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 Another Random Document on
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AN AUGUST REVERIE.
There is an autumn sense subdues the air,
Though it is August and the season still
A part of summer, and the woodlands fair.
I hear it in the humming of the mill,
I feel it in the rustling of the trees,
That scarcely shiver in the passing breeze.

’Tis but a touch of Winter ere his time,

A presaging of sleep and icy death,
When skies are rich and fields are in their prime,
And heaven and earth commingle in a breath:—
When hazy airs are stirred with gossamer wings,
And in shorn fields the shrill cicada sings.

So comes the slow revolving of the year,

The glory of nature ripening to decay,
When in those paths by which, through loves austere,
All men and beasts and blossoms find their way,
By steady easings of the spirit’s dream,
From sunlight past the pallid starlight’s beam.

Nor should the spirit sorrow as it passes,

Declining slowly by the heights it came;
We are but brothers to the birds and grasses,
In our brief coming and our end the same:—
And though we glory, god-like in our day,
Perchance some kindred law their lives obey.

There are a thousand beauties gathered round,

The sounds of waters falling over-night,
The morning scents that steamed from the fresh ground,
The hair-like streaming of the morning light
Through early mists and dim, wet woods where brooks
Chatter, half-seen, down under mossy nooks.

The ragged daisy starring all the fields,

 The buttercup abrim with pallid gold,
The thistle and burr-flowers hedged with prickly shields,
All common weeds the draggled pastures hold,
With shrivelled pods and leaves, are kin to me,
Like-heirs of earth and her maturity.

They speak a silent speech that is their own,

These wise and gentle teachers of the grass;
And when their brief and common days are flown,
A certain beauty from the year doth pass:—
A beauty of whose light no eye can tell,
Save that it went; and my heart knew it well.

I may not know each plant as some men know them,

Like children gather beasts and birds to tame;
But I went ’mid them as the winds that blow them,
From childhood’s hour, and loved without a name:—
There is more of beauty in a field of weeds,
Than in all blooms the hot-house garden breeds.

For they are nature’s children, in their faces

I see that sweet obedience to the sky
That marks these dwellers of the wilding places,
Who with the season’s being live and die;
Knowing no love but of the wind and sun,
Who still are nature’s when their life is done.

They are a part of all the haze-filled hours,

The happy, happy world all drenched with light,
The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers,
And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight,
And they to me will ever bring in dreams
Far mist-clad heights and brimming rain-fed streams.

In this dream August air, whose ripened leaf,

Pausing before it puts death’s glories on,
Deepens its green, and the half-garnered sheaf
 eepe s ts g ee , a d t e a ga e ed s ea
Gladdens the haze-filled sunlight; love hath gone
Beyond the material, trembling like a star,
To those sure heights where all thought’s glories are.

And Thought, that is the greatness of this earth,

And man’s most inmost being, soars and soars,
Beyond the eye’s horizon’s outmost girth,
Garners all beauty, on all mystery pores:—
Like some ethereal fountain in its flow,
Finds heavens where the senses may not go.
 IN THE SPRING FIELDS.

There dwells a spirit in the budding year—

As motherhood doth beautify the face—
That even lends these barren glebes a grace,
And fills grey hours with beauty that were drear
And bleak when the loud, storming March was here:
A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly traces
In swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,
And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.

I thread the uplands where the wind’s footfalls

Stir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn’s urns.
Seaward the river’s shining breast expands,
High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,
And far below some patient ploughman turns
His great black furrow over steaming lands.
IN A JUNE NIGHT.
See how the luminous night hath drawn around
The curtains of her majesty, and o’er
The far-heard, murmurous sounds of earthly life
Hath dropped the mantle of her misty sleep,
That spreads itself and folds the corners in
Of darkness round this hid rim of the world.

