Chapter M: L. G (2)

There’s a crystal-arrowed riffle at the turning of the river,
There’s a waterfall where nature teaches school,
There’s a bank of swaying alder with each budding twig aquiver--
And there’s magic in the murmur of the pool!

Can’t you see the cold, blue water as it eddies, sparkles, flashes
In the willow-shadowed reaches of the stream,
And the ever-widening ripples where the trout, in falling, splashes
As the osprey drops his quarry with a scream?

_L. Burton Crane, Jr._

_The Lake_

There is a lake--but I forget its name,
That flickers in my memory like flame!

Guarded by Dolomites whose magic glow
Of red primeval merges into snow.

A lake so beautiful, God gave it birth
By melting one vast emerald on earth!

A lake so strange, that, did its waters part,
Undine would be enshrined within its heart.

And as with lovely sound the air may fill,
Though chords are hushed and all the strings be still,

So will this lake--but I forget its name--
Flicker within my memory like flame!

_Eleanour Norton_

_The Great Outdoors_

O great outdoors, without floors,
Or walls, or roofs, or bounds,
Grant this day that I may stray
Amidst thy plains and mounds,
Let me be among the free
That climb thy purple hills;
Let me breathe the scents that wreathe
Thy violet bordered rills:
Let thy sun, till day be done,
Shine from out thy great blue sky;
Let thy starlight and the still night
Soothe my rest when down I lie;
Let the shadows cool the meadows,
And the night sounds whisper low,
In the stillness of thy valleys
Where the waters lap and flow.

_Maud Russell_

_Come, Spur Away!_

Come, spur away,
I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down
And leave the chargeable noise of this great town:
I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in gray,
Doth look more gay
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
Farewell, you city wits, that are
Almost at civil war--
’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

* * * * *

Ours is the sky,
Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:
Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;
But let our hounds run loose
In any ground they’ll choose;
The buck shall fall,
The stag, and all.
Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
For to my Muse, if not to me,
I’m sure all game is free:
Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

_Thomas Randolph_

_Hunting Song_

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down,
We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison,
When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
We’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills,
Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!)
For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
And the hunt’s up, and away!

_Richard Hovey_

_The Call_

Have you heard the calling, calling, of the Distance,
Through the purple reaches where the mountains wait;
With Dreamland round their shoulders, where the sunset fire smoulders--
Oh, the guarding Distance calls us from their gate.

In the morning it entices with the sunrise,
In the evening it is urging through the gold;
We must heed the sweet insistence, for this mystic blue-veiled Distance
Hides our wished-for land of Dreams within its hold.

We will cinch the saddle tighter, tie the strings of wide sombrero,
While the mists about the top are gray and dim;
With the eager trail uptrending, and the morning sky low bending--
Oh, the evening star will we see o’er the rim.

When the wind blows thin and keen about the summit,
And the camp-fire sparkles warm upon the brim,
On a couch of pine boughs fragrant, who would scorn to be a vagrant,
And follow when the Distance calls to him?

_Cora D. Fenton_

_The King’s Highway_

“El Camino Real”

All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day,
You and I together, on the King’s Highway,
The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea;
There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me.

It’s a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world--
There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled,
And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral,
Down to the waters where the sea gulls call.

It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old,
And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold;
They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold that trod
From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God.

They made it for the sandals of the sinner-fold of old;
Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold;
But you and I together we will take the road to-day,
With the breath in our nostrils, on the King’s Highway.

We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow,
And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago;
We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay,
And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray.

We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree,
Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee,
And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow,
Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow.

Old Conquistadores, oh, brown priests and all,
Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall;
There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day,
With the breath of God about us on the King’s Highway.

_John Steven McGroarty_

_God Made This Day For Me_

Jes’ the sort o’ weather and jes’ the sort o’ sky
Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin’ by
On a sea o’ smooth blue water. Oh, I ain’t an egotist,
With an “I” in all my thinkin’, but I’m willin’ to insist
That the Lord that made us humans and the birds in every tree
Knows my special sort o’ weather an’ He made this day fer me.

This is jes’ my style o’ weather--sunshine floodin’ all the place,
An’ the breezes from the eastward blowin’ gently on my face.
An’ the woods chock-full o’ singin’ till you’d think birds never had
A single care to fret ’em or a grief to make ’em sad.
Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,
An’ tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

It’s my day, sky an’ sunshine, an’ the temper o’ the breeze,
Here’s the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please--
Beauty dancin’ all around me, music ringin’ everywhere,
Like a weddin’ celebration. Why I’ve plumb fergot my care
An’ the tasks I should be doin’ fer the rainy days to be
While I’m huggin’ the delusion that God made this day fer me.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_The Country Faith_

Here in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.

