The Rustic: Songs of Maine
1. Autumn Frenzy
Merry Autumn dances on the wind
And turns chestnut trees yellow with his laugh
He pinches lazy Summer on the chin
So she, offended, trudges away south
And leaves the woods fair game for Autumn’s sport
To toss with winds and splash with paint galore
As the air chills and the days swiftly grow short
And busy squirrels gather nuts to store
All is busy, too, about the farms
As pears soften and ripe pink apples blush
Hay and crops go to root cellars and barns
And cider presses grind and squeeze and gush
Autumn lights not just leaves, but hearths, ablaze
And from the chimneys, smoky columns rise
To dissipate gradually into haze
And then dissolve in cold, blue, windswept skies
What Spring conceives and Summer makes, Autumn scatters
Glad and irresponsible and free
To whom all things delight, but nothing matters
Autumn will not plan, but only be
Autumn will not work, but only play
He knows but love and joy, not fear or sorrow
He eats, drinks, and is merry all the day
And disdains to take thought for any morrow
Oft autumn winds have set my spirit yearning
And stirred immortal longings in my heart
To catch Autumn as he sets the forest burning
And steal the secrets of his wild art
One morning, I almost caught Autumn red-handed
A maple that was green the night before
Was half green still, half fiery crimson splendid
He’d been, I take it, ready to do more
But dashed off just in time to dodge my glance
So I leapt forth out of my kitchen door
Not to miss the rare and lucky chance.
Through meads and woods I chased the divine vagrant
Leaping over stumps and fallen branches
Ducking under dangling foliage flagrant
Snagging, triggering leafy avalanches
That swirled in riotous color round my head
We trampled yellow ferns and apples fragrant
Deep into unknown woodlands I was led
By Autumn’s piping and his merry laughter
I saw him, gaily clad in gold and red,
And where he trod, bright colors burst forth after
A scarlet cap was perched upon his head
And a lion’s mane of curly yellow locks
He jumped a stream, struggling through a leaf-clogged bed
But missed the shore and stumbled on the rocks
And there I caught and pinned him to the earth,
The beautiful, brave anarch in his glory
And looked into his eyes, sparkling with mirth
And wonder purged my soul of wit and worry
Autumn blew a horn, and to his rescue
The winds in tumult came, rushing and whirling
And Autumn whisked, and vanished from my view
Amidst a blinding cloud of red leaves swirling
But lo! -- my clothes and hair were colored like flame
And I grasped his magic paintbrush in my hand!
Then I forgot my business and my name,
And leaped and lunged and tumbled through the land
And I turned pumpkins orange, apples maroon,
And leaves chartreuse, magenta, beige and tan,
Orange, crimson, scarlet, gold and brown
More hues by far than man's language can tell
And all around me leaves were raining down,
With some still changing colors as that fell.
This frenzy took me miles and miles and miles,
Pursuing my mad, ecstatic escapade
Ancient as time, and joyous as a child
At last, I lay down in a forest glade,
And up behind me, merry Autumn crept
And stole back his own paintbrush as I slept.
2. Maple Glory
Early sumac red prepares the scene
First of the fall colors to appear
While other trees are clad in summer’s green
Then comes gold to crown the aging year
King Midas touched the forest with his finger
Painted leaves lying lightly on the air,
Knowing that they have not long to linger,
Cast off their green and don more festive wear
The maples are the artists of the wood
All’s almost drab next to their mystic flame
Rose-pink, bright scarlet, such words aren’t much good
Such colors don’t quite even have a name
One’s just amazed that they can even be
The light of heaven in the stuff of earth
Living fire growing on a tree
Merry with a many-colored mirth
Aspens feel the chill less than other trees
Being wayfarers from high mountains cold
Their light green leaves still twinkle in the breeze
Amidst a thinning scene of red and gold
Then the ground gets clad in leaves at last
Like brilliant books from lost civilizations
Bearing the memory of ages past
The twilight struggles of the dying nations
Daylight’s rhythms mimic autumn’s glory
Clouds blaze gold and red as the sun descends
And so it is in many men’s life stories
Whose colors burn bright as they near their end
Thus Jesus’ friends fell away like autumn leaves
And He faced Pilate’s court, bereft of all
The sun hid its face and all of Heaven grieved
And blood flowed red like maples in the fall.