O Beauty, thou art never half so rare

And restful to the spirit as when thou
Dost throne thyself amid the dome of night,
The deep blue zenith that is scarcely blue,
Where darkness scarce takes color, and the arch
Of heaven glows with myriad misty fires,
That move like spirits in majestic space,
And fill with inward music the great void
That tunes itself to match the seraphim,
And lifts the heart of man to higher planes
Of strength and greatness. I have seen thy face
At kindling morning or at dreamy eve,
Or mid the pauses of a summer noon,
When thou didst glass thee in a woodland pool,
Where sound was far, and all the world a dream.

And I have hunted thee down autumn lanes,

Dream-avenues of mists and ruddy fires,
Past the complainings of the thoughtful wind,
That in the under-heart of woodlands moaned,
And jargoned memories of the haunted past.

Or I have seen thy presence in the storm,

The quick, mad muttering of the thunder-cloud,
That zigzagged all the ashen fields with red,
Followed by the sudden rushing rain,
That roared the roof-tops and the window-panes,
And threshed the grain-fields and the garden flowers,
And flooded the dusty roads with pools and streams
And flooded the dusty roads with pools and streams,
While all the heaven brimmed with fire and rain:
Then darkened past and left the summer sky
As stainless as the blue eye of a child;
And all the world alit with trembling gems,
Beneath the sunlight and the cooling air.

Or I have seen thine awfuller majesty

In mad November, when his muffled storms,
Loud-tongued and mighty, racked the skeleton woods,
And roared and surged amid the branchy tops,
Like some far surf of ocean on his shore,
Hounding the frosts from their still fastness there.
Or in the frosty silence of deep snows
And long-drawn, silent nights of weeping winds,
Crooning a tune amid the skeleton trees;
Thy spirit hath made music in my heart.

But thou art draped in all thy glow, supreme,

Here in the luminous dream of this June night,
When all the heaven’s roof doth seem to rise
And lift and lift in endless floors of light;
Glad wells of glory, infinities of space,
Jewelled with wheeling systems, circling round
In silvered journeyings o’er the seas of night.

Down under here the mother-earth is still

And shadowed, save that for a spirit-wind
That whispers in a voice, so low, so low,
That scarcely makes a rustle in grasses heard;
Or low, cool breathings of the forest edge.
Down near by in the covert thicket hid,
Like molten silver or white moving mist,
Could you but see it, hark, a gurgling brook,
That goes so silvern, silvern, down its stones,
Blithely, like the sweet notes of a song,
Tenderly, from dripping stone to stone,
è
Filling the night with drowsèd melody.

This is a clime where spirits only dwell,

And man knows he is god-like; love finds wings,
And wisdom spans existence. Under here
My soul doth find the infinite, glad rest,
And all my heart grows kindred with the stars.
HARVEST SLUMBER SONG.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep,

Red is the moon in the night’s still deep,
White are the stars with their silver wings
Folded in dreamings of beautiful things,
And over their cradle the night wind sings,
Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep.

Soft in the lap of the mother night

The wee baby stars, all glowing and bright,
Flutter their silver wings and crow
To the watchful winds that kiss as they blow
Round the air-cradle that swings so low
Down in the lap of the mother night.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep,

Red is the moon in the night’s still deep,
And the wee baby stars are all folded and kissed
In a luminous cradle of silver mist;
And if ever they waken the winds cry, Whist,
Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep.
AUTUMN.
 Season of languorous gold and hazy drouth,
Of nature’s beauty ripened to the core,
When over fens far-calling birds wing south,
Filling the air with lonesome dreams of yore,
And memories that haunt but come no more;
Maiden of veilèd eyes and sunny mouth,
Dreaming between hushed heat and frosted lands;
With fire-mists in thine eyes, and red leaves in thy hands.

Spirit of Autumn, siren of all the year,

Who dost my soul with glamouries entwine;
As some old trunk, deep in the forest drear,
Is gloried by some crimson, clinging vine;
So thou dost fill my heart with haunted wine,
When in the still, glad days by uplands sere,
With slow-drawn pace, I seek thy slumberous moods,
In thy hushed, dreamy haunts of fields and skies and woods.

