The House of the Trees & Other Poems
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The House of the Trees
OPE your doors and take me in,Spirit of the wood;Wash me clean of dust and din,Clothe me in your mood.Take me from the noisy lightTo the sunless peace,Where at midday standeth Night,Signing Toil’s release.All your dusky twilight storesTo my senses give;Take me in and lock the doors,Show me how to live.Lift your leafy roof for me,Part your yielding walls,Let me wander lingeringlyThrough your scented halls.Ope your doors and take me in,Spirit of the wood;Take me—make me next of kinTo your leafy brood.The Sun on the Trees
THE sun within the leafy woodsIs like a midday moon,So soft upon these solitudesIs bent the face of noon.Loosed from the outside summer blazeA few gold arrows stray;A vagrant brilliance droops or playsThrough all the dusky day.The gray trunk feels a touch of light,While, where dead leaves are deep,A gleam of sunshine golden whiteLies like a soul asleep.And just beyond dank-rooted ferns,Where darkening hemlocks sighAnd leaves are dim, the bare road burnsBeneath a dazzling sky.Moonlight
WHEN I see the ghost of nightStealing through my window-pane,Silken sleep and silver lightStruggle for my soul in vain;Silken sleep all balmilyBreathes upon my lids oppressed,Till I sudden start to seeGhostly fingers on my breast.White and skyey visitant,Bringing beauty such as stingsAll my inner soul to pantAfter undiscovered things,Spare me this consummate pain!Silken weavings intercreepRound my senses once again,I am mortal—let me sleep.Pine Needles
HERE where the pine tree to the groundLets slip its fragrant load,My footsteps fall without a soundUpon a velvet road.O poet pine, that turns thy gazeAlone unto the sky,How softly on earth’s common waysThy sweet thoughts fall and lie!So sweet, so deep, seared by the sun,And smitten by the rain,They pierce the heart of every oneWith fragrance keen as pain.Or if some pass nor heed their sweet,Nor feel their subtle dart,Their softness stills the noisy feet,And stills the noisy heart.O poet pine, thy needles highIn starry light abode,And now for footsore passers-byThey make a velvet road.The Sound of the Axe
WITH the sound of an axe on the light wind’s tracksFor my only company,And a speck of sky like a human eyeBlue, bending over me,I lie at rest on the low moss pressed,Whose loose leaves downward drip;As light they move as a word of loveOr a finger to the lip.’Neath the canopies of the sunbright treesPierced by an Autumn ray,To rich red flakes the old log breaksIn exquisite decay.While in the pines where no sun shinesPerpetual morning lies.What bed more sweet could stay her feet,Or hold her dreaming eyes?No sound is there in the middle airBut sudden wings that soar,As a strange bird’s cry goes drifting by—And then I hear once moreThat sound of an axe till the great tree cracks,Then a crash comes as if allThe winds that through its bright leaves blewWere sorrowing in its fall.The Prayer of the Year
LEAVE me Hope when I am old,Strip my joys from me,Let November to the coldBare each leafy tree;Chill my lover, dull my friend,Only, while I gropeTo the dark the silent end,Leave me Hope!Blight my bloom when I am old,Bid my sunlight cease;If it need be from my holdTake the hand of Peace.Leave no springtime memory,But upon the slopeOf the days that are to be,Leave me Hope!The Hay Field
WITH slender arms outstretching in the sunThe grass lies dead;The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not oneFrail, fallen head.Of baby creepings through the April dayWhere streamlets wend,Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May,This is the end.No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,No more they reach,To hold with leaves that shade them from the blueA whispered speech.No more they part their arms, and wreathe them closeAgain to shieldSome love-full little nest—a dainty houseHid in a field.For them no more the splendor of the storm,The fair delightsOf moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warmOn summer nights.Their little lives they yield in summer death,And frequentlyAcross the field bereaved their dying breathIs brought to me.Twilight
I SAW her walking in the rain,And sweetly drew she nigh;And then she crossed the hills againTo bid the day good-by.“Good-by! good-by!The world is dim as sorrow;But close beside the morning skyI’ll say a glad Good-morrow!”O dweller in the darling wood,When near to death I lie,Come from your leafy solitude,And bid my soul good-by.Good-by! good-by!The world is dim as sorrow;But close beside the morning skyO say a glad Good-morrow!The Sky Path