Trust in a God still lives,
And the bell at morn
Floats with a thought of God
O’er the rising corn.

God comes down in the rain,
And the crop grows tall--
This is the country faith,
And the best of all!

_Norman Gale_

_Green Things Growing_

_Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
’Tis very sure God walks in mine._

THOMAS E. BROWN

_Afoot_

Comes the lure of green things growing,
Comes the call of waters flowing--
And the wayfarer desire
Moves and wakes and would be going.

Hark the migrant hosts of June
Marching nearer noon by noon!
Hark the gossip of the grasses
Bivouacked beneath the moon!

Long the quest and far the ending
When my wayfarer is wending--
When desire is once afoot,
Doom behind and dream attending!

In his ears the phantom chime
Of incommunicable rhyme,
He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires
Of the Bedouins of Time.

Farer by uncharted ways,
Dumb as death to plaint or praise,
Unreturning he shall journey,
Fellow to the nights and days;

Till upon the outer bar
Stilled the moaning currents are,
Till the flame achieves the zenith,
Till the moth attains the star,

Till through laughter and through tears
Fair the final peace appears,
And about the watered pastures
Sink to sleep the nomad years!

_Charles G. D. Roberts_

_Grace for Gardens_

Lord God in Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!

Lord God in Paradise,
Please bless the beans and peas,
Give us corn full on the ear--
We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!
Bless the blossom
And the root,
Bless the seed
And the fruit!

Lord God in Paradise,
Over my brown field is seen,
Trembling and adventuring,
A miracle of green.
Send such grace
As you know,
To keep it safe
And make it grow!

Lord God in Paradise,
For the wonder of the seed,
Wondering, we praise you, while
We tell you of our need.
Look down from Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!

_Louise Driscoll_

_My Garden_

A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot--
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool!
Nay, but I have a sign;
’Tis very sure God walks in mine.

_Thomas E. Brown_

_April_

The charm is working, now,
On the alder bough;
Odors are afloat;
The brook has a new note;
Nightly in the silence grow
Murmurs only lovers know,--
Love’s own minstrelsy
Beginning in the tree;
The airy hammers of the rain
Tap--are still again.

_John Vance Cheney_

_A Song the Grass Sings_

The violet is much too shy,
The rose too little so;
I think I’ll ask the buttercup
If I may be her beau.

When winds go by, I’ll nod to her
And she will nod to me,
And I will kiss her on the cheek
As gently as may be.

And when the mower cuts us down,
Together we will pass,
I smiling at the buttercup,
She smiling at the grass.

_Charles G. Blanden_

_The Young Dandelion_

I am a bold fellow
As ever was seen,
With my shield of yellow,
In the grass green.

You may uproot me
From field and from lane,
Trample me, cull me--
I spring up again.

I never flinch, sir,
Wherever I dwell,
Give me an inch, sir,
I’ll soon take an ell.

Drive me from garden,
In anger and pride,
I’ll thrive and harden
By the roadside.

_Dinah Mulock Craik_

_Sunflowers_

My tall sunflowers love the sun,
Love the burning August noons
When the locust tunes its viol,
And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on,
With its planets hung on high,
And the attared winds of slumber
Wander down the sky.

Still my sunflowers love the sun,
Keep their ward and watch and wait
Till the rosy key of morning
Opes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed
From the brimming cups of dew,
You can hear their golden laughter
All the garden through!

_Clinton Scollard_

_Wishing_

Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose,
A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The ferns and moss to creep across,
And the elm-tree for our king!

Nay--stay! I wish I were an elm-tree,
A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And ever sweetly sing!

Oh--no! I wish I were a robin,
A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wings!

_William Allingham_

_Rain_

Is it raining, little flower?--
Be glad of rain!
Too much sun would wither thee;
’Twill shine again.

The sky is very black, ’tis true;
But just behind it shines the blue.

God watches; and thou wilt have sun,
When clouds their perfect work have done.

_Lucy Larcom_

_To the Dandelion_

Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold,
High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth’s ample round
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;
’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God’s value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest me
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time:
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
In the white lily’s breezy tent,
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap, and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,
Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing
With news from heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God’s book.

_James Russell Lowell_

_The Grass_

A child said _What is the grass?_ fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that
we may see and remark, and say _Whose?_

_Walt Whitman_

_Buttercups_

There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals,
And beat them into shreds;
And mould them into petals,
To make the flowers’ heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers
To tiny seeds like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold,
To keep, with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.

