At the Water's Edge

Green slope of autumn fields,
     And soft November sun,
And golden leaves--they linger yet,
While tasselled pines new fragrance get,
     Though summer-time is done.

The hedge-rows wear a veil
     Of glistening spider threads,
And in the trees along the brook
The clematis,** like whiffs of smoke,
     Its faded garland spreads.

See, here upon my hand,
     This gauzy-winged wild bee!
Now that the winds are laid,
He suns him unafraid
     Of winter-time or me.

I love the steepled town,
     The river winding down,
The slow salt tide that creeps
Beside a shore that sleeps,
     Dark with its pine woods' crown.**

Here, high above them all
     Upon my broad-backed hill,
Far from shrill voices I,
And near the sun and sky,
     Can look and take my fill.

I breathe the sweet air in,
     While lower drops the sun,
And brighter all too soon
Grows the pale hunter's moon,
     The whole year's fairest one.

Oh, lovely light that fades
     Too soon from sky and field,
Oh, days that are too few,
How can I gather you,
     Or treasure what you yield!

Oh, sunshine, warm me through,
     And, soft wind, blow away
My foolishness, my fears,
And let some golden years
     Grow from this golden day!

Oh, rest your oars and let me drift
     While all the stars come out to see!
The birds are talking in their sleep
     As we go by so silently.
The idle winds are in the pines;
     The ripples touch against the shore.
Oh, rest your oars and let me drift,
     And let me dream forevermore!

The sweet wild roses hear and wake,
     And send their fragrance through the air;
The hills are hiding in the dark,
     There is no hurry anywhere.
The shadows close around the boat,
     Ah, why should we go back to shore!
So rest your oars, and we will float
     Without a care forevermore.

Oh, little waves that plash and call,
     How fast you lead us out of sight!
And we must follow where you go
     This strange and sweet midsummer night;
The quiet river reaches far--
     The darkness covers all the shore;
With idle oars we downward float
     In starlight dim forevermore.

When autumn winds are high,
They wake and trouble me
With thoughts of people lost
A-coming on the coast,
And all the ships at sea.

How dark, how dark and cold
And fearful in the waves,
Are tired folk who lie not still
And quiet in their graves
In moving waters deep
That will not let men sleep
As they may sleep on any hills,
May sleep ashore till time is old
And all the earth is frosty cold.
Under the flowers a thousand springs
They sleep and dream of many things.

God bless them all who die at sea!
If they must sleep in restless waves,
God make them dream they are ashore
With grass above their graves!

Great pines that watch the river go
   Down to the sea all night, all day,
Firm-rooted near its ebb and flow,
   Bowing their heads to winds at play,
Strong-limbed and proud, they silent stand,
   And watch the mountains far away,
And watch the miles of farming land,
   And hear the church bells tolling slow.

They see the men in distant fields
   Follow the furrows of the plough;
They count the loads the harvest yields,
   And fight the storms with every bough,
Beating the wild winds back again.
   The April sunshine cheers them now;
They eager drink the warm spring rain,
   Nor dread the spear the lightning wields.

High in the branches clings the nest
   The great birds build from year to year;
And though they fly from east to west,
   Some instinct keeps this eyrie dear
To their fierce hearts; and now their eyes
   Glare down at me with rage and fear;
They stare at me with wild surprise,
   Where high in air they strong-winged rest.

Companionship of birds and trees!
   The years have proved your friendship strong,
You share each other's memories,
   The river's secret and its song,
And legends of the country-side;
   The eagles take their journey long,
The great trees wait in noble pride
   For messages from hills and seas.

I hear a story that you tell
   In idleness of summer days:
A singer that the world knows well
   To you again in boyhood strays;
Within the stillness of your shade
   He rests where flickering sunlight plays,
And sees the nest the eagles made,
   And wonders at the distant bell.

His keen eyes watch the forest growth,
   The rabbits' fear, the thrushes' flight;
He loiters gladly, nothing loath
   To be alone at fall of night,
The woodland things around him taught
   Their secrets in the evening light,
Whispering some wisdom to his thought
   Known to the pines and eagles both.

Was it the birds who early told
   The dreaming boy that he would win
A poet's crown instead of gold?
   That he would fight a nation's sin? --
On eagle wings of song would gain
   A place that few might enter in,
And keep his life without a stain
   Through many years, yet not grow old?

And he shall be what few men are,
   Said all the pine-trees, whispering low;
His thought shall find an unseen star;
   He shall our treasured legends know:
His words will give the way-worn rest
   Like this cool shade our branches throw;
He, lifted like our loftiest crest,
   Shall watch his country near and far.