The House of the Trees & Other Poems 8
In the Heart of the Woods
I lost my heart in the heart of the woods;
It stayed there through the day,
It stayed there through the solitudes
Of a night with no moon ray.
Through the day so dusty, worn and sere
My heart was cool and free,
Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear,
My heart slept peacefully.
I found my heart in the heart of the woods,
I looked on it and smiled;
And over it still the woodland broods,
As a mother over her child.
Frost
When the sun is growing weaker,
And his look is meek and meeker,
Comes the frost--the pale betrayer--
Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.
In the night abroad he stealeth,
For each trembling leaf he feeleth;
Something softened by its pleading,
Kills it not but leaves it bleeding.
The Chipmunk
To-day the green hill was at strife
With me; it robbed my feet of life.
The wind that loudly speaks his mind,
Said in my presence nothing kind.
The sky’s clear face was from me turned,
Behind a cloud his great fire burned.
An exile in his native cot,
Who finds his very name forgot,
Was I this afternoon, until
At the wood’s edge behind the hill,
A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb,
And took my heart away with him.
Give Me the Poorest Weed
Give me the poorest weed
To satisfy my spirit’s need.
The brownest blade of grass
Will know and greet me when I pass.
Of their own feeling wrought,
They live like simple, vital thought;
The mind could not invent
A better thing than Nature meant.
The Weeks that Walk in Green
The weeks that walk in green
Came to my willow lane,
And wrapt me in their leafy screen
Against the sun and rain.
Then far and far we went
By stream and wood and steep,
Until, all love-worn and joy-spent,
I yielded me to sleep.
And they--they died unseen;
Their ghosts are haunting me--
The gentle ghosts that walk in green
Through vales of memory.
Noonday of the Year
The streams that chattered in the cold
Are sleeping in the sun;
The winds of March were overbold
Until their race was run.
O mad with haste the morning went,
But now love-warm and deep,
The fields, their first ambition spent,
Lie in their noonday sleep.
The Wind World
Alone within the wind I lie,
And reck not how the seasons go;
The winter struggling through its snow,
The light-winged summer flitting by.
I am not of the cloud nor mold,
I move between the stars and flowers,
I know the tingling touch of hours
When all the storms of night unfold.
Within the wind world drifting free
I hear naught of earth’s murmurings,
Naught but the sound of songs and wings
Among the tree-tops comes to me.
At night earth stars flash out below,
And heaven stars shine out above;
I look down on the lights of love,
And feel the higher love-lights glow.
At the Window
How thick about the window of my life
Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets:
Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife,
Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets.
If ’mid this swarm of smallnesses remain
A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye
I note before my freckled window-pane
The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky.
Come Back Again
Child-thoughts, child-thoughts, come back again!
Faint, fitful, as you used to be;
The dusty chambers of my brain
Have need of your fair company,
As when my child-head reached the height
Of the wild rose-bush at the door,
And all of heaven and its delight
Bloomed in the flow’rs the old bush bore.
Come back, sweet long-departed year,
When, sitting in a hollow oak,
I heard the sheep bells far and clear,
I heard a voice that silent spoke,
And felt in both a vague appeal,
And both were mingled in my dreams
With leaves that viewless breezes feel,
And skies clear mirrored in the streams.
Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again!
Bring back the tall grass at my cheek,
The grief more swift than summer rain,
The joy that knew no words to speak.
The buttercup’s uplifted gold
That strives to reach my hands in vain,
The love that never could grow cold--
Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again!
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