The Miracle and Other Poems Part 7

In G.o.d's own acre your tender flowers, Bend down to the gra.s.ses and seem to sigh For those who count time no more by hours-- Whose summers have all pa.s.sed by-- But at eventide the south wind will sing, Like a gentle priest who chanteth a prayer; And thy purple censers he'll set a-swing, To perfume the twilight air.

APRIL

April! April! April!

With a mist of green on the trees-- And a scent of the warm brown broken earth On every wandering breeze; What, though thou be changeful, Though thy gold turns to grey again, There's a robin out yonder singing, Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!

'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee, She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes Full long and patiently.

Come now--tell us, sweeting, Thou laggard so lovely and late, Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes When hearts have learned to wait?

PAEANS

Oh! I will hold fast to Joy!

I will not let him depart-- He shall close his beautiful rainbow wings And sing his song in my heart.

And I will live with Delight!

I will know what the children know When they dance along with the April wind To find where the catkins grow!

I will dream the old, old dreams, And look for pixie and fay In shadowy woods--and out on the hills-- As we did but yesterday.

Love I will keep in my soul-- Ay! even by lock and key!

There is nothing to fear in all of the world If Love will but stay with me.

No, I will not let Faith go!

I will say with my latest breath-- I know there's a new and radiant road On the other side of Death.

THE HARP

Across the wind-swept s.p.a.ces of the sky The harp of all the world is hung on high, And through its s.h.i.+ning strings the swallows fly.

The little silver fingers of the rain Oft touch it softly to a low refrain, That all day long comes o'er and o'er again.

And when the storms of G.o.d above it roll, The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul To songs of wild delight or bitter dole.

And through the quiet night, as faint and far As melody down-drifted from a star, Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are.

But only flying words of joy and woe, Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below, Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow.

And in the cities that men call their own, And in the unnamed places, waste and lone, This harp forever sounds Life's undertone.

GULLS

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim-- See where they circle, and dip and fly, The grey free-lances of wind and sky, To the water's distant rim!

Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight, A courage that cannot fail, They face the breakers--they face the night-- The mad storm-horses are silvery white, They ride through the bitter gale!

They seem like the souls of the long, long lost, Who breasted the ocean-main-- Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed, Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost, And never came home again.

Or stranger and wilder fancy--it seems As I hear their wind-torn cry, No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams, But the wraiths of hopes--the ghosts of dreams That the old sea-G.o.ds saw die.

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim-- See where they circle, and dip and fly, The grey free-lances of wind and sky, To the far horizon's rim.

THE SHEPHERD WIND

When hills and plains are powdered white, And bitter cold the north wind blows, Upon my window in the night A fairy-garden grows.

Here poppies that no hand hath sown Bloom white as foam upon the sea, And elfin bells to earth unknown Hold frost-bound melody.

And here are blossoms like to stars Tangled in nets of silver lace-- My very breath their beauty mars, Or stirs them from their place.

Perchance the echoes of old songs Found here a resting place at last With drifting perfume that belongs To roses of the past.

Or all the moonbeams that were lost On summer nights the world forgets May here be prisoned by the frost With souls of violets.

The wind doth shepherd many things-- And when the nights are long and cold, Who knows how strange a flock he brings All safely to the fold.

THE TEMPLE

Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands!

Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean, Beneath the blue it stands, And no cathedral anywhere Seemeth so holy or so fair.

It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key, No window-bars shut out the stars, The aisles are wide and free-- Here through the night each altar-light Is but a moon-beam, silver-white.

Silently as the temple grew at Solomon's command, Still as things seem within a dream This rose from out the land: And all the pillars, grey and high, Lifted their arches to the sky.

Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines-- The magic scent that hath been pent Within the tangled vines: No censor filled with spices rare E'er swung such sweetness on the air.

And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear, For it is blessed, and giveth rest To those who enter here-- Here in the evening--who can know But G.o.d Himself walks to and fro!

And music past all mastering within the chancel rings; None could desire a sweeter choir Than this--that soars and sings, Till far the scented shadows creep-- And quiet darkness bringeth sleep.