The Cornflower, and Other Poems Part 25

MY LADY NIGHTINGALE.

I heard you singing in the grove, My Lady Nightingale; The thirsty leaves were drinking dew, And all the sky was pale.

A silence--clear as bells of peace Your song thrilled on the air, Each liquid note a thing of joy, And sweet beyond compare.

Not all of joy--a haunting strain Of sorrow and of tears, A note of grief which seemed to voice The sadness of the years.

'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet, My Lady Nightingale, Yet subtly sad, the song you sang When all the sky was pale.

THE ORCHARD.

There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring.

Here the robin redbreast's nesting, Here, from golden dawn till night, Honey bees are gaily swimming In a sea of pink and white.

Just a sea of fragrant blossoms, Steeped in suns.h.i.+ne, drenched in dew, Just a fragrant breath which tells you Earth is fair again and new.

Just a breath of subtle sweetness, Breath which holds the spice o' youth, Holds the promise o' the summer-- Holds the best o' things, forsooth.

There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring.

OCTOBER.

Who is it says May is the crown of the year?

Who is it says June is the gladdest?

Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere, The gloomiest season and saddest?

You shut to your doors as I come with my train, And heed not the challenge I'm flinging, The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain, The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!

Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen, With canopy rare stretching over; Come out where I revel in amber and green, And soon I may call you my lover!

Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale, Come out ere your mood turns to blaming, Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale, Come out where my banners are flaming!

Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow, Come out where the stubble fields glisten, Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low, And the lean gra.s.ses dance as they listen!

ST. ANDREW'S DAY--A TOAST.

Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?

Wha heeds November weather?

Let ilka Scot be glad to-day The whole wide warl' thegither.

We're a' a prood and stubborn lot, And clannish--sae fowk name us-- Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought Tae judge us, or tae blame us,

For joys that are we'll pledge to-day A land baith fair and glowing-- Here's tae the hames o' Canada, Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!

For joys that were, for auld lang syne, For tender chords that bind us, A toast--your hand, auld friend, in mine-- "The land we left behind us!"

Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!

We'll toast her a' thegither, Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!

Here's tae her hills and heather!

Here's tae the auld hame far away!

While tender mists do blind us, We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day, "The land we left behind us!"

WHEN TREES ARE GREEN.

Would you be glad of heart and good?

Would you forget life's toil and care?

Come, lose yourself in this old wood When May's soft touch is everywhere.

The hawthorn trees are white as snow, The ba.s.swood flaunts its feathery sprays, The willows kiss the stream below And listen to its flatteries:

"O willows supple, yellow, green, Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone, I say with truth I have not seen A rarer beauty than your own!"

The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife; Oak, maple, through the heart of each There runs a glorious tide of life.

Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand, On trunk and limb a hint of red, The gleam of poplars tall that stand With G.o.d's own suns.h.i.+ne on their head.

The mandrake's silken parasol Is fluttering in the breezes bold, And yonder where the waters brawl The b.u.t.tercups show green and gold.

The slender grape-vine sways and weaves, From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom There comes the smell of earth and leaves, The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.

Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast, Spring's joy is in the robin's song: "My mate is in yon sheltered nest; Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"

While full and jubilant and clear, All the long day, from dawn till dark, The trill of bobolink we hear, Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.

Sit here among the gra.s.s and fern Unmindful of the cares of life, The lessons we have had to learn, The hurts we've gotten in the strife.

There's youth in every breath we take, Forgetfulness of loss and tears, Within the heart there seems to wake The gladness of the long past years.