_Wilfrid C. Thorley_

_The Lilac_

Who thought of the lilac?
“I,” dew said,
“I made up the lilac
out of my head.”

“She made up the lilac!
Pooh!” thrilled a linnet,
and each dew-note had a
lilac in it.

_Humbert Wolfe_

_The Hollyhocks_

The hollyhocks are standing
In groups against the wall,
Engaged in conversation
With the lowly flowers small,
That gaze with admiration
On floral dames so gay,
Who wear such ruffled bonnets
Of crimson deep to-day.

* * * * *

The wind has paused to listen
To the dames of high degree,
And the mignonette and pansies
Are laughing with such glee!
The mullein pinks are blushing,
And the poppies say, “Oh, see,
In the dame’s gay frilled red bonnet
She has a bumblebee!”

_Ray Laurance_

_The Ragged Regiment_

I love the ragged veterans of June,
Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display
In gardens fine,--but such as dare the noon
With saucy faces by the public way.

Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white,
Round Dandelion, and flouncing Bouncing-Bet,
The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright,
Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset.

Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out
From garden service, scorned and set apart,--
There’s not one member of your ragged rout
But makes a warmth of welcome in my heart.

_Alice Williams Brotherton_

_Marigolds_

The marigolds are nodding:
I wonder what they know.
Go, listen very gently;
You may persuade them so.

Go, be their little brother,
As humble as the grass,
And lean upon the hill-wind,
And watch the shadows pass.

Put off the pride of knowledge,
Put by the fear of pain;
You may be counted worthy
To live with them again.

Be Darwin in your patience,
Be Chaucer in your love;
They may relent and tell you
What they are thinking of.

_Bliss Carman_

_In a Garden_

Sky!
Why are you so very gay
To-day?
Dimpled with the clouds at play,
Blithe with the sun’s vivacious ray....
Why?

Moon!
Why do you pursue me so?
Are you whispering
That youth passes over-soon?
Don’t you know
I’ve buried you a dozen times
Behind tall buildings?--Pagan thing!
The very Churches clutch at you
With grasping spires
To tear you from the sky!
Veil with clouds your glittering
Unholy gaze!...
Virgin?... You are an aged courtesan
Leering at lovers!... leave me, leave me, then!
If you were not half-blind, you’d see
_I am alone_!... Oh, moon ... stop mocking me!

Trees!
Murmuring to each passing breeze
Ancient mysteries--
Flowers,
Gossiping with drowsy bees
In social, chaste amenities--
Don’t you know my heart is breaking?
Can’t you sympathize with aching
Human misery?
Are all your little hours
Golden as these?
Or ... do you hide
Your searching, poignant tragedies,
Under the hard, bright smile of pride?
I think that I shall also go
Laughing, ... not too loudly ...
Moving with gracious step and slow,
Quietly ... proudly ...
And then, perhaps, no one will know
My heart has died!

_Theda Kenyon_

_The Dandelions_

Upon a showery night and still,
Without a sound of warning,
A trooper band surprised the hill,
And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle-notes,
No cheer our dreams invaded,
And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats
On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot;
Till one day, idly walking,
We marked upon the self-same spot
A crowd of veterans talking.

They shook their trembling heads and gray
With pride and noiseless laughter;
When, well-a-day! they blew away,
And ne’er were heard of after!

_Helen Gray Cone_

_Rhodora_

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_Daisies_

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,
A host in the sunshine, an army in June,
The people God sends us to set our hearts free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!”
And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”

_Bliss Carman_

_Out in the Fields with God_

The little cares that fretted me
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away,
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born--
Out in the fields with God.

_Elizabeth Browning_

_The Blackbird_

In the far corner,
close by the swings,
every morning
a blackbird sings.

His bill’s so yellow,
his coat’s so black,
that he makes a fellow
whistle back.

Ann, my daughter,
thinks that he
sings for us two
especially.

_Humbert Wolfe_

_The Robin_

The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
And April but begun.

The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.

_Emily Dickinson._

_Clover_

Little masters, hat in hand,
Let me in your presence stand,
Till your silence solve for me
This your threefold mystery.

Tell me--for I long to know--
How, in darkness there below,
Was your fairy fabric spun,
Spread and fashioned, three in one.

Did your gossips gold and blue,
Sky and Sunshine, choose for you,
Ere your triple forms were seen,
Suited liveries of green?

Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed
Captives of a prison seed--
Like the Genie, once again
Get you back into the grain?

Little masters, may I stand
In your presence, hat in hand,
Waiting till you solve for me
This your threefold mystery?

_John B. Tabb_

_A Conversation_

A little road goes up the hill,
And Thistle-down says she,
“I’m off a-gipsying today,
Drift up the road with me.”

“And sure ’tis nice to go,” says I,
“But ’tis not I will come,
For who would feed my cow and cat,
And make my wheel to hum?

’Tis here at home that I will bide,
And thanks to you,” says I,
So off went gipsy Thistle-down
A-drifting in the sky.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_A Yellow Pansy_

To the wall of the old green garden
A butterfly quivering came;
His wings on the sombre lichens
Played like a yellow flame.

He looked at the gay geraniums,
And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;
He looked at the low lanes bordered
With the glossy-growing box.

He longed for the peace and the silence,
And the shadows that lengthened there,
And his wee wild heart was weary
Of skimming the endless air.

And now in the old green garden,--
I know not how it came,--
A single pansy is blooming,
Bright as a yellow flame.

And whenever a gay gust passes,
It quivers as if with pain,
For the butterfly-soul that is in it
Longs for the winds again!

_Helen Gray Cone_

_The Answer_

Lavender for old loves,
Roses for the new,
Heliotrope for pleasure, lass,
And for sorrow, rue.

Rosemary lest you forget.--
Take, or let it be.
I will have the wholesome pine
And the open sea.

Rosemary lest you forget.--
When I come again
Up the old familiar path
In the autumn rain,

What if you’ve forgotten, lass?
Say, what shall I do?--
Here is heartsease by the gate
With the bitter rue.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_A Prayer_

Teach me, Father, how to go
Softly as the grasses grow;
Hush my soul to meet the shock
Of the wild world as a rock;
But my spirit, propt with power,
Make as simple as a flower.
Let the dry heart fill its cup,
Like a poppy looking up;
Let life lightly wear her crown,
Like a poppy looking down.

Teach me, Father, how to be
Kind and patient as a tree.
Joyfully the crickets croon
Under shady oak at noon;
Beetle, on his mission bent,
Tarries in that cooling tent.
Let me, also, cheer a spot,
Hidden field or garden grot--
Place where passing souls can rest
On the way and be their best.

_Edwin Markham_

_The Kinship of the Trees_

_I think I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree....
Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree._

JOYCE KILMER

_Tree Feelings_

I wonder if they like it--being trees?
I suppose they do....
It must feel good to have the ground so flat,
And feel yourself stand right straight up like that--
So stiff in the middle--and then branch at ease,
Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow,
And all those fringy leaves that flutter so.
You’d think they’d break off at the lower end
When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend.
But then you think of all the roots they drop,
As much at bottom as there is on top,--
A double tree, widespread in earth and air
Like a reflection in the water there.

I guess they like to stand still in the sun
And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run;
And like to feel the rain run through their hair
And slide down to the roots and settle there.
But I think they like the wind best. From the light touch
That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much,
To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide,
And all the time so stiff and strong inside!
And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel
How long their roots are, and the earth how leal!

And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost!
And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost!
And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem,
But to be apples--and bow down with them!

_Charlotte Perkins Stetson_

_ABC’S in Green_

The trees are God’s great alphabet:
With them He writes in shining green
Across the world His thoughts serene.

He scribbles poems against the sky
With a gay, leafy lettering,
For us and for our bettering.

The wind pulls softly at His page,
And every star and bird
Repeats in dutiful delight His word,
And every blade of grass
Flutters to class.

Like a slow child that does not heed,
I stand at summer’s knees,
And from the primer of the wood
I spell that life and love are good,
I learn to read.

_Leonora Speyer_

_O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly Trees!_

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees,
I came along your narrow track
To bring my gifts unto your knees
And gifts did you give back;
For when I brought this heart that burns--
These thoughts that bitterly repine--
And laid them here among the ferns
And the hum of boughs divine,
Ye, vastest breathers of the air,
Shook down with slow and mighty poise
Your coolness on the human care,
Your wonder on its toys,
Your greenness on the heart’s despair,
Your darkness on its noise.

_Herbert Trench_

_God, When You Thought of a Pine Tree_

God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?
How did you dream of a damson west,
Crossed by an inky bar?
How did you think of a dear brown pool
Where flocks of shadows are?

God, when you thought of a cobweb,
How did you think of dew?
How did you know a spider’s house
Had spangles bright and new?
How did you know we human folk
Would love them as we do?

God, when you patterned a bird’s song,
Flung on a silver string,
How did you know the ecstasy
That crystal call would bring?
How did you think of a bubbling throat
And a darling speckled wing?

God, when you chiseled a raindrop,
How did you think of a stem,
Bearing a lovely satin leaf
To hold the tiny gem?
How did you know a million drops
Would deck the morning’s hem?

Why did you mate the moonlit night
With honeysuckle vines?
How did you know madeira bloom
Distilled ecstatic wines?
How did you weave the velvet dusk
Where tangled perfumes are?
God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?

_Unknown_

_The House of the Trees_

Ope your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood,
Wash me clean of dust and din,
Clothe me in your mood.

Take me from the noisy light
To the sunless peace,
Where at mid-day standeth Night
Signing Toil’s release.

All your dusky twilight stores
To my senses give;
Take me in and lock the doors,
Show me how to live.

Lift your leafy roof for me,
Part your yielding walls:
Let me wander lingeringly
Through your scented halls.

Ope your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Take me--make me next of kin
To your leafy brood.

_Ethelwyn Wetherald_

_Trees_

In the Garden of Eden, planted by God,
There were goodly trees in the springing sod,--

Trees of beauty and height and grace,
To stand in splendor before His face.

Apple and hickory, ash and pear,
Oak and beech and the tulip rare,

The trembling aspen, the noble pine,
The sweeping elm by the river line;

Trees for the birds to build and sing,
And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;

Trees to turn at the frosty call
And carpet the ground for their Lord’s footfall;

Trees for fruitage and fire and shade,
Trees for the cunning builder’s trade;

Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail,
The keel and the mast of the daring sail;

He made them of every grain and girth,
For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.

Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes
From the gift to the Giver of Paradise,

On the crown of a hill, for all to see,
God planted a scarlet maple tree.

_Bliss Carman_

_The Trees and the Master_

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives, they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him,
The thorn tree had a mind to Him
When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When death and shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last,
’Twas on a tree they slew Him--last
When out of the woods He came.

_Sidney Lanier_

_The Trees_

There’s something in a noble tree--
What shall I say? a soul?
For ’tis not form, or aught we see
In leaf or branch or bole.
Some presence, though not understood,
Dwells there alway, and seems
To be acquainted with our mood,
And mingles in our dreams.

I would not say that trees at all
Were of our blood and race,
Yet, lingering where their shadows fall,
I sometimes think I trace
A kinship, whose far-reaching root
Grew when the world began,
And made them best of all things mute
To be the friends of man.

Held down by whatsoever might
Unto an earthly sod,
They stretch forth arms for air and light,
As we do after God;
And when in all their boughs the breeze
Moans loud, or softly sings,
As our own hearts in us, the trees
Are almost human things.

What wonder in the days that burned
With old poetic dream,
Dead Phaëthon’s fair sisters turned
To poplars by the stream!
In many a light cotillion stept
The trees when fluters blew;
And many a tear, ’tis said, they wept
For human sorrow too.

Mute, said I? They are seldom thus;
They whisper each to each,
And each and all of them to us,
In varied forms of speech.
“Be serious,” the solemn pine
Is saying overhead;
“Be beautiful,” the elm-tree fine
Has always finely said;

“Be quick to feel,” the aspen still
Repeats the whole day long;
While, from the green slope of the hill,
The oak-tree adds, “Be strong.”
When with my burden, as I hear
Their distant voices call,
I rise, and listen, and draw near,
“Be patient,” say they all.

_Samuel Valentine Cole_

_Three Trees_

The poplar is a French tree,
A tall and laughing wench tree,
A slender tree, a tender tree,
That whispers to the rain--
An easy, breezy flapper tree,
A lithe and blithe and dapper tree,
A girl of trees, a pearl of trees,
Beside the shallow Aisne.

The oak is a British tree,
And not at all a skittish tree;
A rough tree, a tough tree,
A knotty tree to bruise;
A drives-his-roots-in-deep tree,
A mighty tree, a blighty tree,
A tree of stubborn thews.

The pine tree is our own tree,
A grown tree, a cone tree,
The tree to face a bitter wind,
The tree for mast and spar--
A mounting tree, a fine tree,
A fragrant turpentine tree,
A limber tree, a timber tree,
And resinous with tar!