I HEAR the far moon’s silver callHigh in the upper wold;And shepherd-like it gathers allMy thoughts into its fold.Oh happy thoughts, that wheresoe’erThey wander through the day,Come home at eve to upper airAlong a shining way.Though some are weary, some are torn,And some are fain to grieve,And some the freshness of the mornHave kept until the eve,And some perversely seek to roamE’en from their shepherd bright,Yet all are gathered safely home,And folded for the night.Oh happy thoughts, that with the streamsThe trees and meadows shareThe sky path to the gate of dreams,In their white shepherd’s care.Fall and Spring
FROM the time the wind wakesTo the time of snowflakes,That’s the time the heart achesEvery cloudy day;That’s the time the heart takesThought of all its heart-breaks,That’s the time the heart makesLife a cloudy way.From the time the grass creepsTo the time the wind sleeps,That’s the time the heart leapsTo the golden ray;That’s the time that joy sweepsThrough the depths of heart-deeps,That’s the time the heart keepsHappy holiday.The Woodside Way
I WANDERED down the woodside way,Where branching doors ope with the breeze,And saw a little child at playAmong the strong and lovely trees;The dead leaves rustled to her knees;Her hair and eyes were brown as they.“Oh, little child,” I softly said,“You come a long, long way to me;The trees that tower overheadAre here in sweet reality,But you’re the child I used to be,And all the leaves of May you tread.”A Rainy Day
IT has been twilight all the day,And as the twilight peaceOn daily fetters seems to layThe finger of release,So, needless as to tree and flowerSeem care and fear and pain;Our hearts grow fresher every hour,And brighten in the rain.When Twilight Comes
ALL out of doors for all life’s way,The fields and the woods and the good sunlight;And then in the chill of the evening gray,A sheltered nook and the hearth-fire bright.No hearth, no shelter attend my way!Not late, dear life, linger not too late;But before the chill and before the gray,Let the sunset gild the grave-stone date.Leafless April
LEAFLESS April chased by light,Chased by dark and full of laughter,Stays a moment in her flightWhere the warmest breezes waft her,By the meadow brook to lean,Or where winter rye is growing,Showing in a lovelier greenWhere her wayward steps are going.Blithesome April brown and warm,Showing slimness through her tatters,Chased by sun or chased by storm—Not a whit to her it matters.Swiftly through the violet bed,Down to where the stream is floodingLight she flits—and round her headSee the orchard branches budding!The Visitors
IN the room where I was sleepingThe sun came to the floor;Its silent thought went leapingTo where in woods of yoreIt felt the sun before.At noon the rain was slantingIn gray lines from the west;A hurried child all pantingIt pattered to my nest,And smiled when sun-caressed.At eve the wind was flyingBird-like from bed to chair,Of brown leaves sere and dyingIt brought enough to spare,And dropped them here and there.At night-time without warning,I felt almost to painThe soul of the sun in the morning,And the soul of the wind and rainIn my sleeping-room remain.Autumn Days
AUTUMN days are sun crowned,Full of laughing breath;Light their leafy feet are dancingDown the way to death.Scarlet-shrouded to the graveI watch them gayly go;So may I as blithely dieBefore November snow.Woodland Worship
HERE ’mid these leafy wallsAre sylvan halls,And all the Sabbaths of the yearAre gathered here.Upon their raptured moodMy steps intrude,Then wait—as some freed soul might waitAt heaven’s gate.Nowhere on earth—nowhereOn sea or air,Do I as easily escapeThis earthly shape,As here upon the whiteAnd dizzy heightOf utmost worship, where it seemsToo still for dreams.When Days Are Long
WHEN twilight late delayeth,And morning wakes in song,And fields are full of daisies,I know the days are long;When Toil is stretched at nooning,Where leafy pleasures throng,When nights o’errun in music,I know the days are long.When suns afoot are marching,And rains are quick and strong,And streams speak in a whisper,I know the days are long.When hills are clad in velvet,And winds can do no wrong,And woods are deep and dusky,I know the days are long.Out of Doors
IN the urgent solitudesLies the spur to larger moods;In the friendship of the treesDwell all sweet serenities.Make Room
ROOM for the children out of doors,For heads of gold or gloom;For raspberry lips and rose-leaf cheeks and palms,Make room—make room!Room for the springtime out of doors,For buds in green or bloom;For every brown bare-handed country weedMake room—make room!Room for earth’s sweetest out of doors,And for its worst a tomb;For housed-up griefs and fears, and scorns, and sighs,No room—no room!The Humming Bird
