Lyrics of joy / by Frank Dempster Sherman [electronic text]

NATURE

THE YEAR'S DAY

AFTER the winter's night From the world is withdrawn, Out of the darkness gleams the light, — Spring — and the Year's fresh dawn.

Blossom and leaf and bud, And the birds all in tune; Then in a fragrant, golden flood, — Summer — the Year's glad noon.

Crimson the roses blow, And the grove's breath is musk: Then to the Year the sunset glow, — Autumn — and hints of dusk.

Glimmer the stars of frost, And the wind at the door Mournfully sings of something lost: — Winter — and night once more.

ARBUTUS

ALONG the woods' brown edge The wind goes wandering To find the first pink pledge — The hint of Spring.

The withered leaves around, She scatters every one, And gives to wintry ground A glimpse of sun.

And to the woodland dumb And desolate so long She calls the birds to come With happy song.

Then the arbutus! This The pledge, the hint she sought, — The blush, the breath, the kiss, — Spring's very thought!

VIOLET

IN this white world of wonder All wrapt in silence deep, Shut in her palace under The snow she lies asleep; And she shall only waken When lyrics sweet and clear Out of the trees are shaken, And April's here.

Glimpses of grass and gleams of The golden sunlight bring Visions of joy and dreams of The miracle of Spring: She sees the shining faces Of buds and leaves appear, Lighting the shadowed spaces With April's here!

Then, O the nameless rapture Of that warm touch at last, When April comes to capture And hold her fragrance fast! The dream of winter broken, Behold her, blue and dear, Shy Violet, sure token That April's here!

APRIL

AFTER the silence long On valley and hill, Listen, — again the song Of the silver rill!

Vanishes from the plains The prison of snow; Broken the crystal chains, And the captives go;

Over the Winter's tomb The bird in its mirth Carols of bud and bloom To the barren earth;

Tremble the vines and trees With ecstasy then, Hearing the lisping breeze Hint of Spring again.

Mystery fills the air, And melody sweet Follows the pathways where Glimmer Spring's white feet.

Over the meadow's floor She hastens, and — see! April is at the door With her golden key!

BACCHUS

LISTEN to the tawny thief Hid behind the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast Fill his cup with wine distilled From the dew the dawn has spilled: Stored away in golden casks Is the precious draught he asks.

Who, — who makes this mimic din In this mimic meadow inn, Sings in such a drowsy note, Wears a golden-belted coat, Loiters in the dainty room Of this tavern of perfume, Dares to linger at the cup Till the yellow sun is up?

It is Bacchus come again To the busy haunts of men; Garlanded and gayly dressed, Bands of gold about his breast; Straying from his paradise Having pinions, angel-wise, — 'T is the honey-bee, who goes Reveling within a rose!

MAY MORNING

WHAT magic flutes are these that make Sweet melody at dawn, And stir the dewy leaves to shake Their silver on the lawn?

What miracle of music wrought In shadowed groves is this? All ecstasy of sound upcaught, — Song's apotheosis!

The dreaming lilies lift their heads To listen and grow wise; The fragrant roses from their beds In sudden beauty rise:

Enraptured, on the eastern hill, A moment, halts the sun; Day breaks; and all again is still: The thrushes' song is done!

HONEYSUCKLES

WITHIN a belfry built of bloom, Above the garden wall they swing; A chime of bells for winds to ring, Of mingled music and perfume.

What scented syllables of song Throughout the day their tongues repeat! They tempt with promise, honey-sweet, The listener to linger long.

A bit of sunset cloud astray, The dappled butterfly floats near, Lured by the fragrant music clear, Trembles with joy, then fades away.

And thither oft, from time to time, The humming-bird and golden bee, List, and go mad with melody, — The honey-music of the chime.

And thither when the silver gleam Of moon and stars is over all, One white moth hovers near the wall, — A ghost to haunt the garden's dream!

WINTER DREAMS

DEEP lies the snow on wood and field; Gray stretches overhead the sky; The streams, their lips of laughter sealed, In silence wander slowly by.

Earth slumbers, and her dreams, — who knows But they may sometimes be like ours? Lyrics of spring in winter's prose That sing of buds and leaves and flowers;

Dreams of that day when from the south Comes April, as at first she came, To hold the bare twig to her mouth And blow it into fragrant flame.

