 | To the end of the trail |  |
TWO POETS
Love's way with the thrush;
In the heart of the larches,
The deepening defiles
Where the shadows dilate,
The dim and the hush
Of dawn in the arches
Of the dark forest aisles,
Alone with his mate!
The song would die
If the crowd were by.
It is only for one love's dewdrop is glistening;
It would frighten him voiceless to find the world listening.
Sing on, glad thrush,
From your nest in the heart of the bush!
Tho' it's only the song-smoke of love upcurled
As incense to your little brown mate,
And the world hears not, and you heed not the world,
And sing but your little heartful of love,
And know not and praise not the great kind God above—
All the same you praise him,
For love and joy are his praise—
Be elate, be elate!
God hears you and knows you are happy.
In the heart of the larches,
The deepening defiles
Where the shadows dilate,
The dim and the hush
Of dawn in the arches
Of the dark forest aisles,
Alone with his mate!
The song would die
If the crowd were by.
It is only for one love's dewdrop is glistening;
It would frighten him voiceless to find the world listening.
Sing on, glad thrush,
From your nest in the heart of the bush!
75
As incense to your little brown mate,
And the world hears not, and you heed not the world,
And sing but your little heartful of love,
And know not and praise not the great kind God above—
All the same you praise him,
For love and joy are his praise—
Be elate, be elate!
God hears you and knows you are happy.
Love's way with the sea-mew;
From the rocks and the beaches,
In the spume and the spray.
O wild one, the true
Sea-poet I deem you.
The vast wind-reaches
Are a trodden way
Through the storm for you.
Do you love, I wonder,
Aught but the surge and the thunder,
The gigantic delight of the clouds and the white-maned waves
And the wind that bellows and maddens and raves,
With its passionate heart-burning,
Its mighty, insatiable yearning
For the joy it will never possess, but unceasingly craves?
Sweep along!
Song is not yours, but this free sea life is a song.
There's a wild sea mate somewhere in the cliffs—
But oh, the joy and the love of the sea!
The booming reefs and the shuddering skiffs!
Love is well; but here, O sea-lover, where your bliss is,
Can you not almost feel God's kisses?
(If you but knew, O sea-bird,
The kisses are his indeed.)
Flash on, flash on and exult! There's a true hymn hid in your glee!
Never puzzle your pate with the mystery.
God sees you fulfilling His dreaming.
From the rocks and the beaches,
In the spume and the spray.
O wild one, the true
Sea-poet I deem you.
The vast wind-reaches
Are a trodden way
Through the storm for you.
Do you love, I wonder,
Aught but the surge and the thunder,
The gigantic delight of the clouds and the white-maned waves
And the wind that bellows and maddens and raves,
With its passionate heart-burning,
Its mighty, insatiable yearning
For the joy it will never possess, but unceasingly craves?
76
Song is not yours, but this free sea life is a song.
There's a wild sea mate somewhere in the cliffs—
But oh, the joy and the love of the sea!
The booming reefs and the shuddering skiffs!
Love is well; but here, O sea-lover, where your bliss is,
Can you not almost feel God's kisses?
(If you but knew, O sea-bird,
The kisses are his indeed.)
Flash on, flash on and exult! There's a true hymn hid in your glee!
Never puzzle your pate with the mystery.
God sees you fulfilling His dreaming.
O sea-mew! wise indeed
Is the life you lead.
It is well no sea-dreams intrude
On the brown bird's joy of the wood.
O poets! you never were caught
In the snare of choosing
Which well to quench thirst from, when each holds cool, sweet drink.
You each voice a thought
Out of the infinite musing
Of the great, kind God; and that, I should think,
Were enough for a thrush or a sea-mew.
New Brunswick, Canada, 1888.
Is the life you lead.
It is well no sea-dreams intrude
On the brown bird's joy of the wood.
O poets! you never were caught
In the snare of choosing
Which well to quench thirst from, when each holds cool, sweet drink.
You each voice a thought
Out of the infinite musing
Of the great, kind God; and that, I should think,
Were enough for a thrush or a sea-mew.
| To the end of the trail | |