Poems (Sill)/Field Notes
Y the wild fence-row, all grown upWith tall oats, and the buttercup,And the seeded grass, and blue flax-flower,I fling myself in a nest of green,Walled about and all unseen,And lose myself in the quiet hour.Now and then from the orchard-treeTo the sweet clover at my kneeHums the crescendo of a bee,Making the silence seem more still;Overhead on a maple prongThe least of birds, a jeweled sprite, With burnished throat and needle bill,Wags his head in the golden light,Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright,Cheeping his microscopic song.
FIELD NOTES.[1]
I.
Y the wild fence-row, all grown upWith tall oats, and the buttercup,And the seeded grass, and blue flax-flower,I fling myself in a nest of green,Walled about and all unseen,And lose myself in the quiet hour.Now and then from the orchard-treeTo the sweet clover at my kneeHums the crescendo of a bee,Making the silence seem more still;Overhead on a maple prongThe least of birds, a jeweled sprite, With burnished throat and needle bill,Wags his head in the golden light,Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright,Cheeping his microscopic song.II.
Far up the hill-farm, where the breezeDips its wing in the billowy grain,Waves go chasing from the plainOn softly undulating seas;Now near my nest they swerve and turn,And now go wandering without aim;Or yonder, where the poppies burn,Race up the slope in harmless flame.Sometimes the bold wind sways my walls,My four green walls of the grass and oats,But never a slender column falls,And the blue sky-roof above them floats.Cool in the glowing sun I feelOn wrist and cheek the sea-breeze stealFrom the wholesome ocean brine.The air is full of the whispering pine,Surf-sound of an aerial sea; And the light clashing, near and far,As of mimic shield and scimitar,Of the slim Australian tree.
III.
So all that azure dayIn the lap of the green world I lay;And drinking of the sunshine's flood,Like Sigurd when the dragon's bloodMade the bird-songs understood,Inward or outward I could hearA murmuring of music near;And this is what it seemed to say:—
IV.
Old earth, how beautiful thou art!Though restless fancy wander wideAnd sigh in dreams for spheres more blest,Save for some trouble, half-confessed,Some least misgiving, all my heartWith such a world were satisfied.Had every day such skies of blue, Were men all wise, and women true,Might youth as calm as manhood be,And might calm manhood keep its loreAnd still be young—and one thing more,Old earth were fair enough for me.
Ah, sturdy world, old patient world!Thou hast seen many times and men;Heard jibes and curses at thee hurledFrom cynic lip and peevish pen.But give the mother once her due:Were women wise, and men all true—And one thing more that may not be,Old earth were fair enough for me.
V.
If only we were worthier foundOf the stout ball that bears us round!New wants, new ways, pert plans of change,New answers to old questions strange;But to the older questions stillNo new replies have come, or will. New speed to buzz abroad and seeCities where one needs not to be;But no new way to dwell at home,Or there to make great friendships comeNo novel way to seek or findTrue hearts and the heroic mind.Of atom force and chemic stewNor Socrates nor Cæsar knew,But the old ages knew a plan—The lost art—how to mold a man.
VI
World, wise old world,What may man do for thee?Thou that art greater than all of us,What wilt thou do to me?This glossy curve of the tall grass-spear—Can I make its lustrous green more clear?This tapering shaft of oat, that knowsTo grow erect as the great pine grows,And to sway in the wind as well as he—Can I teach it to nod more graciously?The lark on the mossy rail so nigh, Wary, but pleased if I keep my place—Who could give a single graceTo his flute-note sweet and high,Or help him find his nest hard by?Can I add to the poppy's gold one bit?Can I deepen the sky, or soften it?
VII.
Æons ago a rock crashed downFrom a mountain's crown,Where a tempest's treadCrumbled it from its hold.Ages dawn and in turn grow old;The rock lies still and dead.Flames come and floods come,Sea rolls this mountain crumbTo a pebble, in its play;Till at the last man came to be,And a thousand generations passed away.Then from the bed of a brook one dayA boy with the heart of a kingFitted the stone to his shepherd sling,And a giant fell, and a royal race was free. Not out of any cloud or skyWill thy good come to prayer or cry.Let the great forces, wise of old,Have their whole way with thee,Crumble thy heart from its hold,Drown thy life in the sea.And æons hence, some day,The love thou gavest a child,The dream in a midnight wild,The word thou wouldst not say—Or in a whisper no one dared to hear,Shall gladden the earth and bring the golden year.
VIII.
Just now a spark of fireFlashed from a builder's sawOn the ribs of a roof a mile away.His has been the better day,Gone not in dreams, nor even the subtle desireNot to desire;But work is the sober law He knows well to obey.It is a poem he fits and fashions well;And the five chambers are five acts of it:Hope in one shall dwell,In another fear will sit;In the chamber on the eastShall be the bridal feast;In the western oneThe dead shall lie alone.So the cycles of life shall fillThe clean, pine-scented rooms where now he works his will.
IX.
Might one be healed from fevering thought,And only look, each night,On some plain work well wrought,Or if a man as right and true might beAs a flower or tree!I would give up all the mindIn the prim city's hoard can find—House with its scrap-art bedight, Straitened manners of the street,Smooth-voiced society—If so the swiftness of the windMight pass into my feet;If so the sweetness of the wheatInto my soul might pass,And the clear courage of the grass;If the lark caroled in my song;If one tithe of the faithfulnessOf the bird-mother with her broodInto my selfish heart might press,And make me also instinct-good.
X.
Life is a game the soul can playWith fewer pieces than men say.Only to grow as the grass grows,Prating not of joys or woes;To burn as the steady hearth-fire burns;To shine as the star can shine,Or only as the mote of dust that turnsDarkling and twinkling in the beam of light divine; And for my wisdom—glad to knowWhere the sweetest beech-nuts grow,And to track out the spicy root,Or peel the musky core of the wild-berry shoot;And how the russet ground-bird boldWith both slim feet at once will lightly rake the mold;And why moon-shadows from the swaying limbHere are sharp and there are dim;And how the ant his zigzag way can holdThrough the grass that is a grove to him.
'T were good to live one's life alone.So to share life with many a one:To keep a thought seven years, and thenWelcome it coming to youOn the way from another's brain and pen,So to judge if it be true.Then would the world be fair,Beautiful as is the past,Whose beauty we can see at last,Since self no more is there.
XI.
I will be glad to be and do,And glad of all good men that live,For they are woof of nature too;Glad of the poets every one,Pure Longfellow, great Emerson,And all that Shakspeare's world can give.When the road is dust, and the grass dries,Then will I gaze on the deep skies;And if Dame Nature frown in cloud,Well, mother—then my heart shall say—You cannot so drive me away;I will still exult aloud,Companioned of the good hard ground,Whereon stout hearts of every clime,In the battles of all time,Foothold and couch have found.
XII.
Joy to the laughing troopThat from the threshold starts, Led on by courage and immortal hope,And with the morning in their hearts.They to the disappointed earth shall giveThe lives we meant to live,Beautiful, free, and strong;The light we almost hadShall make them glad;The words we waited longShall run in music from their voice and song.Unto our world hope's daily oraclesFrom their lips shall be brought;And in our lives love's hourly miraclesBy them be wrought.Their merry task shall beTo make the house all fine and sweetIts new inhabitants to greet,The wondrous dawning century.
XIII.
And now the close of this fair day was come;The bay grew duskier on its purple floor, And the long curve of foamDrew its white net along a dimmer shore.Through the fading saffron light,Through the deepening shade of even,The round earth rolled into the summer night,And watched the kindling of the stars in heaven.
- ↑ Written for the graduating class of 1882, at Smith College, Northampton, Mass. It is a pleasant custom at that college for each class to send abroad and invite someone to celebrate its entrance into the greater world.