Part 6 (1/2)

A Caged Mocking-Bird

I pa.s.s a cobbler's shop along the street And pause a moment at the door-step, where, In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet, The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near, Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year, And twitter where the autumn hedges run, Join all the months of music into one.

I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there, And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell; Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhere A bluebird's tweedle pa.s.ses o'er the fell; From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell; And when the oriole sets his full heart free Barefooted boyhood comes again to me.

The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail Before a dusty window, looking dim On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale; The sad-eyed pa.s.sers have no time for him.

His captor sits, with beaded face and grim, Plying a listless awl, as in a dream Of pastures winding by a shady stream.

Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?

For now, when every songster finds his love And makes his nest where woods are deep and green, Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.

If I were thou, my grief in moans should move At thinking--otherwhere, by others' art Charmed and forgetful--of mine own sweetheart.

But I, who weep when fortune seems unkind To prison me within a s.p.a.ce of walls, When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrined And every love is cruel when it calls; Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged waterfalls,-- I blush to offer sorrow unto thee, Master of fate, scorner of destiny!

Dawn

The hills again reach skyward with a smile.

Again, with waking life along its way, The landscape marches westward mile on mile And time throbs white into another day.

Though eager life must wait on livelihood, And all our hopes be tethered to the mart, Lacking the eagle's wild, high freedom, would That ours might be this day the eagle's heart!

Harvest

Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold; Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold; A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere; The twitter of killdees keen in the air; The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam On the last load home.

There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.

The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh, And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam On the last load home.

Two Pictures

One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, A halo, like an angel's, on her hair.

She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm.

A holy presence hovers round her there, And she, for all her mother-pains more fair, Is happy, seeing that all sweet thoughts that stir The hearts of men bear wors.h.i.+p unto her.

Another wanders where the cold wind blows, Wet-haired, with eyes that sting one like a knife.