The Miracle and Other Poems Part 5

THE ROVER

Though I follow a trail to north or south, Though I travel east or west, There's a little house on a quiet road That my hidden heart loves best; And when my journeys are over and done, 'Tis there I will go to rest.

The snows have bleached it this many a year; The sun has painted it grey; The vines hold it close in their clinging arms; The shadows creep there to stay; And the wind goes calling through empty rooms For those who have gone away.

But the roses against the window-pane Are the roses I used to know; And the rain on the roof still sings the song It sang in the long ago, When I lay me down to sleep in a bed Little and white and low.

It is long since I bid it all good-bye, With young light-hearted disdain; I remember who stood at the door that day; Her tears fell fast as the rain; And I whistled a tune and waved my hand, But never went back again.

Toll I have paid at the gates of the world, The sand I know and the sea; I have taken the wide and open road, With steps unhindered and free; Yet, like a bell ringing down in my heart, My home is calling to me.

IN SOLITUDE

He is not desolate whose ship is sailing Over the mystery of an unknown sea, For some great love with faithfulness unfailing Will light the stars to bear him company.

Out in the silence of the mountain pa.s.ses, The heart makes peace and liberty its own-- The wind that blows across the scented gra.s.ses Bringing the balm of sleep--comes not alone.

Beneath the vast illimitable s.p.a.ces Where G.o.d has set His jewels in array, A man may pitch his tent in desert places Yet know that heaven is not so far away.

But in the city--in the lighted city-- Where gilded spires point toward the sky, And fluttering rags and hunger ask for pity, Grey Loneliness in cloth-of-gold, goes by.

THE ROBIN

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing, Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me You are the voice of the spring.

Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted, Piper the gold of the world cannot pay, Up from the limbo of things long departed Memories you bring me to-day.

You are the echo of songs that are over, You are the promise of songs that will come, You know the music, oh, light-winged rover, Sealed in the souls of the dumb.

All of the past that we wearily sigh for, All of the future for which our hearts long, All Love would live for, and all Love would die for Wordless, you weave in a song.

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, My spirit answers each note that you sing, And while I listen--earth-bound--it seems to me You are the voice of the spring.

A SONG OF ROSES

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow, To every vagrant pa.s.sing breeze they dip a courtesy low, 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.

One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red, Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled, And for the white rose sing a song--the white rose for the dead.

And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold, King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old, Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.

And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each pa.s.sing bee, You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.

'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow!

They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago.

'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.

PRAIRIE

Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold Beneath the burnished blue of the sky, A silver-white sea lies still and cold, And a bitter wind blows by.

But nothing pa.s.ses the door all day, Though my watching eyes grow worn and dim, Save a lean, grey wolf that swings away To the far horizon rim.

Then, one by one, the stars glisten out Like frozen tears on a purple pall-- The darkness folds my cabin about And the snow begins to fall.

I will make a hearth-fire red and bright And set a light by the window pane For one who follows the trail to-night That will bring him home again.

Love will ride with him my heart to bless-- Joy will out-step him across the floor-- What matters the great white loneliness When we bar the cabin door?

THE CLIMBER

He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top, His hands at rest, his forehead bound with bay; And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied The downward winding way.

The great procession of the stars went by Far overhead, beyond the mountain's rim, But the unconquered worlds of time and s.p.a.ce, As nothing were to him.

There from his vantage ground, so still and high, He watched the storm clouds when they rolled below, And felt the wind mount up to where he stood Amid eternal snow.

And sometimes in the valleys and the plains He saw the little children at their play; In cottage homes he saw the candle-light Gleam out at close of day.

But he and loneliness kept feast and fast, The while with weary eyes, by night and day; They watched the path that led to common things-- The downward winding way.

"'Twas there," he said, "that gladness pa.s.sed me by, In yonder valley, where I sought the truth; And there, a few leagues up the rocky slope, I said good-bye to Youth.

"There, where the pine trees catch the sun's last gold, Love reached its hands to me and bade me stop; Oh, madness of the ones who climb," he said, "Up to the mountain top!"

THE DAISY

An angel found a daisy where it lay On Heaven's highroad of transparent gold, And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray, Tell me what manner of strange bloom I hold.

You came a long, long way--perchance you know In what far country such fair flowers blow?"

Then spoke the other: "Turn thy radiant face And gaze with me down purple depth of s.p.a.ce.