_Christopher Morley_

_What Do We Plant?_

What do we plant when we plant the tree?
We plant the ship which will cross the sea.
We plant the mast to carry the sails;
We plant the planks to withstand the gales--
The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee;
We plant the ship when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree?
We plant the houses for you and me.
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors,
We plant the studding, the lath, the doors,
The beams and siding, all parts that be;
We plant the house when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree?
A thousand things that we daily see;
We plant the spire that out-towers the crag,
We plant the staff for our country’s flag,
We plant the shade, from the hot sun free;
We plant all these when we plant the tree!

_Henry Abbey_

_Trees_

Many a tree is found in the wood,
And every tree for its use is good.
Some for the strength of the gnarled root,
Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit,
Some for shelter against the storm,
And some to keep the hearthstone warm,
Some for the roof and some for the beam,
And some for a boat to breast the storm.
In the wealth of the wood since the world began,
The trees have offered their gifts to man.

But the glory of trees is more than their gifts:
’Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts
From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod
A column, an arch in the temple of God,
A pillar of power, a dome of delight,
A shrine of song and a joy of sight!
Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth,
Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth;
They shelter the dwellings of man, and they bend
O’er his grave with the look of a loving friend.

I have camped in the whispering forest of pines
I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines;
In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palm,
I have found good rest and slumber’s balm.
And now, when the morning gilds the boughs
Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house,
I open the window and make a salute:
“God bless thy branches and feed thy root!
Thou hast lived before, live after me,
Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree!”

_Henry van Dyke_

_The Trees_

Time is never wasted listening to the trees;
If to heaven so grandly we arose as these,
Holding toward each other half their kindly grace,
Haply we were worthier of our human place.

Bending down to meet you on the hillside path,
Birch and oak and maple each his welcome hath;
Each his own fine cadence, his familiar word,
By the ear accustomed, always plainly heard.

Every tree gives answer to some different mood,
This one helps you climbing; that for rest is good;
Beckoning friends, companions, sentinels they are;
Good to live and die with, good to greet afar.

_Lucy Larcom_

_Good Company_

To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees,
The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line;
And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star
That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine.

The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk
Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine;
And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke--
_Lord, who am I that they should stoop--these holy folk of thine?_

_Karle Wilson Baker_

_The Green Tree In The Fall_

Did you forget to bud in Spring,
O Green Tree in the Fall,
That now you wear these fresh young leaves
As for a coronal?

All of your mates within the wood
Are in the crimson leaf,
They had their swift, enamored spring,
Their summertime too brief.

But you--what chance befell that you
Were cheated of the Spring,
That now you cling so fast to leaves
Wherein no bird will sing?

My heart is with you, little tree,
For I was cheated too,
And now I grasp at what I missed
And cling as fast as you.

_Jessie B. Rittenhouse_

_The Call of the Sea_

_There’s the bird’s song and the wind’s song, and the song of
the leafless tree,
But, oh, the call of the sea’s song, the imperious song of the sea._

_There’s the song of running water, and the song of singing rain;
But, oh, the song of the masterful sea, that calls down the
coast of Maine._

E. O. G.

_Sea-Fever_

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea’s face and a gray dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s
like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

_John Masefield_

_A Son of the Sea_

I was born for deep-sea faring;
I was bred to put to sea;
Stories of my father’s daring
Filled me at my mother’s knee.

I was sired among the surges;
I was cubbed beside the foam;
All my heart is in its verges,
And the sea wind is my home.

All my boyhood, from far vernal
Bournes of being, came to me
Dream-like, plangent, and eternal
Memories of the plunging sea.

_Bliss Carman_

_Dreams of the Sea_

I know not why I yearn for thee again,
To sail once more upon thy fickle flood;
I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,
Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.

Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel’s sides
In fury, with thy many tailèd whip;
And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee,
When Jesus walked in peace to Simon’s ship.

And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft
As summer’s, when it makes the cornfields run;
And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale
Make ships show half their bellies to the sun.

Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life,
Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud:
I think of that Armada whose puffed sails,
Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud.

But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned
Lying on shore and, by thy cruel hand,
A seaweed beard was on his tender chin,
His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand.

And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again,
To sail once more upon thy fickle flood:
I’ll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,
Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.

_William H. Davies_

_Going Down in Ships_

Going down to sea in ships
Is a glorious thing,
Where up and over the rolling waves
The sea-birds wing;

Oh, there’s nothing more to my heart’s desire
Than a ship that plows
Head-on down through marching seas,
With streaming bows:

Would you hear the song of the viewless winds
As they walk the sky?
Come down to sea when the storm is on
And the men stand by.

