The French peasants have a belief that if a green bough be found upon the cradle of a new-born child the fairies have called that child to wander far in quest of other-worldly things all its mortal life.
When on the bed of birth I lay
Out of the dark one came,
And laid the green bough on my head
And kissed my lips with flame;
And whispered in my ear the call
I may no more deny;
Nor ever drown in lesser sound
Until the hour I die.
And though my feet go down the street
They feel not wood and stone;
But tread the floor of forests far,
And uplands wide and lone:
And eyes like clouds blown through with rain
Turn pleading-like to me—
Their sorrow I may stay to ease,
But not their gladness see.
I know the roads my kindred take
To gain and gear and home,
I turn and bid them all Godspeed—
And yet I may not come.
I know the good of gain and gear,
And hearth alight with love—
Bide ye that may—I cannot stay,
That seeking still must rove.
And little camp-fires in the dark
Send out their light to me;
And little sweet, low voices call:
“O traveller, who are ye,
That goes so fast, that goes so far
Along the hidden night,
As if ye sought some radiant star,
Nor ever camp-fire’s light?”
But for my soul I may not turn,
My feet are strong and swift;
I go to find beyond the wind
Where unknown mountains lift,
The tree where-from the green bough came,
The voice that calls to me;
Visions more bright than star or light,
That lead and beckon me.
TIRED
I wonder if the growing grass
Has ever weariness?
Or the little flowers that lean
The gray hillside to bless?
Their roots reach down into the mold
So deep, that once was men;
I wonder do they ever draw
A heart-ache from it then?
And the rain that patters down
On the green blades like tears;
Has it kept a taste of salt
From the forgotten years?
And the wind that has been breath
Of happy lips or sad;
Is that why its voice has still
No sound ever wholly glad?
Forget us, Earth, forget;
When we dry our tears on your breast;—
As we and the mold are one
Let us nothing know but rest.
WHEN SHE WENT ON
How white and calm and still she lay!
The little child-like hands at rest,
Folded so lightly on her breast—
It seemed some solemn wonder-play!
The waxen lids pressed down her eyes,
Blue, wistful eyes that could not see
How still beside her tenderly
We kept our useless ministries.
One smoothed the pillow at her head,
With hands that trembled overmuch;
And drew the sheet with lingering touch,
And closed the books that she had read.
The little room still seemed to hold
All of her warm, bright, living self;
The empty slippers on the shelf
Still kept her foot’s slim mold.
O restless feet that could not wait
Our slower footsteps, blundering, fond;
Turn back to us when soon or late
We seek you in the Land Beyond.
O GREAT CONSOLER
A hymn to thee, a hymn to thee, consoler;
Thou strong consoler who hast touched our life
With a great quiet brooding o’er its strife;
With a great peace beyond its wrath and dolor.
All other hopes, all other loves, may fail us;
Thou over all art truth and constancy;
Our little passions quench themselves in thee;
Thy balm and strength must at the last avail us.
Walk with me then as brother walks with brother;
Hold thou my hand; I think I hear thee say:
“Bethink thee; this may be thy last ‘today’;
Thine eyes may not look out across another.
“Then forward! face what e’er it brings and laugh
Straight in the eyes of Fortune at her worst;
No loss he fears who hath lost all at first,
Nor fears to drink, who my dark wine would quaff.
“Art empty-handed? Yea, but at the best
No wealth of earth could stay an hour my feet;
Dost thirst! My cup upon the lip is sweet;
Art weary? I alone can give thee rest.”
AND THIS IS LIFE
And this is life—to have and hold
A little love, a little gold;
To prove the Dream with work well done;
To rest an hour before the sun
Drops down to night—then journey on
An unmapped road to seek the Dawn.