How often in the still, rich frosted days,

Down the slow hours of some tranced afternoon,
Have my feet wandered in a mad, sweet maze,
Hunting the wind that, like some haunting tune,
Peopled with memories all the great, gold swoon
Of rustling woodlands, streams and leafy ways,
Ever eluding, fluting, sweet, before
Fading to rest at last in gold-green leafy core.

Far out beside some great, hill-cradled stream,

Winding along in sinuous blue for miles,
By tented elms, in fields that sleep and dream,
Low marsh-lands where the warm sun slopes and smiles,
Where through the haze the harsh grasshopper files
His rasping note. The pallid asters gleam,
And golden rod flames in the smoky light,
While far, blue fading hills in mists elude my sight.
 Or out in maple woods where companies
Of sombre trunks lift the soft light between,
And little sunbeams steal with ruddy eyes,
Sifting adown the canopies of green;
Spirit of sadness, here you move unseen
Down tented avenues where the long light lies
From morn till even, through the silent hours,
Where over all the day frets through in sunny showers.

On silent nights, grey mists creep near the ground,

And airs are keen and stars grow sharp and clear,
And phantom frosts steal in and make no sound
Down the long, haunted river, bleak and drear,
Biting with death the sedges dank and sere,
And ever the wan moon rises large and round
Over the woodlands, flooding with icèd dream
The far-hushed, ghostly face of wood and field and stream.

On frosty mornings in the crimsoning woods;

Or where the long, low grassy meadows shine,
Wimpling and steaming out through hazy moods
Of dewy glories to the far sky-line;
And pearly brooks, a company divine,
Go, softly chattering, under smoky hoods;
I love to walk abroad and con with you
Dream thoughts that are most sad and beautiful and true.
TO THE RIDEAU RIVER.
You wander, shining, down all happy places,
You kiss the over-airs with misty lips,
You mirror in your depths all earth’s glad faces,
While low to you in love the heaven dips.

About you gather all the loves of summer,

You sing glad morning and tired eve to sleep,
Lifting your cooling cup to each new comer,
Till hearts grow strong where life was at its neap.

O river, glad and bounteous in your singing,

So restful and continuous night and day,
You seem to voice the feathered creatures winging,
And little children in their joyous play.

You bring to earth a long-lost, olden beauty,

When filling summer with your slumb’rous sound;
You banish stress and strife and barren duty,
Brimming with joyance all the world around.

I gaze upon your shining face at morning,

When woods are fresh and dews are on the grass;
And light and love, the night and darkness scorning,
Fill earth with song from each bush where I pass.

I gaze upon your misty face at even,

Athwart the golden chambers of the west,
When ever-changing glories of the heaven
Build up a broken splendour in thy breast.

And when the misty moon, in pallid glory,

Glimmers across the ghost-lagoons of night,
Within your breast there haunts the spectre story
Of her pale loves and dreams in tremulous light.

Across the peace of all the night’s great healing,

B th th il f th d k’ h h d d
 Beneath the silence of the dark’s hushed deep,
A phosphorescent, ghostly spirit stealing,
You softly slide, a sleep within a sleep.

You slip and shine by boughs that bend to kiss you,

You dream by curvèd banks of shimmering green;
And where you swerve the alien meadows miss you,
But happy are the banks you glide between.

You drift, a solace to the great woods under,

Wimpling wide in many a watery moon;
And when you sing, the hours, in soft-eyed wonder,
Lean, finger on lip, entrancèd by your tune.

Out by dim, hazy shores, in reedy shallows,

The drowsy cattle sun them in the heat;
And, far from woody slopes and ragged fallows,
A lazy wind goes loitering in the wheat.

You fill the summer with your magic chanting

Your sleepy music out by field and fell;
And spirits elusive in your bosom haunting,
Sleep like the genie in the Arabian well.

In low green capes, by country ways descending,

Where your tides wind by many a braided shore,
The great cool elms, the heaven and water blending,
Mirror their ghosts within thy shimmering floor.

By pebbly shoals whereon your tides are driven,

In silvery surge and far-heard slumb’rous song,
Your sleeping shores and the white hosts of heaven
Hearken your tender droppings all night long.

