Part 13 (1/2)

TO A FRIEND

Here in the fairway Fetching--foul of keel, Long-stray but fortunate-- Out of the fogs, the vast Atlantic solitudes.

Shall, by the hawser-pin Waiting the signal _Leave--go--anchor!_ Scent the familiar, The unforgettable Fragrance of home; So in a long breath Bless us unknowing: Bless them, the violets, Bless me, the gardener, Bless thee, the giver.

OF THREE CHILDREN

OF THREE CHILDREN CHOOSING A CHAPLET OF VERSE

You and I and Burd so blithe-- Burd so blithe, and you, and I-- The Mower he would whet his scythe Before the dew was dry.

And he woke soon, but we woke soon And drew the nursery blind, All wondering at the waning moon With the small June roses twined: Low in her cradle swung the moon With an elfin dawn behind.

In whispers, while our elders slept, We knelt and said our prayers, And dress'd us and on tiptoe crept Adown the creaking stairs.

The world's possessors lay abed, And all the world was ours-- ”Nay, nay, but hark! the Mower's tread!

And we must save the flowers!”

The Mower knew not rest nor haste-- That old unweary man: But we were young. We paused and raced And gather'd while we ran.

O youth is careless, youth is fleet, With heart and wing of bird!

The lark flew up beneath our feet, To his copse the pheasant whirr'd;

The cattle from their darkling lairs Heaved up and stretch'd themselves; Almost they trod at unawares Upon the busy elves

That dropp'd their spools of gossamer, To dangle and to dry, And scurried home to the hollow fir Where the white owl winks an eye.

Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe Had driven them in this haste; But the old, old man, so lean and lithe, That afar behind us paced; So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe, And a whetstone at his waist.

Within the gate, in a gra.s.sy round Whence they had earliest flown, He upside-down'd his scythe, and ground Its edge with careful hone.

But we heeded not, if we heard, the sound, For the world was ours alone; The world was ours!--and with a bound The conquering Sun upshone!

And while as from his level ray We stood our eyes to screen.

The world was not as yesterday Our homelier world had been-- So grey and golden-green it lay All in his quiet sheen, That wove the gold into the grey, The grey into the green.

Sure never hand of Puck, nor wand Of Mab the fairies' queen, Nor prince nor peer of fairyland Had power to weave that wide riband Of the grey, the gold, the green.

But the G.o.ds of Greece had been before And walked our meads along, The great authentic G.o.ds of yore That haunt the earth from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e Trailing their robes of song.

And where a sandall'd foot had brush'd, And where a scarfed hem, The flowers awoke from sleep and rush'd Like children after them.

Pell-mell they poured by vale and stream, By lawn and steepy brae-- ”O children, children! while you dream, Your flowers run all away!”

But afar and abed and sleepily The children heard us call; And Burd so blithe and you and I Must be gatherers for all.