Songs out of Doors

Excerpt

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OF BIRDS AND FLOWERS

The VeeryThe Song-SparrowThe Maryland Yellow-ThroatThe Whip-Poor-WillWings of a DoveThe Hermit ThrushSea-Gulls of ManhattanThe Ruby-Crowned KingletThe Angler's ReveilleA November DaisyThe Lily of Yorrow

II OF SKIES AND SEASONS

If All the SkiesThe After-EchoDulcioraMatinsThe Parting and the Coming GuestWhen Tulips BloomSpring in the NorthSpring in the SouthHow Spring Comes to Shasta JimThe First Bird o' SpringA Bunch of Trout-FliesA Noon-SongTurn o' the TideSierra MadreSchoolIndian SummerLight between the TreesThe Fall of the LeavesThree Alpine SonnetsA Snow-SongRoslin and HawthorndenThe Heavenly Hills of HollandFlood-Tide of FlowersSalute to the Trees

III OF THE UNFAILING LIGHT

The Grand CanyonGod of the Open Air

IV WAYFARING PSALMS IN PALESTINE

The Distant RoadThe Welcome TentThe Great CitiesThe Friendly TreesThe Pathway of RiversThe Glory of RuinsThe Tribe of the HelpersThe Good TeacherThe 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.

THE SONG-SPARROW

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 fearThe season's change, if love is hereWith "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 appearA vain and foolish thing, to hearHis "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 treesThat 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 nearIn "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....