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"_Pionia virtutem habet occultam._"
Arnoldus Villanova--1235-1313.
_Arnoldus Villanova Six hundred years ago Said Peonies have magic, And I believe it so.
There stands his learned dictum Which any boy may read, But he who learns the secret Will be made wise indeed._
_Astrologer and doctor In the science of his day, Have we so far outstripped him?
What more is there to say?
His medieval Latin Records the truth for us, Which I translate--virtutem Habet occultam--thus:_
She hath a deep-hid virtue No other flower hath.
When summer comes rejoicing A-down my garden path, In opulence of color, In robe of satin sheen, She casts o'er all the hours Her sorcery serene.
A subtile, heartening fragrance Comes piercing the warm hush, And from the greening woodland I hear the first wild thrush.
They move my heart to pity For all the vanished years, With ecstasy of longing And tenderness of tears.
By many names we call her,-- Pale exquisite Aurore, Luxuriant Gismonda Or sunny Couronne D'Or.
What matter,--Grandiflora, A queen in some proud book, Or sweet familiar Piny With her old-fas.h.i.+oned look?
The crowding Apple blossoms Above the orchard wall; The Moonflower in August When eerie nights befall; Chrysanthemum in autumn, Whose pageantries appear With mystery and silence To deck the dying year;
And many a mystic flower Of the wildwood I have known, But Pionia Arnoldi Hath a transport all her own.
For Peony, my Peony, Hath strength to make me whole,-- She gives her heart of beauty For the healing of my soul.
_Arnoldus Villanova, Though earth is growing old, As long as life has longing Your guess at truth will hold.
Still works the hidden power After a thousand springs,-- The medicine for heartache That lurks in lovely things._
The Urban Pan
Once more the magic days are come With stronger sun and milder air; The shops are full of daffodils; There's golden leisure everywhere.
I heard my Lou this morning shout: "Here comes the hurdy-gurdy man!"
And through the open window caught The piping of the urban Pan.
I laid my wintry task aside, And took a day to follow joy: The trail of beauty and the call That lured me when I was a boy.
I looked, and there looked up at me A smiling, swarthy, hairy man With kindling eye--and well I knew The piping of the urban Pan.
He caught my mood; his hat was off; I tossed the ungrudged silver down.
The cunning vagrant, every year He casts his spell upon the town!
And we must fling him, old and young, Our dimes or coppers, as we can; And every heart must leap to hear The piping of the urban Pan.
The music swells and fades again, And I in dreams am far away, Where a bright river sparkles down To meet a blue Aegean bay.
There, in the springtime of the world, Are dancing fauns, and in their van, Is one who pipes a deathless tune-- The earth-born and the urban Pan.
And so he follows down the block, A troop of children in his train, The light-foot dancers of the street Enamored of the reedy strain.
I hear their laughter rise and ring Above the noise of truck and van, As down the mellow wind fades out The piping of the urban Pan.
The Sailing of the Fleets
Now the spring is in the town, Now the wind is in the tree, And the wintered keels go down To the calling of the sea.
Out from mooring, dock, and slip, Through the harbor buoys they glide, Drawing seaward till they dip To the swirling of the tide.
One by one and two by two, Down the channel turns they go, Steering for the open blue Where the salty great airs blow;
Craft of many a build and trim, Every st.i.tch of sail unfurled, Till they hang upon the rim Of the azure ocean world.
Who has ever, man or boy, Seen the sea all flecked with gold, And not longed to go with joy Forth upon adventures bold?
Who could bear to stay indoor, Now the wind is in the street, For the creaking of the oar And the tugging of the sheet!
Now the spring is in the town, Who would not a rover be, When the wintered keels go down To the calling of the sea?
'Tis May now in New England
'Tis May now in New England And through the open door I see the creamy breakers, I hear the hollow roar.
Back to the golden marshes Comes summer at full tide, But not the golden comrade Who was the summer's pride.
In Early May
O my dear, the world to-day Is more lovely than a dream!
Magic hints from far away Haunt the woodland, and the stream Murmurs in his rocky bed Things that never can be said.
Starry dogwood is in flower, Gleaming through the mystic woods.
It is beauty's perfect hour In the wild spring solitudes.
Now the orchards in full blow Shed their petals white as snow.
All the air is honey-sweet With the lilacs white and red, Where the blossoming branches meet In an arbor overhead.
And the laden cherry trees Murmur with the hum of bees.
All the earth is fairy green, And the sunlight filmy gold, Full of ecstasies unseen, Full of mysteries untold.
Who would not be out-of-door, Now the spring is here once more!
Fireflies
