The dawn is here! I climb the hill;
The earth is young and strangely still;
A tender green is showing where
But yesterday my fields were bare....
I climb and, as I climb, I sing;
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
My oxen stamp the ground, and they
Seem glad, with me, that soon the day
Will bring new work for us to do!
The light above is clear and blue;
And one great cloud that swirls on high,
Seems sent from earth to kiss the sky.
The birds are coming back again,
They know that soon the golden grain
Will wave above this fragrant loam;
The birds, with singing, hasten home;
And I, who watch them, feel their song
Deep in my soul, and nothing wrong,
Or mean or small, can touch my heart....
Down in the vale the smoke-wreaths start,
To softly curl above the trees;
The fingers of a vagrant breeze
Steal tenderly across my hair,
And toil is fled, and want, and care!
The dawn is here!
I climb the hill;
My very oxen seem to thrill—
To feel the mystery of day.
The sun creeps out, and far away
From man-made law I worship God,
Who made the light, the cloud, the sod;
I worship smilingly, and sing!
* * *
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
rays
Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.
They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I
guess,
For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
days.
The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
stair,
And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
call,
And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.
The story of the old house that stands beside the
glen?
That story is forgotten by every one; but when
The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
rays,
I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
sweeter days.
TO A PAIR OF GLOVES
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Not s' much ter see....
Not a soul on earth can guess
What they mean ter me!
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter tossed aside;
Limp an' quiet, folded up,
Like their soul had died.
Every finger seems ter look
Lonely, an' my hand
Trembles as it touches them—
Who can understand?
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Ah, she tossed 'em there....
Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
Didn't have a care!
Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
God, my head WILL bow—
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
.... Empty, now!
PEAKS
A storm may rage in the world below,
It may tear great trees apart;
But here on the mountain top, I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,
I have walked where the cliffs fell sheer
To a gorge below, but I breathed a prayer,
And my soul passed doubt and fear!
Here on the mountain top the air
Is clear as a silver song;
And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;
AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?
What though the way was steep and bleak,
And what though the road was hard?
I stand at last on the mountain peak,
With my eyes upraised to God!
A storm may sweep through the world below,
It may rend great rocks apart;
But here on the crest of the world I know
That it cannot touch my heart.