 | Songs of summer lands |  |
9
SONGS OF SUMMER LANDS.
In
that far land, farther than Yucatan,
Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep,
Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man.
Hears deep come calling across to deep;
Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men
Down under the bastions of Darien:
Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep,
Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man.
Hears deep come calling across to deep;
Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men
Down under the bastions of Darien:
In that land so far that you wonder whether
If God would know it should you fall down dead;
In that land so far through the wilds and weather
That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,—
Where the sea and the sky seem closing together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
If God would know it should you fall down dead;
In that land so far through the wilds and weather
That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,—
Where the sea and the sky seem closing together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
10
In that nude, warm world, where the unnamed rivers
Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver,
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark, wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And calls all day with his dolorous swan:
Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver,
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark, wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And calls all day with his dolorous swan:
In that land of the wonderful sun and weather,
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together
By the great French master in his forge flame red,—
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together
By the great French master in his forge flame red,—
Lo! the half-finished world! Yon footfall retreating,—
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same, whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same, whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.
11
It is man in his garden, scarce wakened as yet
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is plastic and wet
From the hand that has fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is plastic and wet
From the hand that has fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
And a ship now and then from some far Ophir's shore
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank;
Then a dull, muffled sound of the slow shuffled plank
As they load the black ship; but you hear nothing more,
And the dark, dewy vines, and the tall, sombre wood
Like twilight droop over the deep, sweeping flood.
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank;
Then a dull, muffled sound of the slow shuffled plank
As they load the black ship; but you hear nothing more,
And the dark, dewy vines, and the tall, sombre wood
Like twilight droop over the deep, sweeping flood.
The black masts are tangled with branches that cross,
The rich, fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
The long mosses swing, there is never a breath:
The river rolls still as the river of death.
The rich, fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
12
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
The long mosses swing, there is never a breath:
The river rolls still as the river of death.
| Songs of summer lands | |