Where out along the dusk, all white-mist laden,

You cradle deep in wells of azure light,—
Like to the virgin dreams of some sweet maiden,—
In your glad breast the million stars of night
 In your glad breast the million stars of night.

The great, hot city calls with its loud clamour,

Unrecked, unheeded here at night or noon;
Faint, far-away breaks in its baleful glamour
’Mid wildernesses ’neath the sun and moon;

Across your silver bars whereby you glisten,

Oblivious of the throe of earth’s wild mart,
You leap and sing, and then you lie and listen,
As if to hear the throbbing of your heart.

O happy, happy stream, drift softly, slowly,

Through sunlit hours in musical, sweet ways,
Thine are the haunts all unprofaned and holy,
Far from earth’s life and all its maddened maze.

Thine is the peace, the glory and the splendour,

That mother nature gives unto her own;
Thine are the dreams, all glad, elusive, tender,
With which she veils herself, remote, alone.

When she withdraws herself from man’s rude peering

Into the virgin secrets of her heart,
Out from the realms of hate and doubt and fearing,
Unto her life of dreams, shut out, apart.

Where no soul reaches save some kindred spirit,

Some late-born satyr caged in human form,
Some child of that old order who inherit
The haunting beauty of the ages’ storm.

Strange children, smitten with the dream of seeing

The glory that lies under this mad life;
The folds of midnight back of all this being,
The majesty of sleep behind the strife.

Even I am one of those, glad, haunted river,

 e a o e o t ose, g ad, au ted e ,
A soul belated from the great ones gone;
Wandering here at twilight, doomèd ever
Mid alien days and dreams to wander on;

Hearing by grove and stream old voices calling

In holy runes of earth’s primeval tongue;
Mad music in the air about me falling,
Out of the ages when the earth was young.

For I am not of all this weird mob, thronging

The streets of mad to-day, the world’s dread throe;
I walk apart all hungered with a longing
For some departed, mighty long ago.

Unfettered child of nature’s mirth and gladness,

Sing, sing and drift by field and country way;
Fill earth and men with thy divine, sweet madness,
With glad contentment gird both night and day:

Till even I, with every sad-eyed brother,

Pausing amid the felon cares of life,
Fare back through thee to earth our great kind mother,
Forgetting failure, bitterness and strife.

And care and pain one troublous dream dissolving,

Across the splendour of thy misty bars;
We only know the glorious day revolving,
Night’s majesty, and her eternal stars.
 IN THE AUGUST FIELDS.

A soft, blue vapour films the fields and woods;

Through shining heats, a thread, the roadway runs;
Far out in smoke, the white day sleeps and suns,
And faint and dim the city’s jar intrudes
Across these realms of summer’s solitudes,
Walled in by azure of the horizon’s rim:
Where the great sky, all arched and blurred and dim,
About this drowse and dreaming bends and broods.

Near in the heat a locust lilts and files,

A sheep-bell tinkles down along the grass,
And out by hill and valley, miles on miles,
With summer’s breath across its face half blurred,
Cradling this silence all unjarred, unstirred,
The river holds the whole world like a glass.
IN THE STRENGTH OF THE
MORNING.
I stand upon the morning’s rim,
And all life’s dream within me thrills;
I am the cup whose beaded brim
The wine of living holds or spills:
I stand upon the morning’s rim,
When day grows rose and night is dim.

There comes a freshness from the floor

Of ocean and the night-bathed land;
A spirit swings each roseate door
With winnowing wings and odours bland:
Rose flames enkindle heaven’s floor,
And the grey mists are night no more.

I stand upon the morning’s verge,

And feel the glorious waking world;
Afar I hear life’s thundering surge
On morning’s beaches maddening hurled,
In flame-tinged beauty, where the verge
Of ocean sings melodious dirge.

I stand at morning’s rim and know

That all this dream of earth and sea,
These clouds and dreamy fields below,
This azure sphere, were made for me:
That all are mine that morn doth know,
The airs that brood, the blades that grow.