AGAINST my window-paneHe plunges at a massOf buds—and strikes in vainThe intervening glass.O sprite of wings and fireOutstretching eagerly,My soul with like desireTo probe thy mystery,Comes close as breast to bloom,As bud to hot heart-beat,And gains no inner room,And drains no hidden sweet.September
BUT yesterday all faint for breath,The Summer laid her down to die;And now her frail ghost wanderethIn every breeze that loiters by.Her wilted prisoners look up,As wondering who hath broke their chain,Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,They have no strength to rise again.How swift the trees, their mistress gone,Enrobe themselves for revelry!Ungovernable winds uponThe wold are dancing merrily.With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,And whirling leaves and flushing streams,The spirit of September cutsAdrift from August’s languid dreams.A little while the revellersShall flame and flaunt and have their day,And then will come the messengersWho travel on a cloudy way.And after them a form of light,A sense of iron in the air,Upon the pulse a touch of mightAnd winter’s legions everywhere.The March Orchard
UNLEAVED, undrooping, still, they stand,This stanch and patient pilgrim band;October robbed them of their fruit,November stripped them to the root,The winter smote their helplessnessWith furious ire and stormy stress,And now they seem almost to standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.Yet seen through frosty window-panes,When bared and bound in wintry chains,Their lightsome spirits seemed to playWith February as with May.The snow that turned the skies afrownEnwrapt them in the softest down,And rains that dulled the landscape o’erBut left them livelier than before.But now this June-like day of MarchWith patient strength their branches arch,Not as unmindful of the breezeThat makes midsummer melodies,But knowing Spring a fickle maid,And that rough days must dawn and fadeBefore, all blossoming bright, they standIn sight of Summer’s Promised Land.The Blind Man
THE blind man at his window barsStands in the morning dewy dim;The lily-footed dawn, the starsThat wait for it, are naught to him.And naught to his unseeing eyesThe brownness of a sunny plain,Where worn and drowsy August lies,And wakens but to sleep again.And naught to him a greening slope,That yearns up to the heights above,And naught the leaves of May, that opeAs softly as the eyes of love.And naught to him the branching aisles,Athrong with woodland worshippers,And naught the fields where summer smilesAmong her sunburned laborers.The way a trailing streamlet goes,The barefoot grasses on its brim,The dew a flower cup o’erflowsWith silent joy, are hid from him.To him no breath of nature calls;Upon his desk his work is laid;He looks up at the dingy walls,And listens to the voice of Trade.To the October Wind
OLD playmate, showering the wayWith thick leaf storms in red and gold,I’m only six years old to-day,You’ve made me feel but six years old.In yellow gown and scarlet hoodI whirled, a leaf among the rest,Or lay within the thinning wood,And played that you were Red-of-breast.Old comrade, lift me up again;Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,And bear me lightly down the laneThrough all the leaves that drift and drift,And out into the twilight wood,And lay me softly down to rest,And cover me just as you wouldIf you were really Red-of-breast.A Midday in Midsummer
THE sky’s great curtains downward steal,The earth’s fair companyOf trees and streams and meadows feelA sense of privacy.Upon the vast expanse of heatLight-footed breezes pace;To waves of gold they tread the wheat,They lift the sunflower’s face.The cruel sun is blotted out,The west is black with rain,The drooping leaves in mingled doubtAnd hope look up again.The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand,A strange exultant thrillPrepares the dazed uncertain landFor the wild tempest’s will.The wind grows big and breathes aloudAs it runs hurrying past;At one sharp blow the thunder-cloudLets loose the furious blast.The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned,The elements go mad;Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground,And all the leaves are glad.Then comes a momentary lull,The darkest clouds are furled,And lo, new washed and beautifulAnd breathless gleams the world.A Slow Rain
A DROWSY rain is stealingIn slowness without stop;The sun-dried earth is feelingIts coolness, drop by drop.The clouds are slowly wastingTheir too long garnered store,Each thirsty clod is tastingOne drop—and then one more.Oh, ravishing as slumberTo wearied limbs and eyes,And countless as the numberOf stars in wintry skies,And sweet as the caressesBy baby fingers made,These delicate rain kissesOn leaf and flower and blade.The Patient Earth
ITHE patient earth that loves the grass,The flocks and herds that o’er it pass,That guards the smallest summer nestWithin her scented bosom pressed,And gives to beetle, moth, and beeA lavish hospitality,Still waits through weary years to bindThe hearts of suffering human kind.IIHOW far we roamed away from her,The tender mother of us all!Yet ’mid the city’s noises stirThe sound of birds that call and call,Wind melodies that rise and fallAlong the perfumed woodland wallWe looked upon with childhood’s eyes;The ugly streets are all a blur,And in our hearts are homesick cries.IIITHE loving earth that roots the treesSo closely to her inmost heart,Has rooted us as well as these,Not long from her we live apart;We draw upon a lengthening string,For months perhaps, perhaps for years,And plume ourselves that we are free,And then—we hear a robin singWhere starving grass shows stunted spears,Or haycart moving fragrantlyWhere creaking tavern sign-boards swing;Then closer, tighter draws the chain,The man, too old and worn for tears,Goes back to be a child again.IVTHE greed that took us prisonerFirst led our steps away from her;For lust of gold we gave up life,And sank heart-deep in worldly strife.And when Success—belovèd name—At last with faltering footsteps came,The city’s rough, harsh imps of soundAnd Competition’s crush and cheatWere in her wreath securely bound;Her fruits still savored of the street,Its choking dust, its wearied feet,Her poorest like her richest prizeWas rotted o’er with envious eyes,And sickened with the human heatOf hands that strove to clutch it fast,And struggling gave it up at last.Not so where nature summer-crownedMakes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled roundWith waters lapsing cool and sweet.VO EARTH, sweet Mother, take us back!With woodland strength and orchard joy,And river peace without alloy,Flood us who on the city’s trackHave followed stifling sordid years,Cleanse us with dew and meadow rain,Till life’s horizon lights and clears,And nature claims us once again.At Dawn
A SPIRIT throughMy window came when earth was soft with dew,Close at the tender edge of dawn when allThe spring was new,And bore me backAlong her rose-and-starry tinted track,And showed me how the full-winged day emergedFrom out the black.She knew the speechOf all the deep-pink blossoms of the peach,Told in my ear the meanings of the trees,The thoughts of each;Explained to meThe language of the bird and frog and bee,The messages the streams and rivers takeUnto the sea.Alas! Alas!I have forgot. The dream did from me pass.I know not e’en the meaning dear and sweetOf common grass.And now when IRoam this strange earth beneath a stranger sky,Soft syllables of that forgotten speechFaint as a sigh,Come back again,With sweet solicitings that urge like pain,And brood like love—as full of light and darkAs April rain.In the Crowd
HERE in the crowded city’s busy street,Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,Where Traffic’s voice grows harsher and more strong,I see within the stream of hurrying feetA company of trees in their retreat,Dew-bathed, dream-wrapped, and with a thrush’s songEmparadising all the place, alongWhose paths I hear the pulse of Beauty beat.’Twas yesterday I walked beneath the trees,To-day I tread the city’s stony ways;And still the spell that o’er my spirit cameTurns harshest sounds to shy bird ecstasies,Pours scent of pine through murky chimney haze,And gives each careworn face a woodland frame.By Fields of Grass
BY fields of grass and woodland silencesThe city’s tumult is encamped around;The jingling, clanging, shrieking fiends of soundExpire within the wide world-circling breeze.The soul amid a multitude of trees,Or grass enveloped on the fragrant ground,Is lifted to its utmost starry round,And listens to celestial harmonies.From this unspeakably divine rebirth,Its sordid life returning shows through riftsHow purely spreads the sky, how musicalThe streams and breezes flow across the earth,How light the tree its fruity load uplifts,How easily the weed is beautiful.October
AGAINST the winter’s heav’n of white the bloodOf earth runs very quick and hot to-day;A storm of fiery leaves are out at playAround the lingering sunset of the wood.Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood,Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay;The golden lane half dreaming picks its wayThrough ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood.O warm, outspoken earth, a little spaceAgainst thy beating heart my heart shall beat,A little while they twain shall bleed and burn,And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face,The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet,And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn.Winter
