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   (William Bliss Carman)  (15  1861 - 8  1929)    ,        ,     .     -.

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      .  ,      -  ,       ,     .     . , -,   ,           .        ,     . ,     .      ,       1923     ,          .  1926     ,      .             .          ,     .             .    .

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A Creature Catechism



I



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the sea?



LORD, said a flying fish,

Below the foundations of storm

We feel the primal wish

Of the earth take form.



Through the dim green water-fire

We see the red sun loom,

And the quake of a new desire

Takes hold on us down in the gloom.



No more can the filmy drift

Nor draughty currents buoy

Our whim to its bent, nor lift

Our heart to the height of its joy.



When sheering down to the Line

Come polar tides from the North,

Thy silver folk of the brine

Must glimmer and forth.



Down in the crumbling mill

Grinding eternally,

We are the type of thy will

To the tribes of the sea.



II



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the air



Lord, said a butterfly,

Out of a creeping thing,

For days in the dust put by,

The spread of a wing



Emerges with pulvil of gold

On a tissue of green and blue,

And there is thy purpose of old

Unspoiled and fashioned anew.



Ephemera, ravellings of sky

And shreds of the Northern light,

We age in a heart-beat and die

Under the eaves of night.



What if the small breath quail,

Or cease at a touch of the frost?

Not a tremor of joy shall fail,

Nor a pulse be lost.



This fluttering life, never still,

Survives to oblivions despair.

We are the type of thy will

To the tribes of the air.



III



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the field?



Lord, said a maple seed,

Though well we are wrapped and bound,

We are the first to give heed,

When thy bugles give sound.



We banner thy House of the Hills

With green and vermilion and gold,

When the floor of April thrills

With the myriad stir of the mould,



And her hosts for migration prepare.

We too have the veined twin-wings,

Vans for the journey of air.

With the urge of a thousand springs



Pent for a germ in our side,

We perish of joy, being dumb,

That our race may be and abide

For aeons to come.



When rivulet answers to rill

In snow-blue valleys unsealed,

We are the type of thy will

To the tribes of the field.



IV



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the ground?



Lord, when the time is ripe,

Said a frog through the quiet rain,

We take up the silver pipe

For the pageant again.



When the melting wind of the South

Is over meadow and pond,

We draw the breath of thy mouth,

Reviving the ancient bond.



Then must we fife and declare

The unquenchable joy of earth,

Testify hearts still dare,

Signalize beautys worth.



Then must we rouse and blow

On the magic reed once more,

Till the glad earth-children know

Not a thing to deplore.



When rises the marshy trill

To the soft spring nights profound,

We are the type of thy will

To the tribes of the ground.



V



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the earth?



Lord, said an artist born,

We leave the city behind

For the hills of open morn,

For fear of our kind.



Our brother they nailed to a tree

For sedition; they bully and curse

All those whom love makes free.

Yet the very winds disperse



Rapture of birds and brooks,

Colours of sea and cloud,

Beauty not learned of books,

Truth that is never loud.



We model our joy into clay,

Or help it with line and hue,

Or hark for its breath in stray

Wild chords and new.



For to-morrow can only fulfil

Dreams which to-day have birth;

We are the type of thy will

To the tribes of the earth.











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A Lyric



Oh, once I could not understand

The sob within the throat of spring,

The shrilling of the frogs, nor why

The birds so passionately sing.



That was before your beauty came

And stooped to teach my soul desire,

When on these mortal lips you laid

The magic and immortal fire.



I wondered why the sea should seem

So gray, so lonely, and so old;

The sigh of level-driving snows

In winter so forlornly cold.



I wondered what it was could give

The scarlet autumn pomps their pride.

And paint with colors not of earth

The glory of the mountainside.



I could not tell why youth should dream

And worship at the evening star,

And yet must go with eager feet

Where danger and where splendor are.



I could not guess why men at times,

Beholding beauty, should go mad

With joy or sorrow or despair

Or some unknown delight they had.



I wondered what they had received

From Time's inexorable hand

So full of loveliness and doom.

But now, ah, now I understand!






 




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A Mountain Gateway



I know a vale where I would go one day,

When June comes back and all the world once more

Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies,

A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills,

A cool, dim gateway to the mountain's heart.



