The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 5

At evening when the crimson crest Of sunset pa.s.ses down the West, I hear the whispering host returning; On far-off fields, by elm and oak, I see the lights, I smell the smoke,-- The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

_Tertius and Henry van d.y.k.e._

November, 1903.

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.

A NOON SONG

There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; But who will give praise to the fulness of light, And sing us a song of the glory of noon?

Oh, the high noon, the clear noon, The noon with golden crest; When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns With his face to the way of the west!

How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength!

How slowly he crept as the morning wore by!

Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.

Oh, the long toil, the slow toil, The toil that may not rest, Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, To the wonderful way of the west!

Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, The wings of the wind in the forest are furled, The river runs softly, the birds are all still, The workers are resting all over the world.

Oh, the good hour, the kind hour, The hour that calms the breast!

Little inn half-way on the road of the day, Where it follows the turn to the west!

There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade, The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune, The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid, To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.

Oh, the deep noon, the full noon, Of all the day the best!

When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns To his home by the way of the west!

1906.

LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

Long, long, long the trail Through the brooding forest-gloom, Down the shadowy, lonely vale Into silence, like a room Where the light of life has fled, And the jealous curtains close Round the pa.s.sionless repose Of the silent dead.

Plod, plod, plod away, Step by step in mouldering moss; Thick branches bar the day Over languid streams that cross Softly, slowly, with a sound Like a smothered weeping, In their aimless creeping Through enchanted ground.

"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"

Whispers through the woodland deep; "Come to me and be at rest; I am slumber, I am sleep."

Then the weary feet would fail, But the never-daunted will Urges "Forward, forward still!

Press along the trail!"

Breast, breast, breast the slope See, the path is growing steep.

Hark! a little song of hope Where the stream begins to leap.

Though the forest, far and wide, Still shuts out the bending blue, We shall finally win through, Cross the long divide.

On, on, on we tramp!