Dreams and Days: Poems Part 8

But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, As helpless as the cry of frightened birds Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing.

How much the same, I thought, with older folk!

The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, Even at the moment of our consecration.

Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form Of dream or doctrine,--or of unbelieving,-- A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving;

A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning.

Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends This weakling cry of children in our churches With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends To Him who hearts of men and children searches;

Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested.

THANKSGIVING TURKEY

Valleys lay in sunny vapor, And a radiance mild was shed From each tree that like a taper At a feast stood. Then we said, "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, Of good Thanksgiving turkey."

And already still November Drapes her snowy table here.

Fetch a log, then; coax the ember; Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; Heaven be thanked for one more year, And our Thanksgiving turkey!

Welcome, brothers--all our party Gathered in the homestead old!

Shake the snow off and with hearty Hand-shakes drive away the cold; Else your plate you'll hardly hold Of good Thanksgiving turkey.

When the skies are sad and murky, 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet Round this homely roast of turkey-- Pilgrims, pausing just to greet, Then, with earnest grace, to eat A new Thanksgiving turkey.

And the merry feast is freighted With its meanings true and deep.

Those we've loved and those we've hated, All, to-day, the rite will keep, All, to-day, their dishes heap With plump Thanksgiving turkey.

But how many hearts must tingle Now with mournful memories!

In the festal wine shall mingle Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes That look beyond the board where lies Our plain Thanksgiving turkey.

See around us, drawing nearer, Those faint yearning shapes of air-- Friends than whom earth holds none dearer!

No--alas! they are not there: Have they, then, forgot to share Our good Thanksgiving turkey?

Some have gone away and tarried Strangely long by some strange wave; Some have turned to foes; we carried Some unto the pine-girt grave: They 'll come no more so joyous-brave To take Thanksgiving turkey.

Nay, repine not. Let our laughter Leap like firelight up again.

Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, Snow-field yet untrod of men: Shall we meet once more--and when?-- To eat Thanksgiving turkey.

BEFORE THE SNOW

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.

Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.

Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.

Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!

How soon death settles on us, and the snow Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!

Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood We walked in,--memory's rare environing.

And, though they die, the seasons only take A ruined substance. All that's best remains In the essential vision that can make One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains.

III

YOUTH TO THE POET

(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)

Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth, Affinity between two forms of truth!-- As if the dawn and sunset watched each other, Like and unlike as children of one mother And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes Of young men see the prophecy arise Of what their lives shall be when all is told; And, in the far-off glow of years called old, Those other eyes look back to catch a trace Of what was once their own unshadowed grace.

But here in our dear poet both are blended-- Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;-- Even as his song the willowy scent of spring Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing, And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun, In strains that ever delicately run; So musical and wise, page after page, The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage.

The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers, And day-break glory haunts his evening hours.

Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral: That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel, Which--smiling not, but trembling at the touch-- Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much.

EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879.

THE SWORD DHAM