Poems (Van Rensselaer)/The Garden of the Wind

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THE GARDEN OF THE WIND
IThe North-West-Wind hath here his garden,God-appointed as its warden.Other winds may blow upon it,Sift the sun and moisture on it,Twine the wreaths of fog to lieTangled in its greenery;But its life is lived for beauty,And the North-West has the dutyAt its lovely best to show it,As its lovers love to know it.When he comes he sweeps the bluePure of mist to sapphire hue,Darker sapphire tints the seaWhere the garden's limits be;Brings an air so diamond clearThat the garden leaves appearJewels all of diverse green:Emerald, aquamarine,Beryl, jade, and peridotIn North-West-Wind his garden grow.
IIGreat his garden is and splendid,'Twixt two waters far extended ​Where the long point bars awayRestless ocean from still bay.From the harbor to the seaAll is garden bravery:Scarce the troubling plough or spadeDareth this domain invade,Nature-sown and nature-tended,By her rocks and waves defended;Scarcely may the scythe demandTribute from the salt marshland.Nor do forests lift their headsOver these green garden beds:If thou seekest roof of shade,Glimmering road and dusky glade,Paths that lead thou knowest not whither,Turn thy steps and come not hither—Open to the enarching skiesNorth-West-Wind his garden lies.
IIIThese the tenants of the gardenWhere the North-West-Wind is warden:Elder and viburnum snows,Lavish pinkness of wild rose,Sweet-gale's mass of perfumed gray,Shining green of berried bay,Darker green of wilding pear, ​Sumach with its crimson spear.Cherry, birch, and tupeloShrub-like with black-alder grow;Twice man-tall the blueberriesBravely rank themselves as trees;Spicy, white, the clethra spire,Myriad-numbered, pointeth higher.Through the fragrant thicket twinesEndless net of streaming vines;Wheresoever they can press,Fern and brake the ground possess;And the great rocks spread their strengthThrough North-West-Wind his garden's length.
VShelving cliff and rounded boulderShow their stalwart slope and shoulderBy the sea-marge bare and yellow,In the sheltered stretches mellowWith the lichen's bloomy gray.Here their outposts drop awayTo the verge of swampy reaches,To the brink of rippling beaches;Here they lift a lordly headBanked in waves of green that spreadUp the crevice, up the edge,To the topmost level ledge; ​And in the low lands betweenAll is billowy floods of greenWhispering in a soft commotion,Verdant acres of an oceanStreaked with spindrift blossom-white,Islanding each rocky height—Tumbling seas of brake and bushWhere North-West-Wind his pinions rush.
Gloucester, 1909.
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