I walk in fields knee-deep in grass,

Where heavenward elms spread their arms;
I dream the airs of morning pass,
With voices from a hundred farms:
The bobolink rises from the grass,
Brim with the melody morning has.

I wander by the shade of woods,

 In roadways brown and wet with dew—
The great cool, leafy solitudes;
My heart grows great and lonely too,
With the large wisdom of the woods,
Full of the morning’s haunted moods.

The world grows faint and far away,

As morning grows a dream at noon;
Here the great silences do pray,
With spread arms in a voiceless swoon:
The fields gleam out and far away
Across the hum and hush of day.

I breathe life’s airs and feel my heart

Leap into being, like a brook
That from a mountain crag doth start,
And falls in snowy thunders shook:
So all earth’s glories in my heart
Surge outward, nature’s counterpart.

The over-moving fields of blue,

They are the dreams that God hath spread,
With dews and fires of morning too,
Far out around above my head:
I feel their deep, far-lifting blue,
Shot with the morning’s radiance through.

Here in the brooding earth I dream

The great, high visions of the soul;
Strong like the swerved tide of the stream,
Broad like the morn’s unbroken whole:
Majestic hopes of life I dream,
Such visions great a god might deem.

So clear the river’s eye is clear,

So strong and fresh the smell of earth,
So gladly heaven hovers near,
So g ad y ea e o e s ea ,
Great thoughts could scarcely fail of birth:
The very soul grows crystal clear,
Like some pure, spring-fed mountain mere.

Out here across this wind-blown land,

Where all is great and glad and new,
I feel my spirit’s wings expand
Like eagle’s under heaven’s blue:
Great with the strength of sea and land,
I grasp life’s problems in my hand.

Back downward to the world I go,

Filled with the glory of earth’s light;
No demon dread can overthrow,
No dreams of evil e’er affright:
To battle with my fate I go,
Across the days of strife and woe.

No frosts of wintry age can chill,

No deeps of midnight swirl me down;
The fires of Spring my being thrill,
The dreams of morning fence me round:
By blue, blue brooks that never chill,
I climb for aye a summer hill.

I climb and listen to a song,

Sung by a bird at Summer’s dawn,
A song that holds no note of wrong,
Dreamed from the world where love hath gone:
I listen, listen till that song,
Like God’s voice, makes the years more strong.
AN OCTOBER EVENING.

The woods are haggard and lonely,

The skies are hooded for snow,
The moon is cold in Heaven,
And the grasses are sere below.

The bearded swamps are breathing

A mist from meres afar,
And grimly the Great Bear circles
Under the pale Pole Star.

There is never a voice in Heaven,

Nor ever a sound on earth,
Where the spectres of winter are rising
Over the night’s wan girth.

There is slumber and death in the silence,

There is hate in the winds so keen;
And the flash of the north’s great sword-blade
Circles its cruel sheen.

The world grows agèd and wintry,

Love’s face peakèd and white;
And death is kind to the tired ones
Who sleep in the north to-night.
DECEMBER.
Blowest thou in again, thou bleak December,
Comest thou back with bearded, icy sheen,
Lone hours that make the saddened heart remember
The flower of life, the sweetness that hath been:
Grey, chilly skies, wild winds that fray and fret,
Bring me kind peace or bid the heart forget.

Comest thou in with thy rude, kindly bluster,

The wintry glow of fagots on pale fires;
Thy lonesome woodlands in a ragged cluster
About the earth’s shrunk edge, with dreary spires
Of tree-tops loomed athwart the chilly sky;
Where late the low night-wind went haunting by.

I love thee, Month, for all thy cold north blowing;

I greet thee, friend, for all thy frosty mood;
With mantling blood I meet thy slanted snowing,
O’er withered field or by the leafless wood,
Whose damp earth-floors with rain-bleached leaves are stained,
And frosty nuts that rich November rained.

Men call thee rude, but thou art soft and gentle,
Thy voice is loud, but oh, thy heart is kind,
Who coverest shivering earth with thy soft mantle,
To shield the grasses from the cruel wind:
And the sweet buds in brown earth laid away,
Thou tendest for thy gentle sister May.

