THE LONGING[16]
[From The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems (Chicago, 1908)]
I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by
With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why—
I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring—
But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!
I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar
Over and over again one day as the day before—
And what does it all avail and the end of it—where?
But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!
Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast,
That e'en as we grasp it dulls—dust of the dust at last.
For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead?
But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!
Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon!
And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon?
And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place?
But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!
DEAREST
[From the same]
Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree,
And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody—
And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold,
And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold.
Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon,
The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon—
And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown
Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown.