At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes 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.
“The worlds in which we live are two:
The world ‘I am’ and the world ‘I do.’ ”
The worlds in which we live at heart are one,
The world “I am,” the fruit of “I have done”;
And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit,
The world “I love,”—the only living root.
I
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill;
Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June,
Hark, a little hunter’s voice, running with a tune.
“Hide and seek!
“When I speak,
“You must answer me:
“Call again,
“Merry men,
“Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass:
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?
Just a low, soft whistle—quick the hunter turns,
Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns.
“Hold him fast,
“Caught at last!
“Now you’re it, you see.
“Hide your eye,
“Till I cry,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
II
Long ago he left me, long and long ago;
Now I wander thro’ the world, seeking high and low.
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place—
If I could but hear his voice, soon I’d see his face!
Far away,
Many a day,
Where can Barney be?
Answer, dear,
Don’t you hear?
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!
Birds that every springtime sung him full of joy,
Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy.
Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.
Heart, be glad,
The little lad
Will call again to thee:
“Father dear,
“Heaven is here,
“Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
That far into my heart it found the way:
A melody consoling and endearing;
And now, in silent hours, I’m often hearing
The small, sweet song that does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower—
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
That something dear to me it seemed to say—
A wordless joy that blossomed into being;
And now, in winter days, I’m often seeing
The friendly flower that does not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child—
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
Into his mother’s eyes and mine he smiled
Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay.
An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him;
Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him—
Our little child who does not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear—
(It was not long ago, but yesterday.)
So little and so helpless and so dear—
Let not the song be lost, the flower decay!
His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping:
The smallest things are safest in thy keeping—
Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway.
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.
‘Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
Where the box
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
There’s a voice that talks
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
Year by year—
And the dreams that brightened all the labouring hours.
Fading as the flowers.
Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;
But relief
For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
From the Long-Ago,
When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
To resign,
And remember that the sadness of the fall
Comes alike to all.
What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs I
And what prayers
For the silent strength that nerves us to endure
Things we cannot cure!
Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
I have traced
All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
Comfort in my mind.
Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
Yet how near
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
Of the human race!
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart—
Not apart!
They who know the sorrows other lives have known
Never walk alone.
Waking from tender sleep,
My neighbour’s little child
Put out his baby hand to me,
Looked in my face, and smiled.
It seems as if he came
Home from a happy land,
To bring a message to my heart
And make me understand.
Somewhere, among bright dreams,
A child that once was mine
Has whispered wordless love to him,
And given him a sign.
Comfort of kindly speech,
And counsel of the wise,
Have helped me less than what I read
In those deep-smiling eyes.
Sleep sweetly, little friend,
And dream again of heaven:
With double love I kiss your hand—
Your message has been given.
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 passionless 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,