On either side the wooded slopes come down,

Hemlock and beech and chestnut; here and there

Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams,

Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness 

That still perfection from the world withdrawn,

As if the wood gods had arrested there

Immortal beauty in her breathless flight.



Far overhead against the arching blue

Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights,

Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed.

The road winds in from the broad riverlands,

Luring the happy traveler turn by turn,

Up to the lofty mountains of the sky.



And where the road runs in the valley's foot,

Through the dark woods the mountain stream comes down,

Singing and dancing all its youth away

Among the boulders and the shallow runs,

Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang,

Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray.



There, light of heart and footfree, I would go

Up to my home among the lasting hills,

And in my cabin doorway sit me down,

Companioned in that leafy solitude

By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace.



And in that sweet seclusion I should hear,

Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk,

The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn 

So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure,

It well might be, in wisdom and in joy,

The seraphs singing at the birth of time

The unworn ritual of eternal things.











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A Remembrance



Here in lovely New England

When summer is come, a sea-turn

Flutters a page of remembrance

In the volume of long ago.



Soft is the wind over Grand Pr,

Stirring the heads of the grasses,

Sweet is the breath of the orchards

White with their apple-blow.



There at their infinite business

Of measuring time forever,

Murmuring songs of the sea,

The great tides come and go.



Over the dikes and the uplands

Wander the great cloud shadows,

Strange as the passing of sorrow,

Beautiful, solemn, and slow.



For, spreading her old enchantment

Of tender ineffable wonder,

Summer is there in the Northland!

How should my heart not know?






 




   

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A Sea Child



The lover of child Marjory

Had one white hour of life brim full;

Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,

Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child Marjory

Hath in her veins, to beat and run,

The glad indomitable sea,

The strong white sun.






  




   

    

       

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A Song before Sailing



Wind of the dead mens feet,

Blow down the empty street

Of this old city by the sea

With news for me!

Blow me beyond the grime

And pestilence of time!

I am too sick at heart to war

With failure any more.

Thy chill is in my bones;

The moonlight on the stones

Is pale, and palpable, and cold;

I am as one grown old.



I call from room to room

Through the deserted gloom;

The echoes are all words I know,

Lost in some long ago.



I prowl from door to door,

And find no comrade more.

The wolfish fear that children feel

Is snuffing at my heel.



I hear the hollow sound

Of a great ship coming round,

The thunder of tackle and the tread

Of sailors overhead.



That stormy-blown hulloo

Has orders for me, too.

I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark,

My captain of the dark.



O wind of the great East,

By whom we are released

From this strange dusty port to sail

Beyond our fellows hail,



Under the stars that keep

The entry of the deep,

Thy somber voice brings up the seas

Forgotten melodies;



And I have no more need

Of bread, or wine, or creed,

Bound for the colonies of time

Beyond the farthest prime.



Wind of the dead mens feet,

Blow through the empty street;

The last adventurer am I,

Then, world, goodby!











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A Water Color



There's a picture in my room

Lightens many an hour of gloom,



Cheers me under fortune's frown

And the drudgery of town.



Many and many a winter day

When my soul sees all things gray,



Here is veritable June,

Heart's content and spirit's boon.



It is scarce a hand-breadth wide,

Not a span from side to side,



Yet it is an open door

Looking back to joy once more,



Where the level marshes lie,

A quiet journey of the eye,



And the unsubstantial blue

Makes the fine illusion true.



So I forth and travel there

In the blessed light and air,



Miles of green tranquillity

Down the river to the sea.



Here the sea-birds roam at will,

And the sea-wind on the hill



Brings the hollow pebbly roar

From the dim and rosy shore,



With the very scent and draft

Of the old sea's mighty craft.



I am standing on the dunes,

By some charm that must be June's,



When the magic of her hand

Lays a sea-spell on the land.



And the old enchantment falls

On the blue-gray orchard walls



And the purple high-top boles,

While the orange orioles



Flame and whistle through the green

Of that paradisal scene.



Strolling idly for an hour

Where the elder is in flower,



I can hear the bob-white call

Down beyond the pasture wall.



Musing in the scented heat,

Where the bayberry is sweet,



I can see the shadows run

Up the cliff-side in the sun.



