_
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I'll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook's contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon,--
Then's the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A fir-tree standeth lonely
A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood
A mocking question! Britain's answer came
A silent world,--yet full of vital joy
A silken curtain veils the skies,
A tear that trembles for a little while
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Afterthought of summer's bloom!
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
All along the Brazos River,
All day long in the city's canyon-street,
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
All night long, by a distant bell
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Children of the elemental mother,
"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet,
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times,
Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death!
Come home, my love, come home!
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again,
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night
Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
_Deeds not Words_: I say so too!
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;
"Do you give thanks for this?--or that?" No, God be thanked
Do you remember, father,--
Does the snow fall at sea?
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Fair Phyllis is another's bride:
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
Far richer than a thornless rose
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
For that thy face is fair I love thee not:
Four things a man must learn to do
From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon,
Furl your sail, my little boatie:
Give us a name to fill the mind
Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard,
God said, "I am tired of kings,"--
Great Nature had a million words,
Hear a word that Jesus spake
Heart of France for a hundred years,
Her eyes are like the evening air,
Here's a half-a-dozen flies,
Here the great heart of France,
Home, for my heart still calls me:
Honour the brave who sleep
Hours fly,
How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
"How can I tell," Sir Edmund said,
_How long is the night, brother,_
How long the echoes love to play
I count that friendship little worth
I envy every flower that blows
I have no joy in strife,
I love thine inland seas,
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
I never thought again to hear
I put my heart to school
I read within a poet's book
I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
I would not even ask my heart to say
If all the skies were sunshine,
If I have erred in showing all my heart,
If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage:
If on the closed curtain of my sight
In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and
confusion,
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest,
In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go,
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
Into the dust of the making of man,
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!)
It's little I can tell
It was my lot of late to travel far
"Joy is a Duty,"--so with golden lore
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
Just to give up, and trust
Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,
Let me but do my work from day to day,
Let me but feel thy look's embrace,
"Lights out" along the land,
Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock,
Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds,
Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
Long, long, long the trail
Lover of beauty, walking on the height
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay!
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
Not to the swift, the race:
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
O dark the night and dim the day
O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,
O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand
O mighty river! strong, eternal Will,
O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
O Music hast thou only heard
O who will walk a mile with me
O wonderful! How liquid clear
O youngest of the giant brood
Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue,
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late,
Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear,
Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
Once, only once, I saw it clear,--
One sail in sight upon the lonely sea,
Only a little shrivelled seed,
Peace without Justice is a low estate,--
Read here, O friend unknown,
Remember, when the timid light
Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls
Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul:
Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name,
Sign of the Love Divine
Some three-score years and ten ago
Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame,
Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand
Stand fast, Great Britain!
The British bard who looked on Eton's walls,
The clam that once, on Jersey's banks,
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The cradle I have made for thee
The day returns by which we date our years:
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
The gabled roofs of old Malines
The glory of ships is an old, old song,
The grief that is but feigning,
The heavenly hills of Holland,--
The laggard winter ebbed so slow
The land was broken in despair,
The melancholy gift Aurora gained
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
The mountains that inclose the vale
The nymphs a shepherd took
The other night I had a dream, most clear
The record of a faith sublime,
The river of dreams runs quietly down
The roar of the city is low,
The rough expanse of democratic sea
The shadow by my finger cast
The tide, flows in to the harbour,--
The time will come when I no more can play
The winds of war-news change and veer:
The worlds in which we live at heart are one,
There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire:
There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light,
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
There is a bird I know so well,
They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold
This is the soldier brave enough to tell
This is the window's message,
Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay,
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
"Through many a land your journey ran,
'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
Two dwellings, Peace, are thine
Two hundred years of blessing I record
"Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe:
'Twas far away and long ago,
Under the cloud of world-wide war,
Waking from tender sleep,
We men that go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,--
We met on Nature's stage,
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
What is Fortune, what is Fame?
What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?
What shall I give for thee,
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
When down the stair at morning
When May bedecks the naked trees
When Staevoren town was in its prime
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
When to the garden of untroubled thought
Where's your kingdom, little king?
Who knows how many thousand years ago
Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,
Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Winter on Mount Shasta,
With eager heart and will on fire,
With memories old and wishes new
With two bright eyes, my star, my love
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
Ye gods of battle, lords of fear,
Yes, it was like you to forget,
You dare to say with perjured lips,
You only promised me a single hour:
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Henry Van Dyke, by Henry Van Dyke
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF HENRY VAN DYKE ***
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