A Winter Ride
- Who shall declare the joy of the running!
- Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
- Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
- Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
- Everything mortal has moments immortal,
- Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.
- So with the stretch of the white road before me,
- Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
- Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
- Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
- Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
- Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
A Coloured Print by Shokei
- It winds along the face of a cliff
- This path which I long to explore,
- And over it dashes a waterfall,
- And the air is full of the roar
- And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
- In a silver torrent over some steep.
- It clears the path with a mighty bound
- And tumbles below and away,
- And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
- Are wet with its jewelled spray;
- The air is misty and heavy with sound,
- And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.
- Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,
- And the path is soft to tread,
- And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
- While little streamlets thread
- Their own meandering way down the hill
- Each singing its own little song, until
- I forget that 't is only a pictured path,
- And I hear the water and wind,
- And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
- To see what there is behind;
- For it must lead to a happy land,
- This little path by a waterfall spanned.
Song
- Oh! To be a flower
- Nodding in the sun,
- Bending, then upspringing
- As the breezes run;
- Holding up
- A scent-brimmed cup,
- Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.
- Oh! To be a butterfly
- Still, upon a flower,
- Winking with its painted wings,
- Happy in the hour.
- Blossoms hold
- Mines of gold
- Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.
- Oh! To be a cloud
- Blowing through the blue,
- Shadowing the mountains,
- Rushing loudly through
- Valleys deep
- Where torrents keep
- Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.
- Oh! To be a wave
- Splintering on the sand,
- Drawing back, but leaving
- Lingeringly the land.
- Rainbow light
- Flashes bright
- Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.
- Soon they die, the flowers;
- Insects live a day;
- Clouds dissolve in showers;
- Only waves at play
- Last forever.
- Shall endeavor
- Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?
The Fool Errant
- The Fool Errant sat by the highway of life
- And his gaze wandered up and his gaze wandered down,
- A vigorous youth, but with no wish to walk,
- Yet his longing was great for the distant town.
- He whistled a little frivolous tune
- Which he felt to be pulsing with ecstasy,
- For he thought that success always followed desire,
- Such a very superlative fool was he.
- A maiden came by on an ambling mule,
- Her gown was rose-red and her kerchief blue,
- On her lap she carried a basket of eggs.
- Thought the fool, "There is certainly room for two."
- So he jauntily swaggered towards the maid
- And put out his hand to the bridle-rein.
- "My pretty girl," quoth the fool, "take me up,
- For to ride with you to the town I am fain."
- But the maiden struck at his upraised arm
- And pelted him hotly with eggs, a score.
- The mule, lashed into a fury, ran;
- The fool went back to his stone and swore.
- Then out of the cloud of settling dust
- The burly form of an abbot appeared,
- Reading his office he rode to the town.
- And the fool got up, for his heart was cheered.
- He stood in the midst of the long, white road
- And swept off his cap till it touched the ground.
- "Ah, Reverent Sir, well met," said the fool,
- "A worthier transport never was found.
- "I pray you allow me to mount with you,
- Your palfrey seems both sturdy and young."
- The abbot looked up from the holy book
- And cried out in anger, "Hold your tongue!
- "How dare you obstruct the King's highroad,
- You saucy varlet, get out of my way."
- Then he gave the fool a cut with his whip
- And leaving him smarting, he rode away.
- The fool was angry, the fool was sore,
- And he cursed the folly of monks and maids.
- "If I could but meet with a man," sighed the fool,
- "For a woman fears, and a friar upbraids."
- Then he saw a flashing of distant steel
- And the clanking of harness greeted his ears,
- And up the road journeyed knights-at-arms,
- With waving plumes and glittering spears.
- The fool took notice and slowly arose,
- Not quite so sure was his foolish heart.
- If priests and women would none of him
- Was it likely a knight would take his part?
- They sang as they rode, these lusty boys,
- When one chanced to turn toward the highway's side,
- "There's a sorry figure of fun," jested he,
- "Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride."
- "Good Sirs, Kind Sirs," begged the crestfallen fool,
- "I pray of your courtesy speech with you,
- I'm for yonder town, and have no horse to ride,
- Have you never a charger will carry two?"
- Then the company halted and laughed out loud.
