Classic Poem

I

O mother nature, look upon thine own!
From men and cities and the thronging ways
We come to fall before thy gracious throne

In this deep solitude, where thou wilt raise
Our burdened hearts, bewildered with the bliss
And changing anguish of tumultuous days,

To thy pure heights of peace. Ah, mother, kiss
The fever from our lips that lost their song
When they forgot thy touch, as seabirds miss

The passion of their wings when human wrong
Hath borne them inland from their natal spray.
Calm goddess, speak thy word that maketh strong,

While o'er our wearied brows light shadows play,
Dropt from the leaves that fleck the azure day.

II

Lo, the delight of Nature! Ye who feel
Yourselves but slaves beneath the blind control
Of Circumstance, and bear his insolent heel

On your submissive necks, who yield the soul
To the despondent hour that wasteth it,
Forgetting how on rude and paltry scroll

Fair signs and sacred words may yet be writ,
Come to our joyous mother! Where she leads
Her fleecy streamlets down the hillsides, sit

And let the dawning wind that wakes the reeds
Refresh your heavy lids, whilst ye behold
How sunshine revels in the lowliest weeds,

And only human growths refuse to fold
In narrow cups their heritage of gold.

III

And ye who bow before the Commonplace, —
A generous peasant, but a clownish king, —
Return to Nature, till the oldtime grace

Flow once again from that sequestered spring,
Deep in the dim recesses of the heart,
Where each man hides a poet. Would ye bring

Food to his famished lips, forsake the mart,
And through the forest guide your haunted feet.
No curious nymph may thrust the boughs apart

With dewy arm; the Dryads grow discreet,
And scarcely is there found a modern breeze
So swift that it may catch the echoes sweet

Of laughter delicate within the trees.
Yet spirits fill the wood for him who sees.

IV

Yea, for the souls in pain our mother waits
With healing symbols. See her ocean beat
On barren sands and foam in rocky straits

With unavailing flow and vain retreat.
A restless breast that hoary pilgrim hath;
Dead faces touch it coldly, and his feet

Rage round the iron shores with fruitless wrath,
To escape his bondage. But yon moon, as chill
As some relentless conscience, points the path

And, moaning, he obeys. Look higher still.
Within those circling spheres are fiery wars,
And yet their beauteous orbits they fulfill.

Even heaven's wild hearts, the flaming meteors,
No rebels are, but far ambassadors.