To One Beyond Seas

Know by the thread of music woven through    
This fragile web of cadences I spin,    
That I have only caught these songs since you    
Voiced them upon your haunting violin.

 October’s orchestra plays softly on    
The northern forest with its thousand strings,    
And Autumn, the conductor wields anon    
The Golden-rod — The baton that he swings.

There is a lonely minor chord that sings    
Faintly and far along the forest ways,    
When the firs finger faintly on the strings    
Of that rare violin the night wind plays,    
Just as it whispered once to you and me    
Beneath the English pines beyond the sea

The lost wind wandering, forever grieves            
Low overhead,    
Above grey mosses whispering of leaves            
Fallen and dead.    
And through the lonely night sweeps their refrain    
Like Chopin’s prelude, sobbing ‘neath the rain.

The wild grape mantling the trail and tree,    
Festoons in graceful veils its drapery,    
Its tendrils cling, as clings the memory stirred    
By some evasive haunting tune, twice heard.

I.   
It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong,    
Voicing abroad its patriotic song.    

II.    
Its daring colours bravely flinging forth    
The ensign of the Nation of the North.

Elfin bell in azure dress,    
Chiming all day long,    
Ringing through the wilderness    
Dulcet notes of song.    
Daintiest of forest flowers 
Weaving like a spell —
Music through the Autumn hours,    
Little Elfin bell.

And then the sound of marching armies ‘woke
Amid the branches of the soldier oak,
And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumb
The lashing storms that muttered, overcome,
Choked by the heralding of battle smoke,
When these gnarled branches beat their martial drum.
1

 A sweet high treble threads its silvery song,    
Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thin 
It trills its pure soprano, light and long —     
Like the vibretto of a mandolin.

The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn, 
And now the music sleeps -     
Its benediction falling where the dim    
Dusk of the forest creeps.    
Mute grows the great concerto - and the light    
Of day is darkening, Good-night, Good-night.    
But through the night time I shall hear within    
The murmur of these trees,    
The calling of your distant violin    
Sobbing across the seas,    
And waking wind, and star-reflected light    
Shall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.