- "Was such a request ever made to a knight?"
- "And where are your legs," asked one, "if you start,
- You may be inside the town gates to-night."
- "'T is a lazy fellow, let him alone,
- They've no room in the town for such idlers as he."
- But one bent from his saddle and said, "My man,
- Art thou not ashamed to beg charity!
- "Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong,
- But it much misgives me lest thou'rt a fool;
- For beggars get only a beggar's crust,
- Wise men are reared in a different school."
- Then they clattered away in the dust and the wind,
- And the fool slunk back to his lonely stone;
- He began to see that the man who asks
- Must likewise give and not ask alone.
- Purple tree-shadows crept over the road,
- The level sun flung an orange light,
- And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray stone
- And wept as he realized advancing night.
- A great, round moon rose over a hill
- And the steady wind blew yet more cool;
- And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed,
- For at last he knew he was only a fool.
The Green Bowl
- This little bowl is like a mossy pool
- In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow
- Nodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;
- A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,
- Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song
- And murmur of the never resting sea.
- 'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,
- But coming Spring guided your eager hand
- And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,
- A proper chalice made to hold the shy
- And little flowers of the woods. And here
- They will forget their sad uprooting, lost
- In pleasure that this circle of bright leaves
- Should be their setting; once more they will dream
- They hear winds wandering through lofty trees
- And see the sun smiling between the leaves.
Hora Stellatrix
- The stars hang thick in the apple tree,
- The south wind smells of the pungent sea,
- Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew.
- The night's for you, Sweetheart, for you!
- Starfire rains from the vaulted blue.
- Listen! The dancing of unseen leaves.
- A drowsy swallow stirs in the eaves.
- Only a maiden is sorrowing.
- 'T is night and spring, Sweetheart, and spring!
- Starfire lights your heart's blossoming.
- In the intimate dark there's never an ear,
- Though the tulips stand on tiptoe to hear,
- So give; ripe fruit must shrivel or fall.
- As you are mine, Sweetheart, give all!
- Starfire sparkles, your coronal.
Fragment
- What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
- Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
- Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
- By patient labor any hue to take
- And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
- Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
- Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
- With storied meaning for religion's sake.
Loon Point
- Softly the water ripples
- Against the canoe's curving side,
- Softly the birch trees rustle
- Flinging over us branches wide.
- Softly the moon glints and glistens
- As the water takes and leaves,
- Like golden ears of corn
- Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,
- Or like the snow-white petals
- Which drop from an overblown rose,
- When Summer ripens to Autumn
- And the freighted year must close.
- From the shore come the scents of a garden,
- And between a gap in the trees
- A proud white statue glimmers
- In cold, disdainful ease.
- The child of a southern people,
- The thought of an alien race,
- What does she in this pale, northern garden,
- How reconcile it with her grace?
- But the moon in her wayward beauty
- Is ever and always the same,
- As lovely as when upon Latmos
- She watched till Endymion came.
- Through the water the moon writes her legends
- In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
- They endure for a moment, and vanish,
- And no one may understand.
- All round us the secret of Nature
- Is telling itself to our sight,
- We may guess at her meaning but never
- Can know the full mystery of night.
- But her power of enchantment is on us,
- We bow to the spell which she weaves,
- Made up of the murmur of waves
- And the manifold whisper of leaves.
Summer
- Some men there are who find in nature all
- Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
- Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
- To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
- And they hold dear communion with the hills;
- The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
- And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
- To them a city is a prison house
- Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
- Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
- But where in winter they must live until
- Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
- To me it is not so. I love the earth
- And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
- Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
- Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
- And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
- But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
- I love the very human heart of man.
- Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
- Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
- Lazily reflecting back the sun,
- And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
- Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
- The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
- The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
- And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
- The very crown of nature's changing year
- When all her surging life is at its full.
- To me alone it is a time of pause,
- A void and silent space between two worlds,
- When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
- Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
- For life alone is creator of life,
- And closest contact with the human world
- Is like a lantern shining in the night
- To light me to a knowledge of myself.
- I love the vivid life of winter months
- In constant intercourse with human minds,
- When every new experience is gain
- And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
- The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
"To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New"
- As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,
- Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him
- Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging.
- So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present,
- Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.
B A C K
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