
Where'er I wander still to me
Come thoughts of orchard, fruit, and bough
The intertwining boughs for thee
Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest,
And thou in turn shalt give to me
A verdant couch upon thy breast.
To shield me from day's fervid glare
Thine oaks their fostering arms extend,
As anxious o'er her infant care
I've seen a watchful mother bend.
Ahmed Ben Yousef Almenazy.
A VIOLA D'AMORE, XVITH CENTURY
"When I was alive I was in the forest and silent; now that I am cut down and dead, I sing sweetly."
Long ago, my forest home forsaking,
First I heard the harmonies of Life.
First my heart, contented silence breaking,
Woke to sound beneath the carver's knife.
There upon the peak my spirit slumbered,
Root-secure in that unboisterous spot;
Rain and sun went by in years unnumbered:
I had joy of them, and knew it not.
Now for many years-years that are counted-
I have seen the quiet hills no more,
And my soul is tremulous, thick-haunted
With great stormy dreams undreamt before.
Long ago they cut and carved me finely;
Since that day the soft command of song
Makes my silent heart burst out divinely
With a comprehension full and strong.
For the Masters taught me their great passion,
Taught me all the joys and wants of men,
Till I learnt to give, in wondrous fashion,
All my lore in beauty back again;
All my lore of love and woe and grieving,
All unuttered yearnings everywhere,
These I gathered and, with hope new-weaving,
Made them magic-sweet upon the air.
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