NOW that the earth has hid her lovely broodOf green things in her breast safe out of sight,And all the trees have stripped them for the fight,The winter comes with wild winds singing rudeHoarse battle songs—so furious in feudThat nothing lives that has not felt their bite.They sound a trumpet in the dead of nightThat makes more solitary solitude.Against the forest doors how fierce they beat!Against the porch, against the school-bound boyWith crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat.The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweetBut far—how far away! the stream of joyOutpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat.The Snow-Storm
THE great, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloakDescends to wrap the lean world head to feet;It gives the dead another winding-sheet,It buries all the roofs until the smokeSeems like a soul that from its clay has broke;It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,And visits all the trees in their retreat,To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk.With wintry bloom it fills the harshest groovesIn jagged pine stump fences. Every soundIt hushes to the footstep of a nun.Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves,Inducing darkest bits of churlish groundTo give a radiant answer to the sun.To February
O MASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you goAbout your giant work, transforming allThe empty woods into a glittering hall,And making lilac lanes and footpaths growAs hard as iron under stubborn snow,Though every fence stand forth a marble wall,And windy hollows drift to arches tall,There comes a might that shall your might o’erthrow.Build high your white and dazzling palaces,Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;And April with a fragmentary breeze,And half a score of gentle, golden hours,Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.Rest
FROM the depths of dreams I am drawnTo the inner depth of a pine,That near my window keeps the dawn—A dawn that is wholly mine.Dream-rest and pine-rest,And a cool, gray path between—A cool, gray path from the night’s breastTo the heart of the living green.To the depths of dreams I goOn the sounds of falling rain,That in the night-time gently flowIn a stream on my window-pane.Stream-rest and dream-rest,And a cool, dark path between—A cool, dark path from the rain’s breastTo the heart of the soft unseen.The Shy Sun
THE sun went with me to the wood,And lingered at the door;One glance he gave from where he stood,But dared not venture more,Nor knew that in the heart of herWho felt his presence nigh,His love was all the lovelierBecause his look was shy.In April
WHEN Spring unbound comes o’er us like a flood,My spirit slips its bars,And thrills to see the trees break into budAs skies break into stars;And joys that earth is green with eager grass,The heavens gray with rain,And quickens when the spirit breezes pass,And turn and pass again;And dreams upon frog melodies at night,Bird ecstasies at dawn,And wakes to find sweet April at her heightAnd May still beck’ning on;And feels its sordid work, its empty play,Its failures and its stainsDissolved in blossom dew, and washed awayIn delicate spring rains.Apple Blossoms
AMID the young year’s breathing hopes,When eager grasses wrap the earth,I see on greening orchard slopesThe blossoms trembling into birth.They open wide their rosy palmsTo feel the hesitating rain,Or beg a longed-for golden almsFrom skies that deep in clouds have lain.They mingle with the bluebird’s songs,And with the warm wind’s reverie;To sward and stream their snow belongs,To neighboring pines in flocks they flee.O doubly crowned, with breathing hopesThe branches bending down to earth,That feel on greening orchard slopesTheir blossoms trembling into birth.The Big Moon
THE big moon came to the edge of the sky,And pierced me with its dart;I strove to put its brightness byBefore it burned my heart.I wrapped the windows thick and well,I closely barred the door,The light of my penny candles fellOn low-built wall and floor.The little room and the little lightBegan to comfort me;But I heard—I heard the golden nightCall like a sounding sea.I knew the moon swam in the sky,And the earth swam in the moon;I went outside in the grass to lie,To yield to the deadly swoon.My soul was filled with white moon rainTill it ran o’er and o’er,My soul was thrilled with bright moon painTill it could bear no more;I stole back through the curtained gloomUp stairs unlit and steep,And in a low-ceiled darkened roomMy hurt was healed with sleep.