Between the midnight and the dawn
We came out on the farther side;
—What if the wood was dark and wide?
Its shadows now here far withdrawn,
And O the white stars in the sky!
And O the glitter of the snow!—
Henceforth we know our feet should know
Fair ways to travel—she and I—
For One—Whose shadow is the Night—
Unwound them where the Great Bear swung
And wide across the darkness flung
The ribbons of the Northern Light.
XI. THE LODGER.
What! and do you find it good,
Sitting here alone with me?
Hark! the wind goes through the wood
And the snow drifts heavily,
When the morning brings the light
How know I you will not say,
"What a storm there fell last night,
Is the next inn far away?"
How know I you do not dream
Of some country where the grass
Grows up tall around the gleam
Of the milestones you must pass?
Even now perhaps you tell
(While your hands play through my hair)
Every hill, each hidden well,
All the pleasant valleys there,
That before a clear moon shines
You will be with them again!
—Hear the booming of the pines
And the sleet against the pane.
2.
Wake, and look upon the sun,
I awoke an hour ago,
When the night was hardly done
And still fell a little snow,
Since the hill-tops touched the light
Many things have my hands made,
Just that you should think them right
And be glad that you have stayed.
—How I worked the while you slept!
Scarcely did I dare to sing!
All my soul a silence kept—
Fearing your awakening.
Now, indeed, I do not care
If you wake; for now the sun
Makes the least of all things fair
That my poor two hands have done.
3.
No, it is not hard to find.
You will know it by the hills—
Seven—sloping up behind;
By the soft perfume that fills
(O, the red, red roses there!)
Full the narrow path thereto:
By the dark pine-forest where
Such a little wind breathes through;
By the way the bend o' the stream
Takes the peace that twilight brings:
By the sunset, and the gleam
Of uncounted swallows' wings.
—No, indeed, I have not been
There: but such dreams I have had!
And, when I grow old, the green
Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.
Yes, you must go now, I know.
You are sure you understand?
—How I wish that I could go
Now, and lead you by the hand.
XII. MARCH WIND.
High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,
There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow;
And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover
And the wavering shadows fade along the snow.
Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)
That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain;
And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn rivers
Come to make our Northland glad and free again.
O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!
Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?
All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you returning
But I waited all those hours that you were gone,
For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes that fell
Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew
(When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such weather!)
That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.
Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs
And remember many winters overpast:
All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,
Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.
Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift:
A rock, there, behind a covered spring;
And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,—
Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?
And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail!
By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,
Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the clearing,—
O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!
But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;
And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,
Beckoned us beyond the shadows—down the hill—across the meadows
Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.
And that night, too—remember?—outside our quiet house,
Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind:
Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created
And it hid the very things it came to find.
In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,
(Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!)
Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world was keeping
All the silence of the Houses of the dead?
Ah, but that was long ago! And tonight the wind foretells
(Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)
Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break tomorrow
And lead me to the bases of the hills:
To the low southern hills where of old we used to go—
(Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!)
O my love, to thy dark quiet—far beyond our North's mad riot—
Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?
A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
written by Francis Sherman and
privately printed in Havana is
issued at Christmastide M.C.M.