In 1893, Carman issued his first book, _Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics_. It was immediately successful, running quickly into a second edition. From the outset, it was evident that Carman possessed the true lyrical power: the ability to fuse thought in emotion, to interpret the external world through a personal intensity. Simple and direct in his choice of themes, his passion made them universal. A vivid buoyancy, new to American literature, made his worship of Nature frankly pagan as contrasted to the moralizing tributes of most of his predecessors. This freshness and irresponsible whimsy made Carman the natural collaborator for Richard Hovey, and when their first joint _Songs from Vagabondia_ appeared in 1894 Carman’s fame was established. (See Preface.) Although the three _Vagabondia_ collections contain Carman’s best known poems, several of his other volumes (he has published almost twenty of them) vibrate with the same glowing pulse. An almost physical radiance rises from _Ballads of Lost Haven_ (1897), _From the Book of Myths_ (1902) and _Songs of the Sea Children_ (1904). Carman has also written several volumes of essays and, in conjunction with Mary Perry King, has devised several poem-dances (_Daughters of Dawn_, 1913) suggesting Vachel Lindsay’s later poem-games. In his collection _April Airs_ (1916), although the strength is diluted and the music somewhat thinned, the old magic persists; the spell may be overfamiliar but it is not powerless. A VAGABOND SONG There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. THE GRAVEDIGGER Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he’ll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,— Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore. Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.