And blinking overhead the white stars keep Watch o'er his hemlock bed--his sinless sleep.
AT HUSKING TIME
At husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades, Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades.
Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time.
The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids; The sly racoon with craft inborn His portion steals; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time.
WORKWORN
Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily.
This morn I listened to her softly sing, And, marvelling what this effect could bring I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.
But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me.
My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went.
O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more-- While but a child's bright smile was all your store,
If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and still smiling keep, That see so little pleasure, so much woe, My own had laughed more often long ago; If I had thought how leaden was the weight Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears, My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; If I had watched the woman o'er the way, Workworn and old, who labours day by day, Who has no rest, no joy to call her own, My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.
EASTER
April 1, 1888
Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, As pensively she stands Awaiting Easter's benediction falling, Like silver stars at night, Before she can obey the summons calling Her to her upward flight, Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow Ere she can hope to fly-- Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture's lining Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining Been naught but pleasure's pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning In youth's light joyousness, We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning In Lent's black-bordered dress.
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers To beg the crowning grace Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers The veil from April's face.
Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting Until the gateway swings, And she and Lent can kiss between the grating Of Easter's tissue wings.
Too brief the bliss--the parting comes with sorrow.
Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!
We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow Against the far blue sky.
ERIE WATERS
A dash of yellow sand, Wind-scattered and sun-tanned; Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand; And, creeping close to these Long shores that lounge at ease, Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou'-western breeze.
A sky of blue and grey; Some stormy clouds that play At scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away, Just leaving in their trail Some snatches of a gale; To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.
O! wind so sweet and swift, O! danger-freighted gift Bestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift, We laugh in your wild face, And break into a race With flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.
THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS
The autumn afternoon is dying o'er The quiet western valley where I lie Beneath the maples on the river shore, Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by
To seek their evening haven in the breast And calm embrace of silence, while they sing Te Deums to the night, invoking rest For busy chirping voice and tired wing-- And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.
In forest arms the night will soonest creep, Where sombre pines a lullaby intone, Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep, And all is still at last, save where alone A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.
Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day, Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away With rivers where their sweeping waters wend Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in canyons bold to end.
O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead, Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led Their aerial career unseen, unknown, 'Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?
The flapping of their pinions in the air Dies in the hush of distance, while they light Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare, That stand with giant strength and peerless height, To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.
Strange black and princely pirates of the skies, Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise To unrestricted life where ebb and flow Of Nature's pulse would constitute a wider life below!
Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms, A kingly life without a sovereign's care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms, And all is cradled in repose, save where Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
MOONSET
Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs, That waking murmur low, As some lost melody returning stirs The love of long ago; And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.
The moon is sinking into shadow-land.
The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively, Wanders on restless wing; The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea, Await its answering, That comes in wash of waves along the strand, The while the moon slips into shadow-land.
O! soft responsive voices of the night I join your minstrelsy, And call across the fading silver light As something calls to me; I may not all your meaning understand, But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.
MARSHLANDS
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim, And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh's brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould, Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.