Poems (Sill)/The Wonderful Thought
T comes upon me in the woods, Of all the days, this day in May:When wind and rain can never thinkWhose turn 't is now to have its way.
THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT.
T comes upon me in the woods, Of all the days, this day in May:When wind and rain can never thinkWhose turn 't is now to have its way.It finds me as I lie along, Blinking up through the swaying trees,Half wondering if a man who reads "Blue sky" in books that color sees,—
So fathomless and pure: as if All loveliest azure things have goneTo heaven that way,—the flowers, the sea,— And left their color there alone.
Hark! leaning on each other's arms, The pines are whispering in the breeze, Whispering,—then hushing, half in awe Their legends of primeval seas.
The wild things of the wood come out, And stir or hide, as wild things will,Like thoughts that may not be pursued, But come if one is calm and still.
Deep hemlocks down the gorge shut in Their caves with hollow shadow filled,Where little feathered anchorites Behind a sunlit lattice build.
And glimmering through that lace of boughs, Dancing, while they hang darker still,Along the restful river shines The restless light's incessant thrill:
As in some sober, silent soul, Whose life appears a tranquil stream,Through some unguarded rift you catch The wildest wishes, all agleam.
But to my thought—so wonderful! I know if once 't were told, all menWould feel it warm at heart, and life Be more than it had ever been.
'T would make these flowerless woods laugh out With every garden-color bright,Where only, now, the dogwood hangs Its scattered cloud of ghostly white.
Those birds would hold no more aloof:— How know they I am here, so well?'Tis yon woodpecker's warning note; He is their seer and sentinel.
They use him, but his faithfulness Perchance in human fashion pay,—Laugh in their feathers at his voice, And ridicule his stumbling way.
That far-off flute-note—hours in vain I've followed it, so shy and fleet; But if I found him, well I know His song would seem not half so sweet.
The swift, soft creatures,—how I wish They'd trust me, and come perch uponMy shoulders! Do they guess that then Their charm would be forever gone?
But still I prate of sight and sound; Ah, well, 't is always so in rhyme;The idle fancies find a voice, The wise thought waits—another time.