WHITE MAGIC

WHEN Winter hushes for a time The music of the sylvan brook, And shuts its witchery of rhyme In her white book, The world is not yet dumb; For in the snow-hung vines and trees With their cold blossoms, icy clear, Invisible the winds like bees Swarm, and I hear Their weird and wizard hum.

Such is the magic wand she wields That she can shape my fancy so My dreams are all of fragrant fields The wild bees know In summer's golden noon; And through the dull December hours Mine is the month for which I long, — The barren branch grows bright with flowers Where the bees throng, — White magic, — winter June!

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

WORN is the winter rug of white, And in the snow-bare spots once more Glimpses of faint green grass in sight, — Spring's footprints on the floor.

Upon the sombre forest gates A crimson flush the mornings catch, The token of the Spring who waits With finger on the latch.

Blow, bugles of the south, and win The warders from their dreams too long, And bid them let the new guest in With her glad hosts of song.

She shall make bright the dismal ways With broideries of bud and bloom, With music fill the nights and days And end the garden's gloom.

Her face is lovely with the sun; Her voice — ah, listen to it now! The silence of the year is done: The bird is on the bough!

Spring here, — by what magician's touch? 'T was winter scarce an hour ago. And yet I should have guessed as much, — Those footprints in the snow!

NANTUCKET

DEAR old Nantucket's isle of sand, An ancient exile from the Land, — Free from the devastating hand Of pomp and pillage, I find it year by year with all Its white-winged fleet of cat-boats small Guarding what Fancy loves to call The violet village.

The yellow cliffs, the houses white, The wind-mill with its wheel in sight, The church spire and the beacons bright, All bunched together; How picturesque they are! How fair! And, O how fragrant is the air, With pink wild-roses everywhere And purple heather!

Half foreign seems the little town,—The narrow streets, the tumble-down And rotting wharves whose past renown Is linked with whalers, — The roofs with Look-outs whence they saw In bygone days the big ships draw Homeward with oil, and watched with aweThe sea-worn sailors:

Half foreign, but the better half Is like the flag that from the staff Flings out its welcome, starry laugh, —Native completely; The shops, the schools, the zigzag lines Of shingled dwellings hung with vines, And gardens wrought in quaint designs And smelling sweetly.

Here one may wander forth and meet Skipper of eighty years whose feet Find youth yet in the paven street; And if one hunger For yarns of wrecks and water lore, Pass the tobacco round once more, And hear what happened long before, When he was younger.

Enchanting tales of wind and wave, Witty, pathetic, gay and grave, —One listens in the merman's cave Enraptured, breathless, While from the gray, bewhiskered lips Come stories of the sea and ships; The careful skipper never skips The legends deathless.

Then out again, and let us go Where fresh and cool the breezes blow Over the dunes of Pocomo, Where bird and berry Conspire to lure us on until, Over the gently sloping hill, We see Wauwinet, white and still And peaceful very.

Here is the ending of the quest; Here, on this Island of the Blest, Is found at last the Port of Rest, — Remote, romantic: A land-flower broken from the stem, And few indeed there be of them Fitted so perfectly to gem The blue Atlantic.

Dreamy, delicious, drowsy, dull, — A poppy-island beautiful; And there are poppies here to cull Until the plunder Provokes the soul to sleep and dream Amid the glamour and the gleam, And makes the world about us seem A world of wonder!

DAWN AND DUSK

SLENDER strips of crimson sky Near the dim horizon lie, Shot across with golden bars Reaching to the fading stars; Soft the balmy west wind blows Wide the portals of the rose; Smell of dewy pine and fir, Lisping leaves and vines astir; On the borders of the dark Gayly sings the meadow-lark, Bidding all the birds assemble, — Hark, the heavens seem to tremble! Suddenly the sunny gleams Break the poppy-fettered dreams, — Dreams of Pan, with two feet cloven, Piping to the nymph and faun Who with wreaths of ivy woven Nimbly dance to greet the dawn.

Shifting shadows indistinct; Leaves and branches, crossed and linked, Cling like children and embrace, Frightened at the moon's pale face: In the gloomy wood begins Noise of insect violins; Swarms of fireflies flash their lamps In their atmospheric camps, And the sad-voiced whippoorwill Echoes back from hill to hill, Liquid clear above the crickets Chirping in the thorny thickets. Weary eyelids, eyes that weep, Wait the magic touch of sleep; While the dew in silence falling Fills the air with scent of musk, And this lonely night-bird calling Drops a note down through the dusk.