A Little Window

Excerpt

Stars

(At Locheven)

Have you walked in the woods
When twilight wraps a veil of mist
Around the gray-green trees
In early spring?
It is then the snow-white trillium
Gleam like stars from the carpet
Of last year’s leaves:
And tall white violets glow
Like clouds of nebulæ along the path.
And flecked, like points of light
In the quiet pools of water
Among the gray-green boles,
Are the stars of heaven.

Curling and humming its cadences,
It slips past me under the rim of the gorge,
As I peer down through the scarlet sumacs.
Sparkling in the sunlight,
Shimmering in the moonlight,
On and on it goes,
A silvery sheet of song.

In Eden Valley

I saw
A spray of orange berries etched against the silver of a stone wall:
A scarlet vine encircling a golden sapling;
On the ground, a carmine robe that had slipped from the shoulders of a maple.
A sweep of meadow,
A curve of bronzy hill,
A glow of ruby and amethyst
And the evergreens making deep quiet spots in it.

Silent, I stood in the forest—
Lured by the liquid song
Of a thrush.
Clear, it was, then fading
And softly echoed,
As he slipped into the embrace
Of the night.
So pure, so holy, was his song
That my heart was calmed
And I was filled
With serenity.

A Moment

The beaten silver waters cut
By the prow of our ship,
Send off stars of phosphorous
To vie with the stars overhead.
Nothing but sky and the starlight,
And a stretch of limitless sea,
Nothing but peace and dominion,—
Silence, immensity.

Moonlight is not cold!
It is tender and benignant,
Softening all it touches,
Hiding the roughness,
Covering the coarseness,
With a glow of silver splendor
And a lucent flood
Of beauty.

Wings

There come to the flowers
In my garden
Butterflies, golden-spotted tawny,
Blue-spangled and sulphur;
Glistening dragon-flies, zooming bumble bees,
Droning honey-bees.
Softly whirring comes
The vivid humming-bird,
Sipping, sipping all day long.
At nightfall I hear the flutter of the
Luna’s wings, as
She caresses the velvet cheek
Of the lily.

(Locheven)

I love to tread a winding path
Through the woods,
And, world weary, pause upon it.
The trees bend and enclose me
In brooding calm;
I feel the presence of Deity.
I hear the cadence of the stillness—
A stillness so alive.
The whisper of the leaves,
The song of the brook over golden stone
The whir of a bird’s wings;
And I know the presence of Deity.

The Sign Reads—“To Troutbeck”

An upcurving lane, hedged high,
An ancient stile,
A rambling path,
A brook,
And musk,—
Golden bells of fragrance,
Fusing all the odors
Of English earth.

Robin, robin,
Shouting your song,
Your throat swelling
With joy!
Yes, I hear, I know
What you say.
For I, too,
Would sing
My praise and
Gratitude
To God!

In Early Evening

When I drive through
The villages and the countryside
In early evening,
And see people sitting in gardens
Or at their doors
In peace and contentment,
I long to stop and speak to them....