Would you see the sun as it walked abroad
On God’s First Day?
Then come where dawn makes sea and sky
A gold causeway.

Oh, it’s bend the sails on the criss-cross yards,
For the day dies far,
And up a windless space of dusk
Climbs the evening star....

Now there’s gulf on foaming gulf of stars
That lean so clear
That it seems the bastions of heaven
Are bright and near,

And that, any moment, the topmost sky
May froth and swim
With an incredible bivouac
Of seraphim....

O wide-flung dawn, O mighty day
And set of sun!
O all you climbing stars of God,
Oh, lead me on!...

_Harry Kemp_

_The Waves of Breffny_

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart,
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me,
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill,
And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:
But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;
But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

_Eva Gore-Booth_

_Short Beach_

Oh, the salt wind in my nostrils!
And the white sail in the creek!
And the blue beyond the marshes!
And the flag at the peak!

My soul lifts to the bugles
Of a far cry on the breeze--
The cry of my storm-kin calling
Overseas, overseas!

Blow, horns of the old sea-rapture!
When your call comes from afar,
I would rise from the grave to reach you
Where the sea-dooms are.

_Richard Hovey_

_Sea Call_

My old love for the water has come back again--
I had forgotten its surging, so long, so long away;
Sapphire-blue in the sunlight and green-gray in the rain,
And the same waves cresting, and the same sharp spray,
There was left a wave in my heart when I went to the inland towns,
Something that moved and murmured in the days when I forgot;
Vivid flowers of the gardens or thick long grass of the downs--
What were the sweets of the summer days, where the
calling waves were not?

My old love for the water has come back once more;
The wave of the deep draws full, and the wave in my heart lifts high;
This is my own old country and my own old shore ...
And I cannot leave the water till the day I die.

_Margaret Widdemer_

_Ship-Love_

When God gave to all men
All the earth to love
He gave them the waters under the sea,
He gave them the sky above;
And some love the waters,
And some love the sky;
But I love the tall ships
That go sailing by.

For when God gave to my heart
The warm living blood
He gave me, too, the passion
For ebb-tide and flood;
And my love is ship-love,
For tall ships and strange,
For steam-ships and sailing ships
The whole wide range.

And when God calls my spirit
And claims the soul of me
He’ll find it a-wandering
With ships on the sea;
He’ll find it on a warm deck
Dreaming in the sun,
Long after I am perished
And my earth-life done.

_Ethel E. Mannin_

_The Sea_

I call thee from the changing land
To the unchanging sea;
I bring a bride-gift in my hand
Of immortality.
The land is fair, but fairer far
The pastures of the sea.
Canst thou reach down the lowest star?
My sea-fires gleam for thee.
All rivers run unto one end
And perish in the sea;
Turn thou from lover and from friend,
And give thy heart to me.
Thy love shall suffer change and dearth,
Thy friend the years estrange;
There is no faithfulness on earth--
The sea will never change.

_Nora Hopper_

_Coquette_

I am wearied with insatiable longing
For that laughing, blue-eyed wanton called the sea.
Though she’s but a faithless rover
And the wide world’s willing lover
I’d be content if she would share an hour with me.

If she would toss me on her restless, throbbing bosom,
Caress a moment--and then flout me in my pain,
I would barter all the treasures
Of the rich man’s million pleasures
To be rocked within her siren arms again.

Her honey voice is luring, mocking, calling!
Her sapphire scalloped skirts are piped with foam:
And her light feet shoreward dancing,
Pearly-sandalled and entrancing,
Entice the steps of men from love and home.

False and cruel is her glittering lure;
Her gifts are death and woe’s delirium--
Yet heaven holds no blisses
Like the sharp tang of her kisses--
Ah! Coquette! if you should slay me, I must come!

_Keith Stuart_

_The Deep-Water Man_

O give me the Pole Star overhead,
A slithering deck to my feet,
A forward bunk for my downy bed,
And the sea for my village street,
The galley’s glow for my warm hearthstone,
And my mates for my kin and friends--
Then earth’s long leagues are my very own
To the place where the round world ends.

There’s never a richer man than I,
Nor a poorer under the sun;
For all of my boundless riches lie
In the things I have seen and done--
The songs I’ve sung and the laughs I’ve laughed--
Oh, that’s wealth as it ought to be,
For when the Skipper shall call me aft
I can take it along with me.

A-roaring down the Atlantic lanes,
Or cruising a tropical sea,
The balmy Trades, or the wind-whipped rains,
Are a bit of the same to me.
I’m home wherever the anchors fall
And take my idolatrous ease--
I’ve got a girl in each port of call
To be found on the seven seas.

