The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 32

The Secret.

Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle cryeth afar; The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover he shall be it If one sweet maid is true.

G.E. WOODBERRY.

The Whip-poor-will.[16]

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 quivering 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 did I know 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 shadowy sadness, That lightly pa.s.sed away; But I have known the substance 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 boy's sad dream, Who hears the whip-poor-will.

"_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_"

A pa.s.sing thrill--"_whippoorwill!_"

H. VAN d.y.k.e.

[16] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, Charles Scribner's Sons.

Fertility.

Spirit that moves the sap in spring, When l.u.s.ty male birds fight and sing, Inform my words, and make my lines As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,

Let mine be the freshening power Of rain on gra.s.s, of dew on flower; The fertilizing song be mine, Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

Let some procreant truth exhale From me, before my forces fail; Or ere the ecstatic impulse go, Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

If quick, sound seed be wanting where The virgin soil feels sun and air, And longs to fill a higher state, There let my meanings germinate.

Let not my strength be spilled for naught, But, in some fresher vessel caught, Be blended into sweeter forms, And fraught with purer aims and charms.

Let bloom-dust of my life be blown To quicken hearts that flower alone; Around my knees let scions rise With heavenward-pointed destinies.

And when I fall, like some old tree, And subtile change makes mould of me, There let earth show a fertile line Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and s.h.i.+ne!

M. THOMPSON.

The Veery.[17]

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.

So pa.s.sionate, 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.

H. VAN d.y.k.e.

[17] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Eavesdropper.