3. Nature’s Sabbath
The forest’s leaves have not all fallen yet
But autumn's blaze is definitely spent
No use to scan the woods for streaks of red
The leaves that bloomed like roses all are shed
There's aspen gold amidst the oak leaves brown
There are still bright red maples in the town,
And even green, by artificial light
Deceived about the lengths of day and night
In wild woods, half the canopy’s still there,
While half’s turned to gray fields of branches bare
Anticipating what it all will be
When the last leaf lets go of the last oak tree
The grateful forest floor, when fall is done,
Savors the full light of the gentle sun
After its long sojourn in the shade
That the verdant canopy of summer made
The cool, moist world feels thankful and refreshed,
Relaxing, welcoming its time of rest
For all the strivings of the year are past
And nature's Sabbath has arrived at last
When turmoils of growth and fruiting cease
And plants and trees are quiet and at peace
Gone’s the season that's crowded with chores
The pantry is packed full of winter stores
There are no seeds to plant, no lawns to mow
Idle are my shovel, saw, and hoe
I'll read a book, or watch the fire dance
Then peek out of the window, on the chance
Of seeing the first snow, whose lilting flakes
Will blanket the sleeping earth till spring awakes.
4. A Rustic Romance
The Secret Admirer
Fair maid, you smile -- My heart’s on fire
And dancing! -- then you turn away
But your sweet face and my desire
Fill my thoughts for half the day
I’ve woven for us many a bower,
In dreams, and played you many a song
I plead that it’s not in my power
To choose what my thoughts dwell upon.
And if I could advise you, but
My interests solely did pursue
I’d say, “Be mine!” and count it not
A sacrifice to be with you
And turn my back on every other
Maid who walks God’s blessed earth
I’d make you into wife and mother
And celebrate our children’s birth…
But there are better men than me
And you’ve the charm to win them, so
I can’t advise you honestly
To deign to set your sights so low,
No, take the diamond road away
To cities where you’ll have no name
Until you make it; and a day
May come when you’ll have wealth and fame
And love a prince both brave and true,
And I’ll, for my part, be content
To hear such happy news of you
And all your days in pleasure spent
And meanwhile, lest an awkward pity
My shy confession should inspire
I’ll never tell you how your pretty
Smile sets my heart on fire.
The Maiden’s Reply
My teachers told me I should go to college
Make better friends, and date, and hoard up knowledge
And then, beyond, beckoned the city lights
But I prefer the country’s starry nights
Unstained by glare from neon signs and cars
Whose smearing colors blot out half the stars.
He thinks that I’m too good, too smart, to stay
That my plans aim at places far away
And I’m competing for some distant prize--
That quiet farm boy, with the solemn eyes--
But though my fancy’s allured by such dreams
My heart’s knit tighter to our woods and streams.
Chatting with friends beside a yellow birch
Today, I saw him exiting the church
He stopped, and stood, and thought I didn’t see
And stayed a long time, just gazing at me
I talked on, not daring to turn my head
Or what in his deep eyes might I have read?
I’m flustered, and I don’t know what to do
I can’t tell him I feel that way too
Something in me won’t let me confess
And yet I don’t know how to make him guess,
For he’s too humble to imagine this:
That if he would but ask, then I’d be his!
Wedding Song
Now fingers suffice to count the hours
Till love with victory’s crowned
The time has come for wine and flowers,
Glad faces, joyous sounds.
May this day shine forevermore
In memory’s magic mirror
As happy years prove what it’s for
And make its meaning clearer.
Motherhood
Life gives itself to life in peril and pain
That the old story may recur again:
Infancy, the sacred, solemn dream
The poignant parting when a baby's weaned
Then comes awkward, hilarious toddlerhood
Chasing adventures both naughty and good
Ever more windows open and we see
The traits of a new personality,
Its nascent flaws and its foreshadowed glories
A character in many future stories
Father's in and out and does his best
Mother's always there and does the rest
Father guards the gates and stands up tall
Mother's love pervades and softens all
The job to guide these wild wills along
And lay down the constraints of right and wrong
Must not eclipse the most important duty:
Let art and nature teach the love of beauty
The colors of autumn foliage and sunrises
The thrill you feel when loud thunder surprises
The splendor of an orchard in full bloom
The glow of fireflies glittering in the gloom
We teach them to admire and love God's creatures
And in teaching we're taught by our own Teacher
Let their souls fill with prayer and with thanksgiving,
A dauntless certitude that life's worth living.
