O, the glory of the Autumn On the old New England hills, When the summer-leaf is dying in its pride; O, the song of wine and wonder Where the wild grape’s udder fills; O, the hymn of homage where the gentians hide. O, the dream enchanted woodlands; O, the spell that’s on the seas, And the cricket’s lovesick murmur of repose; O, the gossamer and damask Spreading underneath the trees; O, the silken tassels where the tangle grows. Let me slumber ’neath the shadow Of the old New England hills, Weave my raiment of the starlight when I die; May the storms caress my temple, May the winds caress my throne, In the Pilgrims’ hallowed sands O let me lie. FEEL OF THE WANDER-LURE. My sandals are of starlight, My soul has a flame, And all the spheres along the sky Are trumpeting my name. My spirit, warm and eager, And longing to be free, Tired of a Shadow-house of Dreams, Lured by immensity, Will answer when the wild winds call My name, on some dark night, And I, a lone adventurer, Will take the Road of Light. OVERHEARD AT THE MONEY CHANGERS OF NINEVEH. Our Pilgrim sires--brief the story-- They planted and we reaped the glory; Their simple thrift and noble deeds We swapped for affluence and creeds; Our bank account the trickster rifles, Their Sabbath Day we sold for trifles; They, wisdom-governed, graced creation, Ill-timed and aimless, now a nation Has bartered Freedom at its forum, Where statesmen wait to find a quorum. THE INNERMOST. I would not like to think my song will die into the arching night; I would not like to think my soul will lose itself in morning light; But I would have my song increase and star some little world with peace; My soul, with beauty stretching far should be the spirit of that star. THE AUTUMN RAIN. Mother of Darkness, Mother of Pain, White on the rim of the autumn rain, Pressing the cold of your cheek to my face, Roving the infinite hills of space, Wandering, wandering everywhere, Wearing a leaf that is dead in your hair, Mother of Darkness, Mother of Pain, White on the rim of the autumn rain. CRY OF THE WOUNDED LOON. A dirge was on the waters, Each wave a muffled bell; Against the west a hunter strolled, Nor heeded he the knell. I heard a cripple calling, In one unwonted cry of pain, And down the sorrow of the wind, The darkness and the river-rain, The cry went wandering, alone, Through gloomings of abysmal space, Till, midst a weary waste of marsh We met as lovers, face to face. A dirge hung on the waters, As from a convent bell, Against the west a hunter strolled, Nor wist he of the knell, But sobbing, sobbing down the years, Through all my joys and all my tears, Along the silence comes to me That Ave Mary of the sea. Written at Cut River, 1920. THE OLD BUSH PASTURE.