years ago; and near by, in the Paradise Valley, he wrote his famous play.
Leaf from my Diary
We met on Nature’s stage,
And May had set the scene,
With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks,
And violets blossoming over the banks,
While the brook ran full between.
The waters rang your call,
With frolicsome waves a-twinkle—
They knew you as boy, and they knew you as man,
And every wave, as it merrily ran,
Cried, “Enter Rip van Winkle!”
“Little Boatie”
A Slumber-Song for the Fisherman’s Child
Furl your sail, my little boatie;
Here’s the haven still and deep,
Where the dreaming tides in-streaming
Up the channel creep.
Now the sunset breeze is dying;
Hear the plover, landward flying,
Softly down the twilight crying;
Come to anchor, little boatie,
In the port of Sleep.
Far away, my little boatie,
Roaring waves are white with foam;
Ships are striving, onward driving,
Day and night they roam.
Father’s at the deep-sea trawling,
In the darkness, rowing, hauling,
While the hungry winds are calling—
God protect him, little boatie,
Bring him safely home!
Not for you, my little boatie,
Is the wide and weary sea;
You’re too slender, and too tender,
You must bide with me.
All day long you have been straying
Up and down the shore and playing;
Come to harbour, no delaying!
Day is over, little boatie,
Night falls suddenly.
Furl your sail, my little boatie,
Fold your wings, my weary dove.
Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling
Drowsily above.
Cease from sailing, cease from rowing;
Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing
Safely o’er your rest are glowing,
All the night, my little boatie,
Harbour-lights of love.
The Echo in the Heart
It’s little I can tell
About the birds in books;
And yet I know them well,
By their music and their looks:
When May comes down the lane,
Her airy lovers throng
To welcome her with song,
And follow in her train:
Each minstrel weaves his part
In that wild-flowery strain,
And I know them all again
By their echo in my heart.
It’s little that I care
About my darling’s place
In books of beauty rare,
Or heraldries of race:
For when she steps in view,
It matters not to me
What her sweet type may be,
Of woman, old or new.
I can’t explain the art,
But I know her for my own,
Because her lightest tone
Wakes an echo in my heart.
A November Daisy
Afterthought of summer’s bloom!
Late arrival at the feast,
Coming when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,
Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom—
Are you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
Nodding in the autumn-wind;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
You possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour.
Glad, contented, free, and fearless,
Lift a sunny face to heaven
When a sunny day is given!
Make a summer of your own,
Blooming late and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadow rolled:
Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures. I remember,
In the flood of youth’s delight
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That was summer! Now November
Sets the perfect flower apart;
Gives each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown—
Blooming late and all alone.
The River of Dreams
The river of dreams runs quietly down
From its hidden home in the forest of sleep,
With a measureless motion calm and deep;
And my boat slips out on the current brown,
In a tranquil bay where the trees incline
Far over the waves, and creepers twine
Far over the boughs, as if to steep
Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes
By a secret way that no man knows,
Under the branches bending,
Under the shadows blending,
And the body rests, and the passive soul
Is drifted along to an unseen goal,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs gently down,
With a leisurely flow that bears my bark
Out of the visionless woods of dark,
Into a glory that seems to crown
Valley and hill with light from far,
Clearer than sun or moon or star,
Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark
How the radiance pulses everywhere,
In the shadowless vault of lucid air!
Over the mountains shimmering,
Up from the fountains glimmering—
’Tis the mystical glow of the inner light,
That shines in the very noon of night,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs murmuring down,
Through the fairest garden that ever grew;
And now, as my boat goes drifting through,
A hundred voices arise to drown
The river’s whisper, and charm my ear
With a sound I have often longed to hear—
A magical music, strange and new,
The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song,
The virginal chant of the lilies’ throng,
Blue-bells silverly ringing,
Pansies merrily singing—
For all the flowers have found their voice;
And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs broadening down,
Away from the peaceful garden-shore,
With a current that deepens more and more,
By the league-long walls of a mighty town;
And I see the hurrying crowds of men
Gather like clouds and dissolve again;
But never a face I have seen before.
They come and go, they shift and change,
Their ways and looks are wild and strange—
This is a city haunted,
A multitude enchanted!
At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear,
And never a sound from their lips I hear,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The river of dreams runs darkly down
Into the heart of a desolate land,
With ruined temples half-buried in sand,
And riven hills, whose black brows frown
Over the shuddering, lonely wave.
The air grows dim with the dust of the grave;
No sign of life on the dreary strand;
No ray of light on the mountain’s crest;
And a weary wind that cannot rest
Comes down the valley creeping,
Lamenting, wailing, weeping—
I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath
Is choked with the clinging fog of death,
While the river of dreams runs down.
The
