Part 18 (2/2)

Nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine, That lean upon the boulders, The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders, The golden rod, the aster and the rue.

Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek Skipping from stone to stone By a quick route, his hidden h.o.a.rd to seek, Making the little viaduct his own.

Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head Between the rocks close by the cabbage bed; The honey-bees have built a secret hive In a forgotten c.h.i.n.k; And there a grey coc.o.o.n is tucked away Shrouding a miracle in mauve and pink To wait its Easter day.

The wall with pageantry is all alive!

And I who gaze On the dark border here, Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, Embroidered with the glory of the year,-- Do I not like the wall?

Lo, I remember how in days of old My grandsire toiled with weariness and pain To dig the c.u.mbering boulders from the mould; Piled them in ordered rows again, Fitting them firm and fast, A monument to last Long after his own harried day was past.

He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain By which his children throve To carry on the race.

We live by his life-giving.

I see each stone, rough like his granite face,-- Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, Dowered with little grace, Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living, But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, And bolts that heaven let fall.

Built of a patriot's prime,-- I love the wall!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

BOULDERS

There is a look of wisdom in yon stones, Great boulders basking in the noonday heat, Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweet Fresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones.

While through the glade an insect army drones And birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat, These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete, Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones.

A thousand or ten thousand years ago, Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might, These boulders hurtled from some toppling height And crashed through forests to the plain below.

Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood, They lie on lowly earth and find it good.

CHARLES WHARTON STORK

AFTERNOON ON A HILL

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun; I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one;

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes; Watch the wind bow down the gra.s.s, And the gra.s.s rise;

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

THE GOLDEN-ROD

O Rod of gold!

O swaying sceptre of the year-- Now frost and cold Show Winter near, And s.h.i.+vering leaves grow brown and sere.

The bleak hillside, And marshy waste of yellow reeds, And meadows wide Where frosted weeds Shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds, Are decked with thee,-- The lingering Summer's latest grace, And sovereignty.

Each wind-swept s.p.a.ce Waves thy red gold in Winter's face-- He strives each star, In stormy pride to lay full low; But when thy bar Resists his blow, Will crown thee with a puff of snow!

MARGARET DELAND

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