Henry Van Dyke - The Poems of Henry Van Dyke

H >> Henry Van Dyke >> The Poems of Henry Van Dyke

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

Six Days of the Week

Little Rivers
Fisherman's Luck
Days Off
Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land

The Ruling Passion
The Blue Flower
The Unknown Quantity
The Valley of Vision

Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts
Companionable Books

Poems, Collection in one volume

Songs out of Doors
Golden Stars
The Red Flower
The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems
The White Bees, and Other Poems
The Builders, and Other Poems
Music, and Other Poems
The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems
The House of Rimmon

Studies in Tennyson
Poems of Tennyson
Fighting for Peace

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

THE POEMS OF

HENRY VAN DYKE

A NEW AND REVISED EDITION
WITH MANY HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED

LONDON ARTHUR F. BIRD MCMXXV

[From an edition:]
Printed by The Scribner Press,
New York, U.S.A.

Dedicated in Friendship to

KATRINA TRASK

AND

JOHN HUSTON FINLEY

CONTENTS

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

EARLY VERSES

The After-Echo
Dulciora
Three Alpine Sonnets
Matins
The Parting and the Coming Guest
If All the Skies
Wings of a Dove
The Fall of the Leaves
A Snow-Song
Roslin and Hawthornden

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

LATER POEMS

When Tulips Bloom
The Whip-Poor-Will
The Lily of Yorrow
The Veery
The Song-Sparrow
The Maryland Yellow-Throat
A November Daisy
The Angler's Reveille
The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet
School
Indian Summer
Spring in the North
Spring in the South
A Noon Song
Light Between the Trees
The Hermit Thrush
Turn o' the Tide
Sierra Madre
The Grand Canyon
The Heavenly Hills of Holland
Flood-Tide of Flowers
God of the Open Air

NARRATIVE POEMS

The Toiling of Felix
Vera
Another Chance
A Legend of Service
The White Bees
New Year's Eve
The Vain King
The Foolish Fir-Tree
"Gran' Boule"
Heroes of the "Titanic"
The Standard-Bearer
The Proud Lady

LABOUR AND ROMANCE

A Mile with Me
The Three Best Things
Reliance
Doors of Daring
The Child in the Garden
Love's Reason
The Echo in the Heart
"Undine"
"Rencontre"
Love in a Look
My April Lady
A Lover's Envy
Fire-Fly City
The Gentle Traveller
Nepenthe
Day and Night
Hesper
Arrival
Departure
The Black Birds
Without Disguise
An Hour
"Rappelle-Toi"
Love's Nearness
Two Songs of Heine
Eight Echoes from the Poems of Auguste Angellier
Rappel d'Amour
The River of Dreams

HEARTH AND ALTAR

A Home Song
"Little Boatie"
A Mother's Birthday
Transformation
Rendezvous
Gratitude
Peace
Santa Christina
The Bargain
To the Child Jesus
Bitter-Sweet
Hymn of Joy
Song of a Pilgrim-Soul
Ode to Peace
Three Prayers for Sleep and Waking
Portrait and Reality
The Wind of Sorrow
Hide and Seek
Autumn in the Garden
The Message
Dulcis Memoria
The Window
Christmas Tears
Dorothea, 1888-1912

EPIGRAMS, GREETINGS, AND INSCRIPTIONS

For Katrina's Sun-Dial
For Katrina's Window
For the Friends at Hurstmont
The Sun-Dial at Morven
The Sun-Dial at Wells College
To Mark Twain
Stars and the Soul
To Julia Marlowe
To Joseph Jefferson
The Mocking-Bird
The Empty Quatrain
Pan Learns Music
The Shepherd of Nymphs
Echoes from the Greek Anthology
One World
Joy and Duty
The Prison and the Angel
The Way
Love and Light
_Facta non Verba_
Four Things
The Great River
Inscription for a Tomb in England
The Talisman
Thorn and Rose
"The Signs"

PRO PATRIA

Patria
America
The Ancestral Dwellings
Hudson's Last Voyage
Sea-Gulls of Manhattan
A Ballad of Claremont Hill
Urbs Coronata
Mercy for Armenia
Sicily, December, 1908
"Come Back Again, Jeanne d'Arc"
National Monuments
The Monument of Francis Makemie
The Statue of Sherman by St. Gaudens
"America for Me"
The Builders
Spirit of the Everlasting Boy
Texas
Who Follow the Flag
Stain not the Sky
Peace-Hymn of the Republic

THE RED FLOWER AND GOLDEN STARS

The Red Flower
A Scrap of Paper
Stand Fast
Lights Out
Remarks About Kings
Might and Right
The Price of Peace
Storm-Music
The Bells of Malines
Jeanne d'Arc Returns
The Name of France
America's Prosperity
The Glory of Ships
Mare Liberum
"Liberty Enlightening the World"
The Oxford Thrushes
Homeward Bound
The Winds of War-News
Righteous Wrath
The Peaceful Warrior
From Glory Unto Glory
Britain, France, America
The Red Cross
Easter Road
America's Welcome Home
The Surrender of the German Fleet
Golden Stars
In the Blue Heaven
A Shrine in the Pantheon