Oh, loves I’ve known that were deep and strong,
Of some ports I am more than fond,
But woman nor town can hold me long
From the call of the ones beyond.
So, ever and always outward bound
(Well, I guess it’s the fate of some)
Till the day their keels go hard aground
In the Port of the Kingdom Come.

_James Stuart Montgomery_

_Sea Longing_

You who are inland born know not the pain
Of one who longs for gray dunes and the seas
And sound of ebbing tide and windy rain
And sea-mews crying down immensities.
You who are inland born, know not the urge
Of rapt tides beating passionate and wild;
Nor have you thrilled with wonder at the surge
Of drifting water, wayward as a child.
Impetuous I seek the eager sea,
Imperious for joy and wind-blown spray;
You, who are city-beaten every day,
What do you know of mirth and ecstasy?
No thirsty wind has journeyed from the South--
And laid a cool, wet finger on your mouth!

_Harold Vinal_

_Had I the Choice_

Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,
To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,
Homer with all his wars and warriors--Hector, Achilles, Ajax,
Or Shakspere’s woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear,
Othello--Tennyson’s fair ladies,
Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect
rhyme, delight of singers;
These, these, O sea, all these I’d gladly barter,
Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer,
Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse,
And leave its odor there.

_Walt Whitman_

_Gray_

A bleak wind is riding on the waves,
And the shadowy foam is hurled;
And the gray rains are on the hills
And a gray dusk is over the world.

And bleak moods and shadowy moods
Move like the moods of the sea,
And mist, like a gray unspoken thought,
Is looking strangely at me.

And I am lost in grayness,
My dreams are still and furled,
For the gray rains are on the hills
And a gray dusk is over the world.

_Oscar Williams_

_A Pagan Hymn_

I have drunk the Sea’s good wine,
And to-day
Care has bowed his head and gone away.
I have drunk the Sea’s good wine,
Was ever step so light as mine,
Was ever heart so gay?
Old voices intermingle in my brain,
Voices that a little boy might hear,
And dreams like fiery sunsets come again,
Informulate and vain,
But great with glories of the buccaneer.
Oh, thanks to thee, great Mother, thanks to thee,
For this old joy renewed,
For tightened sinew and clear blood imbued
With sunlight and with sea.
Behold, I sing a pagan song of old,
And out of my full heart,
Hold forth my hands that so I would enfold
The Infinite thou art.
What matter all the creeds that come and go,
The many gods of men?
My blood outcasts them from its joyous flow,
And it is now as then--
The Pearl of Morning, and the Sapphire Sea,
The Diamond of Noon,
The Ruby of the Sunset--these shall be
My creed, my Deity;
And I will take some old forgotten tune,
And rhythm frolic-free,
And sing in little words thy wondrous boon,
O Sunlight and O Sea!

_John Runcie_

_As the Tide Comes In_

The long-winged terns dart wild and dire,
As the tide comes tumbling in.
The calm rock-pools grow all alive,
With the tide tumbling in,
The crab that under the brown weed creeps,
And the snail who lies in his house and sleeps,
Awake and stir, as the plunging sweep
Of the tide comes tumbling in.

The driftwood swishes along the sand,
As the tide comes tumbling in.
With wreck and wrack from many a land,
On the tide, tumbling in.
About my feet are a broken spar,
A pale anemone’s torn sea-star
And scattered scum of the waves’ old war,
As the tide comes tumbling in.

And, oh, there is a stir at the heart of me,
As the tide comes tumbling in.
All life once more is a part of me,
As the tide tumbles in.
New hopes awaken beneath despair
And thoughts slip free of the sloth of care,
While beauty and love are everywhere--
As the tide comes tumbling in.

_Cale Young Rice_

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,--
A wind that follows fast,
That fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast,--
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high,--And
white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free;
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud,--
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

_Allan Cunningham_

_The Undersong_

I hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart,
I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears:
And I am far apart,
And lost in the years.

But when I lie and dream of that which was
Before the first man’s shadow flitted on the grass,
I am stricken dumb
With sense of that to come.

Is then this wildering sea-song but a part
Of the old song of the mystery of the years--
Or only the echo of the tired heart
And of tears?

_Fiona Macleod_

_Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea_

Gray rocks, and grayer sea,
And surf along the shore--
And in my heart a name
My lips shall speak no more.

The high and lonely hills
Endure the darkening year--
And in my heart endure
A memory and a tear.