Songs out of Doors Part 2

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally: _Tirra-lirra, Early morn, New born!

Day is near, Clear, clear.

Down the river All a-quiver, Fish are breaking; Time for waking, Tup, tup, tup!

Do you hear?

All clear-- Wake up!_

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying, Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying: _Surely, surely, surely, Life is dear Even here.

Blue above, You to love, Purely, purely, purely._

There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.

This is the song of the Yellow-throat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you:

_Which way, sir?

I say, sir, Let me teach you, I beseech you!

Are you wishing Jolly fishing?

This way, sir!

I'll teach you._

Then come, my friend, forget your foes and leave your fears behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you take what G.o.d will give, And all the day your heart will say, "'Tis luck enough to live."

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it bubbles and rings, Mark how it closes:

_Luck, luck, What luck?

Good enough for me, I'm alive, you see!

Sun shining, No repining; Never borrow Idle sorrow; Drop it!

Cover it up!

Hold your cup!

Joy will fill it, Don't spill it, Steady, be ready, Good luck!_

1899.

A NOVEMBER DAISY

Afterthought of summer's bloom!

Late arrival at the feast, Coming when the songs have ceased And the merry guests departed, Leaving but an empty room, Silence, solitude, and gloom,-- Are you lonely, heavy-hearted; You, the last of all your kind, Nodding in the autumn wind; Now that all your friends are flown, Blooming late and all alone?

Nay, I wrong you, little flower, Reading mournful mood of mine In your looks, that give no sign Of a spirit dark and cheerless!

You possess the heavenly power That rejoices in the hour.

Glad, contented, free, and fearless, Lift a sunny face to heaven When a sunny day is given!

Make a summer of your own, Blooming late and all alone!

Once the daisies gold and white Sea-like through the meadow rolled: Once my heart could hardly hold All its pleasures. I remember, In the flood of youth's delight Separate joys were lost to sight.

That was summer! Now November Sets the perfect flower apart; Gives each blossom of the heart Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,-- Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.

THE LILY OF YORROW

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.

Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower; Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.

Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume enchanted Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted, Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.

Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening?

Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden, Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a lifelong endeavour; Surely to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.

'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me: Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,-- Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with pa.s.sionate sorrow?

Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.

1894.

II

OF SKIES AND SEASONS

IF ALL THE SKIES

If all the skies were sunshine, Our faces would be fain To feel once more upon them The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music, Our hearts would often long For one sweet strain of silence, To break the endless song.