Fires of Driftwood Part 3

Ere the robin paints his breast, Ere the daffodil is drest, Ere the iris' lovely head Waves above her perfumed bed Comes the crocus--and the Spring Follows after, wing on wing!

Sweet perfection, holding up Magic dew in topaz cup, Alabaster, amethyst-- Curling lips which Earth has kissed, Folded hearts where secrets hide, Secrets old when Eve was bride!

Beauty's soul was born with wings, Flight inspires all lovely things-- Would you gather rainbow fire?

See the rose of dawn's desire Turn to ash beneath the moon?-- Crocuses must leave us soon.

The Vision

"O SISTER, sister, from the cas.e.m.e.nt leaning, What sees thy tranced eye, what is the meaning Of the strange rapture that thy features know?"

"I see," she said, "the sunset's crimson glow."

"O sister, sister, from the cas.e.m.e.nt turning, What saw'st thou there save sunset's sullen burning?

--Thy hand is ice, and fever lights thine eye!"

"I saw," she said, "the twilight drifting by."

"O sister, oft the sun hath set and often Have we beheld the twilight fold and soften The edge of day-- In this no mystery lies!"

"I saw," she said, "the crescent moon arise."

"O sister, speak! I fear when on me falleth Thine empty glance which some wild spell enthralleth!

--How chill the air blows through the open door!"

"I saw," she said, "I saw"--and spake no more.

The Miracle

THERE'S not a leaf upon the tree To show the sap is leaping, There's not a blade and not an ear Escaped from winter's keeping-- But there's a something in the air A something here, a something there, A restless something everywhere-- A stirring in the sleeping!

A robin's sudden, thrilling note!

And see--the sky is bluer!

The world, so ancient yesterday, To-day seems strangely newer; All that was wearisome and stale Has wrapped itself in rosy veil-- The wraith of winter, grown so pale That smiling spring peeps through her!

The Homesteader

WIND-SWEPT and fire-swept and swept with bitter rain, This was the world I came to when I came across the sea-- Sun-drenched and panting, a pregnant, waiting plain Calling out to humankind, calling out to me!

Leafy lanes and gentle skies and little fields all green, This was the world I came from when I fared across the sea-- The mansion and the village and the farmhouse in between, Never any room for more, never room for me!

I've fought the wind and braved it; I cringe to it no more!

I've fought the creeping fire back and cheered to see it die.

I've shut the bitter rain outside and, safe within my door, Laughed to think I feared a thing not so strong as I!

I mind the long, white road that ran between the hedgerows neat, In that little, strange old world I left behind me long ago, I mind the air so full of bells at evening, far and sweet-- All and all for someone else--I had leave to go!

It cost a tear to leave it--but here across the sea With miles and miles of unused sky, and miles of unturned loam, And miles of room for someone else, and miles of room for me I've found a bigger meaning for the little word called "Home."

Wet Weather

IT is the English in me that loves the soft, wet weather-- The cloud upon the mountain, the mist upon the sea, The sea-gull flying low and near with rain upon each feather, The scent of deep, green woodlands where the buds are breaking free.

A world all hot with sunshine, with a hot, white sky above it-- Oh then I feel an alien in a land I'd call my own; The rain is like a friend's caress, I lean to it and love it, 'Tis like a finger on a nerve that thrills for it alone!

Is it the secret kinship which each new life is given To link it by an age-long chain to those whose lives are through, That wheresoever he may go, by fate or fancy driven, The home-star rises in his heart to keep the compa.s.s true?

Ah, 'tis the English in me that loves the soft, gray weather-- The little mists that trail along like bits of wind-flung foam, The primrose and the violet--all wet and sweet together, And the sound of water calling, as it used to call at home.

*The Sleeping Beauty

SO has she lain for centuries unguessed, Her waiting face to waiting heaven turned, While winds have wooed and ardent suns have burned And stars have died to sentinel her rest.

Only the snow can reach her as she lies, Far and serene, and with cold finger-tips Seal soft the lovely quiet of her lips And lightly veil the shadows of her eyes.

Man has no part--his little, noisy years Rise to her silence thin and impotent-- There are no echoes in that vast content, No doubts, no dreams, no laughter and no tears!

* A formation of mountain peaks above Vancouver Harbor, outlining the profile and form of a sleeping maiden.

Down at the Docks

DOWN at the docks--when the smoke clouds lie, Wind-ript and red, on an angry sky-- Coal-dumps and derricks and piled-up bales, Tar and the gear of forgotten sails, Rusted chains and a broken spar (Yesterday's breath on the things that are) A lone, black cat and a snappy cur, Smell of high-tide and of newcut fir, Smell of low-tide, fish, weed!--I swear I love every blessed smell that's there-- For, aeons ago when the sea began, My soul was the soul of a sailorman.

Down at the docks--where the ships come in, And the endless trails of the sea begin, Where the shining wake of a steamer's track Is barred by the tow of the tugboats black, Where slim yachts dip to the singing spray And a gay wind whistles the world away-- Here sad ships lie which will sail no more, But new ships build on the noisy sh.o.r.e, And always the breath of the wind and tide Whispers the lure of the sea outside, Till now and to-morrow and yesterday Are linked by the spell of the faraway!

Down at the docks--when the morning's new And the air is gold and the distance blue, There's a pull at the heart! But best of all Is to see the sun shrink, red and small, While the fog steals in (more surely fleet Than the smacks that run from her white-shod feet) And clamours of startled calls arise From bewildered ships that have lost their eyes; The fog horn bellows its deep-mouthed shout, The little lights on the sh.o.r.e blur out And strange, dim shapes pa.s.s wistfully With a secret tide to a secret sea.