THE CUP

We plough the field,
And harrow the clod,
And hurl the seed.
Trust for trust:
The germ yields,
The wheat brairds,
We gather the sheaf,
Deed for deed:
The stubble moulds,
The chaff is cast,
Dust for dust:
The man is worn,
His days are bound,
But his labor returns,
The child learns
Round for round:
The god is astir,
Firm and free,
Weaving his plan,
Swelling the tree,
Bracing the man:
All is for good,
Sweet or acerb,
Laughter or pain,
Freedom or curb:
Follow your bent,
Cry life is joy,
Cry life is woe,
The god is content,
Impartial in power,
Tranquil—and lo!
Like the kernels in quern,
Each in turn,
Comes to his hour,
Nor fast nor slow:
It is well: even so.

When the ash-tree buds and the maples,
And the osier wands are red,
And the fairy sunlight dapples
Dales where the leaves are spread,
The pools are full of spring water,
Winter is dead.

When the bloodroot blows in the tangle,
And the lithe brooks run,
And the violets gleam and spangle
The glades in the golden sun,
The showers are bright as the sunlight,
April has won.

When the color is free in the grasses,
And the martins whip the mere,
And the Maryland-yellow-throat passes,
With his whistle quick and clear,
The willow is full of catkins;
May is here.

Then cut a reed by the river,
Make a song beneath the lime,
And blow with your lips a-quiver,
While your sweetheart carols the rhyme;
The glamour of love, the lyric of life,
The springtime—the springtime.

TO B. W. B.

The world is spinning for change,
And life has rapid wings;
Oh, one needs a steady heart
Not to falter while he sings.

But this is made for my Dear One
When we are far apart;
That she may have wherever she goes
A song of mine in her heart.

A song that will move with a memory
Of something she loves best;
A song that will throb at her waking,
A song that will lull her to rest.

A song that will serve for an anchor,
Compass, and pilot, and chart;
A song that will bid her remember
That love is the crown of art.

A song that will bid her remember
The north nights cool and still,
With the thrushes fluting deep, deep,
Deep on the pine-wood hill,

With a star at her open window,
When the cuckoo wakes with a start:
Oh! can she ever forget me
With a song of mine in her heart?

The wind is wild to-night,
In the dark he turns and stirs,
Or he falls into dream and quiet,
In the gloomy heart of the firs.

He springs upon the trees,
And he shakes the sleeping nest;
And every little water-pool
Has a troubled breast.

He has come from a weary land,
Where the rivers of memory spring;
Their waters are bitter, are bitter,
And have dampened his wing.

The very flowers are musing
On something they longed to be,
In a land of peace and promise,
In a province of the sea.

The birds cry out and are silent,
They are dreaming once again
Of the tawny-throated hollow,
And the fern in the glen.

And the wind raves out like a spirit,
With his hands hid in his hair,
And my heart is leaping, and leaping,
To follow him—where?

In the ruddy heart of the sunset,
Fading and fading still,
A planet throbs and smoulders,
Over the sapphire hill.

A mist steals up from the marshes,
Spreading tender and bright;
A heron floats from his haunt in the reeds,
Through the ruby light.

The elm-trees towered with shadow
Seem dripping and cool with dew;
There’s a sigh in the cedar covert,
But never a breeze comes through.

A thrush keeps ringing and ringing—
Ringing—now he is still,
There’s a starry light in a window
On the dark, dark hill.

The home that’s far away
Comes stealing back to me,
With the calling of the thrushes
In the bonny birch-tree.

My eyes are full of tears
For to-day and yesterday,
For the yearning and the yearning,
And the heart that’s far away.

Sorrow is come like a swallow to nest,
Winging him up from the wind and the foam;
Mine is the heart that he loves the best,
He dreams of it when he dreams of home.

Strange! in the daylight off he flies,
Swift to the south away to the sea;
But when in the west the ruby dies,
With the growing stars he comes back to me.

With the salt, cool wind in his wing,
And the rush of tears that tingle and start,
With a throb at the throat so he cannot sing,
He nestles him into my lonely heart.

And he tells me of something I cannot name,
Something the sea with the sea-wind sings,
That somehow he and love are the same,
That they float and fly with the same swift wings.

I cherish and cherish my timid guest,
For oh, he has grown so dear to me
That my heart would break if he left his nest,
And dwelt in the strange land down by the sea.

’Tis autumn and down in the fields
The buckwheat is browning still:
Gather yourself in your cloak,
The winter is over the hill.

There’s a cloud of black in the north,
The aurora is smouldering behind,
There are stars in the parting clouds,
And a touch of frost in the wind.

Down in the icy dew
The crickets are cheering shrill:
“There is time for another song,
Though winter is over the hill.”

Out of the great black cloud
The aurora leaps and flies,
Pushing its phosphor spikes
In the deeps of the violet skies.

The moon is wrapped in a film,
She looks wan and chill:
Gather yourself in your cloak,
The winter is over the hill.

Sing me a song of the early spring,
Of the yellow light where the clear air cools,
Of the lithe willows bourgeoning
In the amber pools.

Sing me a song of the spangled dells,
Where hepaticas tremble in starry groups,
Of the adder-tongue swinging its golden bells
As the light wind swoops.

Sing me a song of the shallow lakes,
Of the hollow fall of the nimble rill,
Of the trolling rapture the robin wakes
On the windy hill.

Sing me a song of the gleaming swift,
Of the vivid Maryland-yellow-throat,
Of the vesper sparrow’s silver drift
From the rise remote.

Sing me a song of the crystal cage,
Where the tender plants in the frames are set,
Where kneels my love Armitage,
Planting the pleasant mignonette.

Sing me a song of the glow afar,
Of the misty air and the crocus light,
Of the new moon following a silver star
Through the early night.

Sing me a song of the summer time,
Of the sorrel red and the ruby clover,
Where the garrulous bobolinks lilt and chime
Over and over.

Sing me a song of the strawberry-bent,
Of the black-cap hiding the heap of stones,
Of the milkweed drowsy with sultry scent,
Where the bee drones.

Sing me a song of the spring head still,
Of the dewy fern in the solitude,
Of the hermit-thrush and the whippoorwill,
Haunting the wood.

Sing me a song of the gleaming scythe,
Of the scented hay and the buried wain,
Of the mowers whistling bright and blithe,
In the sunny rain.

Sing me a song of the quince and the gage,
Of the apricot by the orchard wall,
Where bends my love Armitage,
Gathering the fruit of the windfall.

Sing me a song of the rustling, slow
Sway of the wheat as the winds croon,
Of the golden disc and the dreaming glow
Of the harvest moon.

Sing me a song of the autumn clear,
With the mellow days and the ruddy eves;
Sing me a song of the ending year,
With the piled-up sheaves.

Sing me a song of the apple bowers,
Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,
Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,
And the rich hop-fields.

Sing me a song of the fallen mast,
Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,
Of the purple beets left last
In the garden beds.

Sing me a song of the toiling bees,
Of the long flight and the honey won,
Of the white hives under the apple-trees,
In the hazy sun.

Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,
Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray,
Where goes my love Armitage
Pulling the summer savory.

Sing me a song of the red deep,
The long glow the sun leaves,
Of the swallows taking a last sleep
In the barn eaves.