Read Ebook: Among the Trees Again by Stein Evaleen

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WOOD FANCY, A 35

Aye, throb, my heart! is it not sweet to be, To breathe, to bide, by growing things once more! We did not guess before How close our life was locked in greenery. Hark! how the sparrows in the apple tree Are chattering, chirping, till their tiny throats Are fairly brimmed and quivering through and through With rollick notes! Good morrow, little birds! Good morrow! morrow!--O, I would I knew Some light-winged language, kindred singing words Wherein to say This day, this day, at last this happy day I come to be a neighbor unto you!

Too long, too long, we heard strange footsteps pass, Harsh, strident echoes stricken out of stone; But never softened by green, growing grass, Or mellowed to faint, earthy undertone. And then, O heart, Did we not ofttimes feel ourselves apart, Alone, Wrought to vague discord by some touch unknown? Did we not weary with a nameless grief, In dreaming of tall clover, daisy sown, Or music blown From the wind-harping of some little leaf?

It was not that within the city's core There dwelt no sympathies, nor interests keen, No human ties to temper its fatigues. --'Twas only that we needed something more; Some note rang wrong; A foolish fancy, may be, but still strong, That life sang sweeter snatched between the green Close-lapping verdure of a fret of twigs.

Where all the ground was paven out of sight, And only from a far-off strip of sky My mother Nature strove to speak to me, I could not harken to her voice aright; I knew not why, But ever to mine ears some whispering tree Seemed of the inmost golden soul of her, The best interpreter. And so what wonder, Life, that you and I, Shut out from such glad confidence, should miss And grieve for this.

Swept lightly by the south wind The elm leaves softly stirred, And in their pale green clusters There straightway bloomed a bird!

His glossy feathers glistened With dyes as richly red As any tulip flaming From out the garden bed.

But ah, unlike the tulips, In joyous strain, ere long, This redbird flower unfolded A heart of golden song!

I knelt beside the fairy spring, Among the tasseled weeds; Far off, with dreamy murmuring, The wind piped through the reeds.

Once, twice, the brimming cup I raised With trembling finger-tips, And in its limpid crystal gazed, Nor laid it to my lips.

Ah me! the eager heart-desires, So thronging swift they came, My spirit surged like wind-swept fires, I knew not which to name.

--Then all at once, I quickly quaffed The shining drops; but lo, The wish with that enchanted draught No man must ever know!

I lean upon the bridge's rail, In idle joy, and gazing down, So watch the frothy bubbles sail, And bits of tangled grasses trail Along the current's tawny brown.

The river flows at full to-day; And though within the tide it pours There grow no mocking sycamores, Nor any crystal hints betray The spicewood thickets, nor the pale Soft willow wands of pearly gray, Whose interwoven mazes veil The fretted banks, yet here and there, Adown some swirling eddy, where A delving sunbeam shines, What mines Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold The waters hold!

And so, by rapid currents rolled In billowy swells that break and chime In riotous tumult uncontrolled, The March flood plashes past the pier; But through its sweeping tones, I hear The sweet, receding murmurs rhyme The burden of the April time; And throbbing like a glad refrain, Now far, now full, now far again, The freshened breeze Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear The fitful, tinkling cadences.

But listen! faint, from out the sheer Deep borders of the morning sky, Slips down the distance-softened cry Of shy wild geese that northward fly; It vibrates nearer, and more near, --And see! There! wheeling into sight, Far as the vision may descry. A level-winged advancing "V," They keep their swift, unswerving flight. North, north, beyond that scudding fleece Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese, That join their ranks, and journey, too, On,--on,--into the farthest blue.

Then, from the boundless space above, I drop my dazzled eyes to view The soft field-grass and meadow-rue, The restful, brown earth, that I love. A trick of blinding sun, maybe, That halo on the hills may prove-- And yet, they are so dear to me, The golden glory that they wear Is like none other anywhere, And, in my heart, I hold it true.

And then beyond--but how express, What word in any tongue conveys The depth of dreamy tenderness That laps, and wraps, and overlays The far blue hills, And spills and fills The valleys with pale purple haze? O, what sweet syllables confess The glad heart-happiness that plays Through all my pulses as I gaze, And drink the beauty, past all praise-- The old, immortal blessedness Of April days!

A plaintive song, so strangely sweet and old, That all my soul within itself would fold And gently keep so quaint a melody, That like a bird's its notes of liquid gold Might oft repeat their sweetness unto me.

A tale of joyless splendor long ago, Of wedded lady and of loveless woe, How she to soothe her sick heart's misery Cradled in vines her little child, and so Sang of dear love beneath a greenwood tree.

And through it all there runs such saddest plaint, As sweet as lutes, now murmurous, now faint, Till, like the far-heard sighing of the sea, It sweeps in gathering passion past restraint, Then breaks, and croons in mournful minor key.

Ah, well-a-day! I listen breathless till I half believe that sorrowing singer still Dreams on divinely by the whispering tree; For in your voice all tenderest heart-strings thrill, And all the woodland's marvelous minstrelsy!

O little poet, winging through The sheer, clear blue, Is it the sky you're singing to? Or is it that afar you see Some leafy, laden apple-tree, And half concealed and half confessed, A nest? Ah, truly now, I would I knew The happy secret of your glee, That joy wherewith you birds are blest, Red-breast!

So airy and so light of wing, You soar and sing, I pray, could you not softly fling, My merry minstrel, down to me Some echo of that melody That spills from out your tiny bill? Some trill Of all those liquid tones that ring So full of purest poetry, That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until They fill These vibrant seas of azure air, Whose blue tides bear Their witching sweetness everywhere? O little master, heed to me! And ah, so true, so tenderly, I'll learn to sing how lovely grows This rose, Till, by and by, dear heart, I'll dare To touch some bolder note, maybe, Some chord whence deeper music flows; Who knows?

The roar of the seas where the freezing clouds lower, The shriek of the storm-wind, the turbulent tide, The conquering currents, all vaunt of their power, And taunt with the centuries' secret they hide.

Of towering icebergs and glittering floes, The sun of the midnight in luminous rings, Of hopes held at bay by beleaguering snows, Of man in his weakness the fierce ocean sings.

Bright over the sky the aurora is red, And crimson as life-blood the snowflakes below; Swift updarting streamers of fire overspread All heaven and earth with a roseate glow.

Hark! Hark! to the rumble, the thunderous roar Of the ancient ice-mountains that shatter and rend And crash with the tide dashing up on the shore, In turmoil titanic and toil without end.

O, woe to the ship that the pitiless clutch Of those crushing ice-demons drags down to her doom! The path to the pole is o'er-scattered with such, And deep sleep the heroes the tempests entomb.

Beneath the wan moon of the long arctic night The frost-smitten sea stretches boundless and lone; The Shores of the Dead Men loom spectral and white, In Helheim, the death-goddess waits for her own.

But ho, to her hatred! the soul of the brave He bears not who dares not her fury defy! And ho, to her giants of wind and of wave! We crave but to meet and defeat them, or die!

Farewell, and farewell!--the anchor rope strains, Loose cable and canvas, and hasten we forth! The fire of desire quivers hot in our veins, We must sail with the gale, to the north! to the north!

Must speed with the blast to its ultimate goal, The path of its pinions must follow and find The lure of the ages, the boreal pole, And the measureless halls of the house of the wind!

O golden day, wherein at last, Long leagues and wintry overpast, I stand beneath a sky as blue As April violets drenched in dew, And live within a dream come true!

From rosy-berried pepper-trees The winds blow spicy fragrances; The palms sway softly to and fro, And down below, Between the glossy leaves of these, The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep The mission garden, where the bees Are hoarding deep Of heliotrope that hangs the wall As for some princely festival, While white and tall Bright lilies bloom in grace untold, And those rare roses, passing all In splendor, called "The Cloth of Gold!"

O heart, my heart, throb high and fast With rapture! for how couldst thou know Amid the far-off frost and snow Where all the skies are overcast And shrill and chill the north-winds blow, How couldst thou know December heavens anywhere Could show such rare Such tender and divinest guise, That earth and air Could weave such strange, resistless spell As this that folds us flower-wise At sweet San Gabriel!

San Gabriel! the holy words Fall soft as music on the ear; I think they are as sweet to hear As any song of summer birds; And harkening them, the while in clear, Pure, quivering notes, The ancient bells begin to chime, In shadowy-wise before me floats A vision of the vanished time. I see again The little band from sunny Spain, Those godly ones, and full of grace, And without stain, Who, heeding neither toil nor pain, Desiring men of every race, That such might see sweet Jesus' face, And that at length the Lord might reign Among all peoples, even so, Sought in the wilderness this place, And consecrated, long ago.

And gazing on the sacred pile Their hands upreared in loving zeal, My heart goes forth to them the while, Those faithful fathers, true and leal! How oft along each cloistered aisle They counted o'er and o'er their beads, While in this garden, unawares, The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds. --And richly as the flowers, the prayers Bore fruit in gentle deeds!

In arched embrasures, lifted high Against the sky, The bells in clear-cut beauty show; And loftier still, surmounting all, And blessing thus the ancient wall, A cross,--and on its summit, lo! A slender bird with pearly breast Sits peacefully at rest!

Ah me! Ah me! I know not why This little bird with folded wings, The cross, the tender azure sky, Their pure, exceeding beauty brings Swift tears, and smites my heart, till I Am almost fain To hide mine eyes for very pain!

Yet though thus for a little space I bow my face, Nor any grace Of rose or lily can I see, I know the while that memory, Clear-eyed and free, Upon my heart is graving deep Each least, sweet loveliness, to keep Through all the coming years for me. And it shall be, In afterwhiles, when far away, When wintry skies are bleak and gray And no birds sing, I shall grow glad remembering The sweetness of this scarlet day.

A little while ago I caught, In cadence pure and clear, A waft of faintest music, wrought Upon my inner ear.

A part of some elusive theme Whose sweetly solemn air My soul had harkened in a dream, I know not when nor where.

I only know my heart-strings stirred With strange, forgotten pain, That crept upon me as I heard That unremembered strain.

A sense of loneliness untold, So boundless, deep, unknown, I blindly reached my hands to hold Your palms within my own!

I watch the little pear buds break And slip their silky sheaths, And flowers on the maples make A thousand russet wreaths, --Then something blinds my sight, and I Am full of grief, yet know not why!

A rosy purple half betrays The wealth the lilacs fold; The torches of the tulips blaze In flames of red and gold; Peach boughs are blossoming above, --But oh, the vague heartache thereof!

The blue sky wears in gentle wise Its loveliness again; All April sunshine,--yet mine eyes Are brimmed with April rain! The presage of sweet days to be, So strange a sadness stirs in me!

Two years ago, it is two years to-day,-- It seems a score!--since that sweet, bloomy May When on the barren sea you sailed away. The peach-trees then were in a rosy glow, And down below, The tulip buds had just begun to show. --And yet, dear heart, I know Though all the heaven smiled in tender blue, It shone not so to you. Sorrow had hooded all your skies in gray, And when these dancing boughs put on their gay, Bright May-time bravery, they only grieved A heart bereaved. And though glad robins sang to you to stay, And by the stream the first sweet-flags unfurled Seemed nature's truce to sorrow,--every way Held warring memories wherewith to gainsay And send you wandering over half the world.

Ah, well do I remember how my prayers Went with you, dear, and followed unawares; So speeding ever, winging far and wide About the path wherein your ship should ride, And pleading Heaven that most gentle airs And tempered tide Might bear you safely to the farther side.

Then, when I knew your voyage over,--then, --For surely now, at last, I may confess, Now that I have outgrown its bitterness, Though, sometimes, I can almost feel again, Remembering those days, that keen distress, Yes, jealousy it was! not any less, That constantly Wrapped all my thoughts of you beyond the sea!-- I feared lest other lives, more large and wide Than mine has been, might, day by day, divide And win your life and love away from me. And I was fearful for dear nature, too; I could not bear To think that heaven anywhere should wear A hue more deeply, more divinely blue Than this home sky that we together knew; Or that there grew Strange bud or bloom to make the earth more fair. --A most unworthy fancy, it is true; Since nature is but nature everywhere, The same kind mother, in whatever land; So too, maybe, could we but understand, All hearts and loves are only as a part Of one great Heart Whose universal pulses so expand That any lesser life that therein beats Should no more dream of this word "jealousy" Than yonder shining flakes of bloom should be Jealous, forsooth, of the whole hawthorn tree That is but one with their own mass of sweets. And so, at last, through blind, unreasoning grief Beyond belief, Brightly within my heart there did uprise Love's loyalty, rebuking in this wise: "Has she not spoken, oft and oft again, These three plain words 'I love you'? Wherefore, then, What right have you To deem mere distance could her love undo? To fancy aught exists that could estrange Her heart from yours, wherein there is no change, Or judge her own to be less simply true?"

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