IN PRAISE OF POETS

Mother Earth
Milton
Wordsworth
Keats
Shelley
Robert Browning
Tennyson
"In Memoriam"
Victor Hugo
Longfellow
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Edmund Clarence Stedman
To James Whitcomb Riley
Richard Watson Gilder
The Valley of Vain Verses

MUSIC

Music
Master of Music
The Pipes o' Pan
To a Young Girl Singing
The Old Flute
The First Bird o' Spring

THE HOUSE OF RIMMON

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

The House of Rimmon
Dramatis Personae

APPENDIX

CARMINA FESTIVA

The Little-Neck Clam
A Fairy Tale
The Ballad of the Solemn Ass
A Ballad of Santa Claus
Ars Agricolaris
Angler's Fireside Song
How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim
A Bunch of Trout-Flies

Index of First Lines

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

EARLY VERSES

THE AFTER-ECHO

How long the echoes love to play
Around the shore of silence, as a wave
Retreating circles down the sand!
One after one, with sweet delay,
The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave,
Have lingered in the crescent bay,
Until, by lightest breezes fanned,
They float far off beyond the dying day
And leave it still as death.
But hark,--
Another singing breath
Comes from the edge of dark;
A note as clear and slow
As falls from some enchanted bell,
Or spirit, passing from the world below,
That whispers back, Farewell.

So in the heart,
When, fading slowly down the past,
Fond memories depart,
And each that leaves it seems the last;
Long after all the rest are flown,
Returns a solitary tone,--
The after-echo of departed years,--
And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

DULCIORA

A tear that trembles for a little while
Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world
Wavers within its circle like a dream,
Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb
Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved,
Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light,
And grows in silence to an amber dawn
Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes,
Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

A joy that falls into the hollow heart
From some far-lifted height of love unseen,
Unknown, makes a more perfect melody
Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk,
Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky
And the fair ministries of Nature dear,
But as they set themselves unto the tune
That fills our life; as light mysterious
Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched
With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet
Than crowns the royal lily of the South;
And so a well-remembered perfume seems
The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I

THE GLACIER

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
The silver-crested waves no murmur make;
But far away the avalanches wake
The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream;
Their momentary thunders, dying, seem
To fall into the stillness, flake by flake,
And leave the hollow air with naught to break
The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring
Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls
Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring
With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls;
As if a poet's heart had felt the glow
Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

II

THE SNOW-FIELD

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain,
And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead;
The vault of heaven was glaring overhead
With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain;
And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain
For sign or trace of life, my spirit said,
"Shall any living thing that dares to tread
This royal lair of Death escape again?"

But even then I saw before my feet
A line of pointed footprints in the snow:
Some roving chamois, but an hour ago,
Had passed this way along his journey fleet,
And left a message from a friend unknown
To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

Zermatt, 1872.

III

MOVING BELLS

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair
And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells,
To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells
Go chiming after her across the fair
And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells
Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems
To walk before the dark by falling rills,
And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
She opens all the doors of night, and fills
With moving bells the music of my dreams,
That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Gstaad, August, 1909.

MATINS

Flowers rejoice when night is done,
Lift their heads to greet the sun;
Sweetest looks and odours raise,
In a silent hymn of praise.

So my heart would turn away
From the darkness to the day;
Lying open in God's sight
Like a flower in the light.

THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST

Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Who, peering through the window-pane
At nightfall, under sleet and rain
Saw the old graybeard totter by?
Who listened to his parting sigh,
The sobbing of his feeble breath,
His whispered colloquy with Death,
And when his all of life was done
Stood near to bid a last good-bye?
Of all his former friends not one
Saw the forsaken Winter die.

Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?
Who heard her footfall, swift and light
As fairy-dancing in the night?
Who guessed what happy dawn would bring
The flutter of her bluebird's wing,
The blossom of her mayflower-face
To brighten every shady place?
One morning, down the village street,
"Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,--
And none had been awake to greet
The coming of the maiden Spring.

But look, her violet eyes are wet
With bright, unfallen, dewy tears;
And in her song my fancy hears
A note of sorrow trembling yet.
Perhaps, beyond the town, she met
Old Winter as he limped away
To die forlorn, and let him lay
His weary head upon her knee,
And kissed his forehead with regret
For one so gray and lonely,--see,
Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

And so, by night, while we were all at rest,
I think the coming sped the parting guest.

1873.

IF ALL THE SKIES

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence.
To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.

WINGS OF A DOVE

I

At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Far down the pathway of the west,
I saw a lonely dove in silence flying,
To be at rest.

Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow
Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest,
I'd fly away from every careful sorrow,
And find my rest.

II

But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling,
Home flew the dove to seek his nest,
Deep in the forest where his mate was calling
To love and rest.

Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander;
Lose not thy life in barren quest.
There are no happy islands over yonder;
Come home and rest.

1874.

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES

I

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
The regiments of autumn stood:
I saw their gold and scarlet glowing
From every hillside, every wood.

Above the sea the clouds were keeping
Their secret leaguer, gray and still;
They sent their misty vanguard creeping
With muffled step from hill to hill.

All day the sullen armies drifted
Athwart the sky with slanting rain;
At sunset for a space they lifted,
With dusk they settled down again.

II

At dark the winds began to blow
With mutterings distant, low;
From sea and sky they called their strength
Till with an angry, broken roar,
Like billows on an unseen shore,
Their fury burst at length.

I heard through the night
The rush and the clamour;
The pulse of the fight
Like blows of Thor's hammer;
The pattering flight
Of the leaves, and the anguished
Moan of the forest vanquished.

At daybreak came a gusty song:
"Shout! the winds are strong.
The little people of the leaves are fled.
Shout! The Autumn is dead!"

III

The storm is ended! The impartial sun
Laughs down upon the battle lost and won,
And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host
In rolling lines retreating to the coast.

But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade,
And grateful friends of every fallen leaf,
Forget the glories of the cloud-parade,
And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat
On fields of triumph dirges of defeat;
And still we turn on gala-days to tread
Among the rustling memories of the dead.

1874.

A SNOW-SONG

Does the snow fall at sea?
Yes, when the north winds blow,
When the wild clouds fly low,
Out of each gloomy wing,
Silently glimmering,
Over the stormy sea
Falleth the snow.

Does the snow hide the sea?
Nay, on the tossing plains
Never a flake remains;
Drift never resteth there;
Vanishing everywhere,
Into the hungry sea
Falleth the snow.

What means the snow at sea?
Whirled in the veering blast,
Thickly the flakes drive past;
Each like a childish ghost
Wavers, and then is lost;
In the forgetful sea
Fadeth the snow.

1875.

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine!
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden.

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between,
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music night and day.

Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the covenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,
From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

Edinburgh, 1877.

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

LATER POEMS

WHEN TULIPS BLOOM

I

When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes to sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;

Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

II

I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.

The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show's begun.

The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

III

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.
How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music's balm!

IV

'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line.

Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
'Tis all I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.

1894.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

Do you remember, father,--
It seems so long ago,--
The day we fished together
Along the Pocono?
At dusk I waited for you,
Beside the lumber-mill,
And there I heard a hidden bird
That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

The place was all deserted;
The mill-wheel hung at rest;
The lonely star of evening
Was throbbing in the west;
The veil of night was falling;
The winds were folded still;
And everywhere the trembling air
Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

You seemed so long in coming,
I felt so much alone;
The wide, dark world was round me,
And life was all unknown;
The hand of sorrow touched me,
And made my senses thrill
With all the pain that haunts the strain
Of mournful whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

What knew I then of trouble?
An idle little lad,
I had not learned the lessons
That make men wise and sad.
I dreamed of grief and parting,
And something seemed to fill
My heart with tears, while in my ears
Resounded "whip-poor-will."
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

'Twas but a cloud of sadness,
That lightly passed away;
But I have learned the meaning
Of sorrow, since that day.
For nevermore at twilight,
Beside the silent mill,
I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,
And hear the whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

But if you still remember
In that fair land of light,
The pains and fears that touch us
Along this edge of night,
I think all earthly grieving,
And all our mortal ill,
To you must seem like a sad boy's dream.
Who hears the whip-poor-will.
"_Whippoorwill!_ _whippoorwill!_"
A passing thrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

1894.

THE LILY OF YORROW

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;
Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing;
Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is
blowing.

Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower;
Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower;
Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.

Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume
enchanted
Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted,
Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.

Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning
Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening?
Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden,
Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden,
Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long endeavour;
Surely to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never
Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.

'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me:
Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,--
Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow?
Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow:
He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.

1894.

THE VEERY

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
I longed to hear a simpler strain,--the wood-notes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet,--the vespers of the veery.

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.

1895.

THE SONG-SPARROW

There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle-joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear.
What bird it is that, every year,
Sings "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;
But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every day
Repeats his small, contented lay;
As if to say, we need not fear
The season's change, if love is here
With "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat
Of many colours, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,
So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,
I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear,
Because he'd bless me, every year,
With "_Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer._"

1895.

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery._"

An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There's magic in that small bird's note--
See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat;
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines and sings
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery._"

You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,
You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary's lovely garden grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this way,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells
That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run--
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

Along the shady road I look--
Who's coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white--
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19