When haggard cold hath nipped the hills and meadows,

And chilly mornings lift from pallid skies,
And chimney smoke to earthward sendeth shadows;
’Tis then I seek thine icèd glamouries,
In lonely ways of wood, and watery field,
Which thou hast silvered with a frosty shield.

O’er ways of the wind’s moods of fitful wandering,

 Or querulous moanings by some hillside bare,
Naked of snows, where Heaven’s largesse squandering,
The night had built snow-turrets here and there,
Heaping the hollows, cloaking stumps and trees
With wintry coat of ermine draperies.

Or ’neath gaunt aisles of sombre woodlands crooning,

Like gray old crones, some sad December song,
Or barren trees like aged harpers tuning
Their withered instruments, an eerie throng,
Bright icicles from each white, branchy beard,
Stand waiting for the dying old year’s weird.

So I have roamed with thee, thou grey December,

Through all thy sheeted nights and withered days;
And dreamed beneath thy chillèd ice and ember,
The secret thoughts of Nature’s hidden ways:
How under all thy storm and maddened moods,
Thou barest her message to the fields and woods.
PREMONITIONS.
In the winter wan and white,
When the days grow long and bright,
And the sun grows warm and hot
In each southward sheltered spot
Back of fences, under hills;
Then my brain with fancy fills,
Then my heart grows young again
Through the days that wax and wane.

In the morning when I wake,

Something all my heart doth take
Captive with a secret thrill
Toward the young year’s waking will;

When I feel the sun behind

My closed, eastward window blind,
Something wells up in my heart,
Most of joy and hope a part.

Burns the morning’s warming glow

Over wastes of ice and snow;
Over spaces chill and bare,
Life and love are in the air.
With the year that is to be
Throbs my heart in sympathy.
Springward turns the whole world’s mind,
Sleep and death are left behind.

In the hot, glad afternoons,

When the whole world melts and swoons
In a garment of thin haze
Over woods and rude roadways,
And the landscape, chill and wan,
Softer aspect taketh on;
Then my steps to southward turn
Where the sloping sun doth burn.
 e e t e s op g su dot bu

Then my heart within me sings

Lyrics of the world’s dead springs;
Something mystic, magical,
Hovers, glamours over all;
Even the osiers, red and yellow,
Prophesy each to its fellow;
Every voice and note I hear
Whispers of the pulsing year.

Cackling fowls in southward barns,

Wild notes over sheeted tarns,
Melted roadways, soiled snow,
Premature calling of a crow,
Fill my soul with reveries
As wells the upward sap in trees,
When my steps to southward turn
And the sloping sun doth burn.

Then at night, ere men have slept,

Across the stars a mist hath crept;
Then a film drapes the skies,
And the night hath softer eyes;
Something in the heaven aglow,
Something in the earth below,
Toward glad dreaming turns my brain,
And my heart grows young again.
 LOVE.

Love came at dawn when all the world was fair,

When crimson glories, bloom, and song were rife;
Love came at dawn when hope’s wings fanned the air,
And murmured, “I am life.”

Love came at even when the day was done,

When heart and brain were tired, and slumber pressed;
Love came at eve, shut out the sinking sun,
And whispered, “I am rest.”
 A DECEMBER MORNING.

Breaks in the wild and bleak December morn,

Across shrunk woods and pallid skies like pearl:
From hooded roofs white, sinuous smoke-wreaths curl
Into the clear, sharp air; great boughs, wind-torn
And storm-dismantled, sway from trunks forlorn.
Under stark fences, snow-mists sift and swirl,
And overhead, where night was wont to hurl
Her ghostly drift, white clouds, wind-steered, are borne.

By drifted ways I climb the eastern hills,

And watch the wind-swayed maples creak and strain;
The muffled beeches moan their wintry pain;
While over fields and frosty, silent rills,
The breaking day the great, grey silence fills
With far-heard voice and stir of life again.
IN THE FREEDOM OF THE SPRING.
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