The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 13

Mournfully bewailing,--"Ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?"

Far and wide he sought them over sea and sh.o.r.e; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,-- Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,-- So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

II

THE SWARMING OF THE BEES

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest?

Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight?

Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the pa.s.sing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.

Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,-- Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,-- Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.

Thus the swarming is begun.

Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done.

Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and gray, Mult.i.tudes are on the way.

Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.

Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cl.u.s.ter and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling.

Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall.

Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair.

Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!

Where is their queen? Who is their master?

The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,-- What is the honey they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam?

_Forgetfulness and a dream!_

But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet cl.u.s.ters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his bl.u.s.tering path.

In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk.

They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down Weary of fight; The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Pa.s.ses the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise!

The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies.

New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,-- The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, _Forgetfulness and a dream!_

III

LEGEND

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is the ending-- Listen while I tell you how he found release.

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.

Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the changing seasons, In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, stars that shone to guide him,-- Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!

Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, listened while he taught them Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; how to guard the sheepfolds; How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.

Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer were the harvests, Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour of parting, Memories of kindness and a G.o.d-like name.

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking, Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, far from human dwelling, Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around him, Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep.

This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey, Joy and pain of seeking,--and at last we sleep!

1905.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

I

The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting, complete In every line, a crystal sphere, And full of intimate and secret cheer.

Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

II

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow.

But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved,-- She of the blue-gray eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,-- From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death.

I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance pa.s.sionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.

My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good for ever gone. I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To her sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away.

The bell rang shrill and lonely,--then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him,--but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came!

There in the dear old dusky room she stood Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood.

"You did not ask for me," she said, "And so I will not let you take my hand; But I must hear what secret talk you planned With father. Come, my friend, be good, And tell me your affairs of state: Why you have stayed away and made me wait So long. Sit down beside me here,-- And, do you know, it seems a year Since we have talked together,--why so late?"

Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with br.i.m.m.i.n.g tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood.

She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends.

(Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best).

"Now come," she said, "To-night we will collaborate Again; I'll put you to the test.

Here's one I never found the way to do,-- The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,-- I give this song to you."

And then she read: _Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder, Zwei Kinder, jung und froh._

But all the while, a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: "Is it herself, and is she truly here, And was I dreaming when I heard That she was dead last year?

Or was it true, and is she but a shade Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade When her sweet ghostly part is played And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"

But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt.

"Will you not give me now your hand, Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, That by this token I may understand You are the same true friend you were of old?"

She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw the morn arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine. Dear G.o.d, it was not cold But warm with vital heat!

"You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!"