Later Poems Part 8

A Mountain Gateway

I know a vale where I would go one day, When June comes back and all the world once more Is glad with summer. Deep in shade it lies A mighty cleft between the bosoming hills, A cool dim gateway to the mountains' heart.

On either side the wooded slopes come down, Hemlock and beech and chestnut. Here and there Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness.

Among the sunlit shadows I can see That still perfection from the world withdrawn, As if the wood-G.o.ds had arrested there Immortal beauty in her breathless flight.

The road winds in from the broad river-lands, Luring the happy traveller turn by turn Up to the lofty mountains of the sky.

And as he marches with uplifted face, Far overhead against the arching blue Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights, Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed.

And where the road runs in the valley's foot, Through the dark woods a mountain stream comes down, Singing and dancing all its youth away Among the boulders and the shallow runs, Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray.

There light of heart and footfree, I would go Up to my home among the lasting hills.

Nearing the day's end, I would leave the road, Turn to the left and take the steeper trail That climbs among the hemlocks, and at last In my own cabin doorway sit me down, Companioned in that leafy solitude By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace, While evening pa.s.ses to absolve the day And leave the tranquil mountains to the stars.

And in that sweet seclusion I should hear, Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, The calm-voiced thrushes at their twilight hymn.

So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, They well might be, in wisdom and in joy, The seraphs singing at the birth of time The unworn ritual of eternal things.

Morning in the Hills

How quiet is the morning in the hills!

The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds Trail through the canon, and the mountain stream Sounds his sonorous music far below In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.

Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge, While in the hollows of the dark ravine See the red road emerge, then disappear Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.

My forest cabin half-way up the glen Is solitary, save for one wise thrush, The sound of falling water, and the wind Mysteriously conversing with the leaves.

Here I abide unvisited by doubt, Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair, The race of men and love and fleeting time, What life may be, or beauty, caught and held For a brief moment at eternal poise.

What impulse now shall quicken and make live This outward semblance and this inward self?

One breath of being fills the bubble world, Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change.

Surely some G.o.d contrived so fair a thing In a vast leisure of uncounted days, And touched it with the breath of living joy, Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so.

A Wood-path

At evening and at morning By an enchanted way I walk the world in wonder, And have no word to say.

It is the path we traversed One twilight, thou and I; Thy beauty all a rapture, My spirit all a cry.

The red leaves fall upon it, The moon and mist and rain, But not the magic footfall That made its meaning plain.

Weather of the Soul

There is a world of being We range from pole to pole, Through seasons of the spirit And weather of the soul.

It has its new-born Aprils, With gladness in the air, Its golden Junes of rapture, Its winters of despair.

And in its tranquil autumns We halt to re-enforce Our tattered scarlet pennons With valor and resource.

From undiscovered regions Only the angels know, Great winds of aspiration Perpetually blow,

To free the sap of impulse From torpor of distrust, And into flowers of joyance Quicken the sentient dust.

From nowhere of a sudden Loom sudden clouds of fault, With thunders of oppression And lightnings of revolt.

With hush of apprehension And quaking of the heart, There breed the storms of anger, And floods of sorrow start.

And there shall fall,--how gently!-- To make them fertile yet, The rain of absolution On acres of regret.

Till snows of mercy cover The dream that shall come true, When time makes all things wondrous, And life makes all things new.

Here and Now

Where is Heaven? Is it not Just a friendly garden plot, Walled with stone and roofed with sun, Where the days pa.s.s one by one, Not too fast and not too slow, Looking backward as they go At the beauties left behind To transport the pensive mind!

Is it not a greening ground With a river for its bound, And a wood-thrush to prolong Fragrant twilights with his song, When the peonies in June Wait the rising of the moon, And the music of the stream Voices its immortal dream!

There each morning will renew The miracle of light and dew, And the soul may joy to praise The Lord of roses and of days; There the caravan of noon Halts to hear the cricket's tune, Fifing there for all who pa.s.s The anthem of the summer gra.s.s!

Does not Heaven begin that day When the eager heart can say, Surely G.o.d is in this place, I have seen Him face to face In the loveliness of flowers, In the service of the showers, And His voice has talked to me In the sunlit apple tree.

I can feel Him in my heart, When the tears of knowledge start For another's joy or woe, Where the lonely soul must go.

Yea, I learned His very look, When we walked beside the brook, And you smiled and touched my hand.

G.o.d is love... I understand.

The Angel of Joy

There is no grief for me Nor sadness any more; For since I first knew thee Great Joy has kept my door.

That angel of the calm All-comprehending smile, No menace can dismay, No falsity beguile.

Out of the house of life Before him fled away Languor, regret, and strife And sorrow on that day.