Songs out of Doors

Excerpt

OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS

The Veery
The Song-Sparrow
The Maryland Yellow-Throat
The Whip-Poor-Will
Wings of a Dove
The Hermit Thrush
Sea-Gulls of Manhattan
The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet
The Angler's Reveille
A November Daisy
The Lily of Yorrow

II

OF SKIES AND SEASONS

If All the Skies
The After-Echo
Dulciora
Matins
The Parting and the Coming Guest
When Tulips Bloom
Spring in the North
Spring in the South
How Spring Comes to Shasta Jim
The First Bird o' Spring
A Bunch of Trout-Flies
A Noon-Song
Turn o' the Tide
Sierra Madre
School
Indian Summer
Light between the Trees
The Fall of the Leaves
Three Alpine Sonnets
A Snow-Song
Roslin and Hawthornden
The Heavenly Hills of Holland
Flood-Tide of Flowers
Salute to the Trees

III

OF THE UNFAILING LIGHT

The Grand Canyon
God of the Open Air

IV

WAYFARING PSALMS IN PALESTINE

The Distant Road
The Welcome Tent
The Great Cities
The Friendly Trees
The Pathway of Rivers
The Glory of Ruins
The Tribe of the Helpers
The Good Teacher
The Camp-Fires of My Friend

I

OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS

THE VEERY

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the woodnotes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery.

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.

1895.

There is a bird I know so well,
  It seems as if he must have sung
  Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
  The name of even the smallest bird,
  His gentle-joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is that, every year,
Sings "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

He comes in March, when winds are strong,
  And snow returns to hide the earth;
  But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
  While flowers fade; and every day
  Repeats his small, contented lay;
As if to say, we need not fear
The season's change, if love is here
With "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat
  Of many colours, smart and gay;
  His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
  And yet of all the well-dressed throng
  Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

A lofty place he does not love,
  But sits by choice, and well at ease,
  In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
  The meadow-brook; and there he sings
  Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

I like the tune, I like the words;
  They seem so true, so free from art,
  So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
  Could be my comrade everywhere,
  My little brother of the air,
I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear,
Because he'd bless me, every year,
With "Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer."

1895....