Or I cross the bridge and reach

The mossers' houses on the beach,



Where the bathers on the sand

Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.



Thus I pass the gates of time

And the boundaries of clime,



Change the ugly man-made street

For God's country green and sweet.



Fag of body, irk of mind,

In a moment left behind,



Once more I possess my soul

With the poise and self-control



Beauty gives the free of heart

Through the sorcery of art.






 




    

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A Wood-path



At evening and at morning

By an enchanted way

I walk the world in wonder,

And have no word to say.



It is the path we traversed

One twilight, thou and I;

Thy beauty all a rapture,

My spirit all a cry.



The red leaves fall upon it,

The moon and mist and rain,

But not the magic footfall

That made its meaning plain.






 




    

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An April Morning



Once more in misted April

The world is growing green.

Along the winding river

The plumey willows lean.



Beyond the sweeping meadows

The looming mountains rise,

Like battlements of dreamland

Against the brooding skies.



In every wooded valley

The buds are breaking through,

As though the heart of all things

No languor ever knew.



The golden-wings and bluebirds

Call to their heavenly choirs.

The pines are blued and drifted

With smoke of brushwood fires.



And in my sister's garden

Where little breezes run,

The golden daffodillies

Are blowing in the sun.






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April now in morning clad

* * *



April now in morning clad

Like a gleaming oread,

With the south wind in her voice,

Comes to bid the world rejoice.



With the sunlight on her brow,

Through her veil of silver showers,

April o'er New England now

Trails her robe of woodland flowers,



Violet and anemone;

While along the misty sea,

Pipe at lip, she seems to blow

Haunting airs of long ago.











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Aprilian



When April came with sunshine

And showers and lilac bloom,

My heart with sudden gladness

Was like a fragrant room.



Her eyes were heaven's own azure,

As deep as God's own truth.

Her soul was made of rapture

And mystery and youth.



She knew the sorry burden

Of all the ancient years,

Yet could not dwell with sadness

And memory and tears.



With her there was no shadow

Of failure nor despair,

But only loving joyance.

O Heart, how glad we were!






 




   

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At the Making of Man



First all the host of Raphael

In liveries of gold,

Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm

The spinning spheres are rolled,

The Seraphs of the morning calm

Whose hearts are never cold.



He shall be born a spirit,

Part of the soul that yearns,

The core of vital gladness

That suffers and discerns,

The stir that breaks the budding sheath

When the green spring returns,



The gist of power and patience

Hid in the plasmic clay,

The calm behind the senses,

The passionate essay

To make his wise and lovely dream

Immortal on a day.



The soft Aprilian ardours

That warm the waiting loam

Shall whisper in his pulses

To bid him overcome,

And he shall learn the wonder-cry

Beneath the azure dome.



And though all-dying nature

Should teach him to deplore,

The ruddy fires of autumn

Shall lure him but the more

To pass from joy to stronger joy,

As through an open door.



He shall have hope and honour,

Proud trust and courage stark,

To hold him to his purpose

Through the unlighted dark,

And love that sees the moon's full orb

In the first silver arc.



And he shall live by kindness

And the heart's certitude,

Which moves without misgiving

In ways not understood,

Sure only of the vast event,

The large and simple good.



Then Gabriel's host in silver gear

And vesture twilight blue,

The spirits of immortal mind,

The warders of the true,

Took up the theme that gives the world

Significance anew.



He shall be born to reason,

And have the primal need

To understand and follow

Wherever truth may lead,

To grow in wisdom like a tree

Unfolding from a seed.



A watcher by the sheepfolds,

With wonder in his eyes,

He shall behold the seasons,

And mark the planets rise,

Till all the marching firmament

Shall rouse his vast surmise.



Beyond the sweep of vision,

Or utmost reach of sound,

This cunning fire-maker,

This tiller of the ground,

Shall learn the secrets of the suns

And fathom the profound.



For he must prove all being,

Sane, beauteous, benign,

And at the heart of nature

Discover the divine,

Himself the type and symbol

Of the eternal trine.



He shall perceive the kindling

Of knowledge, far and dim,

As of the fire that brightens

Below the dark sea-rim,

When ray by ray the splendid sun

Floats to the world's wide brim.



And out of primal instinct,

The lore of lair and den,




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