Songs out of Doors Part 4

Only an idle little stream, Whose amber waters softly gleam, Where I may wade through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart From foaming pools, and try my art: 'Tis all I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart.

1894.

SPRING IN THE NORTH

I

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, Why the sweet Spring delays, And where she hides,--the dear desire Of every heart that longs For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire Of maple-buds along the misty hills, And that immortal call which fills The waiting wood with songs?

The snow-drops came so long ago, It seemed that Spring was near!

But then returned the snow With biting winds, and earth grew sere, And sullen clouds drooped low To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain Beat on the window-pane,

Through which I watched the solitary bird That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed With rumpled feathers down the wind again.

Oh, were the seeds all lost When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?

I searched the woods in vain For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.

But every night the frost To all my longing spoke a silent nay, And told me Spring was far away.

Even the robins were too cold to sing, Except a broken and discouraged note,-- Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat Music has put her triple finger-print, Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,-- "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"

II

But now, Carina, what divine amends For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, What wine of joy that blends A hundred flavours in a single cup, Is poured into this perfect day!

For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers That lingered on their way, Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, Entangled with the bloom of later hours,-- Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue And white, and iris richly gleaming through The gra.s.ses of the meadow, and a blaze Of b.u.t.ter-cups and daisies in the field, Filling the air with praise, As if a chime of golden bells had pealed!

The frozen songs within the breast Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, Melt into rippling floods Of gladness unrepressed.

Now oriole and bluebird, thrush and lark, Warbler and wren and vireo, Mingle their melody; the living spark Of love has touched the fuel of desire, And every heart leaps up in singing fire.

It seems as if the land Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, Trembling with tenderness, While all the woods expand, In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, To veil a joy too sacred to be seen.

III

Come, put your hand in mine, True love, long sought and found at last, And lead me deep into the Spring divine That makes amends for all the wintry past.

For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss Arrive with you; And in the lingering pressure of your kiss My dreams come true; And in the promise of your generous eyes I read the mystic sign Of joy more perfect made Because so long delayed, And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.

Ah, think not early love alone is strong; He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait: Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, You're doubly dear because you come so late.

SPRING IN THE SOUTH

Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, Tho' to the bough the rusty leaf.a.ge clings; Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling; Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings; Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying, Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded gra.s.s, Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,-- Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pa.s.s?

Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing, Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn, Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing, Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.

Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning; Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest; Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast!

Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted, Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose, Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted, Full to the brim the yellow river flows.

Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten, Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.

Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!

The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.

Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!

All of his heart he pours into his lay,-- "Love, love, love, and pure delight of living: Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"

Fair in your face I read the flowery presage, Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth: Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,-- Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!

1904.

HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

I never seen no "red G.o.ds"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks, To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high, But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!

Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,-- A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail-- But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out.

She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout?

She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between, Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candlestick!

The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!

We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.

We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen G.o.ddess or G.o.d 'ill meet our eyes; For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!

Oh, wot's the use o' "red G.o.ds," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff?

The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!

An' if there's Someone made 'em' I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

California, 1913.

THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING