I put my heart to school In the world where men grow wise: "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule; 'Come back when you win a prize.'"

My heart came back again: "Now where is the prize?" I cried.-- "The rule was false, and the prize was pain, And the teacher's name was Pride."

I put my heart to school In the woods where veeries sing And brooks run clear and cool, In the fields where wild flowers spring.

"And why do you stay so long My heart, and where do you roam?"

The answer came with a laugh and a song,-- "I find this school is home."

April, 1901.

INDIAN SUMMER

A silken curtain veils the skies, And half conceals from pensive eyes The bronzing tokens of the fall; A calmness broods upon the hills, And summer's parting dream distils A charm of silence over all.

The stacks of corn, in brown array, Stand waiting through the tranquil day, Like tattered wigwams on the plain; The tribes that find a shelter there Are phantom peoples, forms of air, And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

At evening when the crimson crest Of sunset pa.s.ses down the West, I hear the whispering host returning; On far-off fields, by elm and oak, I see the lights, I smell the smoke,-- The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

_Tertius and Henry van d.y.k.e_.

November, 1903.

LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

Long, long, long the trail Through the brooding forest-gloom, Down the shadowy, lonely vale Into silence, like a room Where the light of life has fled, And the jealous curtains close Round the pa.s.sionless repose Of the silent dead.

Plod, plod, plod away, Step by step in mouldering moss; Thick branches bar the day Over languid streams that cross Softly, slowly, with a sound Like a smothered weeping, In their aimless creeping Through enchanted ground.

"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"

Whispers through the woodland deep: "Come to me and be at rest; I am slumber, I am sleep."

Then the weary feet would fail, But the never-daunted will Urges "Forward, forward still!

Press along the trail!"

Breast, breast, breast the slope See, the path is growing steep.

Hark! a little song of hope Where the stream begins to leap.

Though the forest, far and wide, Still shuts out the bending blue, We shall finally win through, Cross the long divide.

On, on, on we tramp!

Will the journey never end?

Over yonder lies the camp; Welcome waits us there, my friend, Can we reach it ere the night?

Upward, upward, never fear!

Look, the summit must be near; See the line of light!

Red, red, red the shine Of the splendour in the west, Glowing through the ranks of pine, Clear along the mountain-crest!

Long, long, long the trail Out of sorrow's lonely vale; But at last the traveller sees Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES

I

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.

Above the sea the clouds were keeping Their secret leaguer, gray and still; They sent their misty vanguard creeping With m.u.f.fled step from hill to hill.

All day the sullen armies drifted Athwart the sky with slanting rain; At sunset for a s.p.a.ce they lifted, With dusk they settled down again.

II

At dark the winds began to blow With mutterings distant, low; From sea and sky they called their strength, Till with an angry, broken roar, Like billows on an unseen sh.o.r.e, Their fury burst at length.

I heard through the night The rush and the clamour; The pulse of the fight Like blows of Thor's hammer; The pattering flight Of the leaves, and the anguished Moan of the forest vanquished.

At daybreak came a gusty song: "Shout! the winds are strong.

The little people of the leaves are fled.

Shout! The Autumn is dead!"

III

The storm is ended! The impartial sun Laughs down upon the battle lost and won, And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host In rolling lines retreating to the coast.

But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade, And grateful friends of every fallen leaf, Forget the glories of the cloud-parade, And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; And still we turn on gala-days to tread Among the rustling memories of the dead.

1874.

THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I