It may have to bear them through tribulations
That beggar their parents' imaginations.
The Happy Homestead
Your thoughts turn to my interests and my needs,
As I serenely contemplate your face
Wanderlust's forgotten, ambition recedes,
And I'm content to settle in a place
Where you and I and ours can grow together
And watch the splendid seasons rolling past
And talk about the children and the weather
And go to church and keep the feasts and fasts
And my desires have turned all innocent
Red apples from green trees 'neath skies of blue
To turn the soil over, and to plant
And above all, to share the hours with you
And walk beside the river or through the wood
When fresh-fallen snow glistens in the pines
It's easy to be glad and to be good
When I know I am yours and you are mine
Our journey runs through shifting hopes and fears
With cares and sorrows, like clouds before the sun,
Casting their shadows across the happy years.
We know we might lose all that we have won
Except each other, and that draws the sting.
Fond memories, at least, we'll always hold
The very pains and sorrows life may bring
By sharing them, we'll spin them into gold.
5. The Merry War
It's midnight, yet it isn't dark at all
From heaven shines the full moon's serene light
Whose rays upon the windswept snowscape fall
So brightly that it scarcely seems like night
The wintry winds, all wild and berserk
In the high branches of the pines cavort
And etched on snow, shadows that flail and jerk
Bear witness to their giddy, savage sport
“Whee! Whoo!” the whistling wind almost makes words
At windows howls and hisses the crazy crooner
In an eerie parody of the songs of birds.
What strange text might these mad notes be the tune for?
Great gusts pound the pines like muffled thunder
And orphaned leaves and dead weeds’ skeleton stalks
Are hurled across the snow, dread winter’s plunder
Rushing and scattering like wolf-chased flocks
In earnest now the merry war's begun
Invaders from the north the land have seized
A besieged castle has our house become
We pile high the firewood, lest we freeze
We only venture forth armed at all points
In two layers or more of insulation
And, dispossessed, see places where we once
Enjoyed our ease, reduced to desolation
But how cozy it is to light a fire,
Feel its heat, enjoy its dancing light
And then to look through windows and admire
The snow white moon crowning a winter night.
6. Winter Bloom
The snow fell softly as a dream, adorned
The trees' intricate, ramifying forms
With soft white lace, and put the world to sleep,
Casting a spell of quiet, rapt and deep
Until late morning's sun dispelled the clouds
And set sparkling the forest's pale shroud
Now each branch bears its load of fairy freight
That fills the wood with light, yet has no weight
It causes neither branch nor twig to bend
But to them all its diamond brilliance lends.
An hour or two, still freshly clad in snow,
In pristine, blinding splendor the wood will glow
But soft breezes spur little avalanches
And soon will dangle from the twigs and branches
Drops that refract the sky into a ball,
Gleam blue and white, then slowly grow and fall
And long before the waning of the day
The white wood will resume its usual grey.
Admire winter's blooming trees this hour,
They last more briefly even than spring's flowers.
7. The Snow Clad Wood
Merry clumps of virgin snow
Droop the pine trees’ branches low
In silky white, veiled like a bride
Up and down the mountainside
The snowbound trees glisten... but all
Are more or less uncomfortable
As branches strain and bend and ache
And groan and crack and even break
Beneath the watery weight of white
Deposited by a winter night…
Good trees, gladly your burden bear,
Knowing it makes you twice as fair!
We humans, too, just like you trees
Must sometimes sacrifice our ease
In handsome garments, strangers’ eyes to please
The noonday sun will melt this stuff
And free your branches soon enough.
Till then, rejoice and be ye glad
So beautifully to be clad.
8. April Thunder
With islands of dirty snow still on the ground,
Last night, I heard an unexpected sound
Not one green leaf's yet seen on any tree
I've heard no song of bird or hum of bee
There's pussywillows, soft as eiderdown,
But pasture grasses are still drab and brown
Cold, dismal rain had fallen all day long
Sometimes drizzly, sometimes hard and strong,
I'd stepped out into early nighttime's gloom
When through the sky there rolled a rumbling boom
Which then crescendoed to a crackling crash
I took cover, fearing a lightning flash
Then stopped to feel the year's progress with wonder
"Spring has come!" announced the April thunder.
9. The Impatient Gardener
“Daddy, can we plant the garden yet?
The snow’s all melted and the ground is wet.
A moist green smell is floating on the breeze.
The sap’s stopped running in the maple trees.
The cattle down the road are done with hay.
They’re munching on green pasture grass today.
And in the morning, I hear the birds sing.
Can we plant the garden, since it’s spring?”
“Silly boy, how can a smell be green?...
On second thought, though, I know what you mean…
Anyway, it may yet snow again
And what would happen to our seedlings then?
We’ll plant beneath the grow light where it’s warm
To keep our seedlings safe from cold and storm
And more conveniently to watch them sprout.
Then, when the time comes, we will put them out.”
“Daddy, wouldn’t planting now be fun?
I want to work outdoors, and feel the sun,
Bury pea seeds two, three inches deep--
While billowy clouds stray through the sky like sheep
And tender breezes touch my hands and face--
And put our little broccoli plants in place...
Our seeds are sprouts now, and they’re growing strong.
Let’s put them in the earth, where they belong!”
“Not yet, the nights are cold still, and one frost
Would kill them. All our labor would be lost.
We’ll put them out by day to feel wind blow
For that influences the way they grow
It makes the plants invest in a strong stalk.
Then... shall we go out and take a walk?
I want to feel the stirring earth rejoice
And hear again the pine brook’s babbling voice.”
“Daddy, surely now it must be time!
It feels like summer with so much sunshine
The wind that sways the buttercups feels warm
Last week, when the baby goats were born,
We cleaned the shed of hay, droppings and mold
You said that that stuff would be ‘garden gold’
Isn’t it about time we tilled it in?
Isn’t it time our garden should begin?”
“Yes, son, when forsythia blossoms fall
Two weeks after peepers start to call
It’s time to plant. So let’s get spades and hoes
Make sure there’s enough space between the rows!
Water well to give them a good start...
Put Brussels sprouts a full two feet apart!
I know, it makes them seem lonely and small
But they will need it when they’re three feet tall.”
10. The River Painter
From far-off hills, the gentle painter flows
Depicting on his face all that he sees
Up-side-down the colored shapes he shows
Of hanging bridges, downward-reaching trees
He makes familiar things charmingly strange.
His palette varies with the weather's moods
On cloudy days, his cheerful pastels change
To somber grays and deep, dim greens and blues.
Though strict realist he is on a calm day,
A free, impressionist style he prefers
When breezes on the water's surface play
And each line trembles, quivers, blends and blurs
He's wonderful at twilight in clear weather
As in the woods' gloom fall the shades of night
The river seems to vanish altogether
The shore hangs there, above the sky's own light
How well he plays the painter's humble part,
Spinning borrowed light into new beauties!
To be a moon's the highest role of art,
Alongside festal and didactic duties:
Art's moon from God's sun borrows its light,
And lends benighted man the light it borrows
And mitigates the toils of the night
With sweet, brief joys that pierce the soul like sorrows
So flow on, gentle painter, graceful river
And I'll go on my way and grateful be
For things you showed me in your rippling mirror,
Whose beauty you've taught me again to see.
11. Swimming Hole
When all the sweaty toil of a summer day is done
As the evening shadows lengthen out
We weave through woods to water gold-lit by the sinking sun
And ringed with rugged old rocks roundabout
A little lake tucked in among high walls of whispering leaves
Whose soft susurrus is the only sound
Where feet weary of bearing weight can finally take their ease
And float free of the hard and stony ground
The water breaks the canopy and opens up the sky
Full of pink castle clouds that blaze and bloom
And black against the sunset, little swift birds dart and fly
Back home to nests deep in the forest gloom
We leave our shoes and socks and shirts behind us on a rock
And drop our toes down into unseen depths,
Find bottom, and then brace ourselves for each delicious shock
As the cold water creeps up step by step
And then the bottom falls away and we are left to swim
We hold our noses, push the water, breathe...
And we're in a world of bubbles that is blue and blurred and dim
With light above and mystery beneath
And there among the shimmering waves, a dreamlike mood descends
Dissolving all rational categories
Where all that's fixed, solid and firm turns liquid, moves and bends
And rules melt into myths and moods and stories
At last we climb out, dripping, happy, infinitely relaxed
Refreshed, unburdened, tired, clean and cool
And I'm enjoying life too much as the night winds chill my back
To care if I'm a wise man or a fool.
12. Blackberries
The blueberry’s an easy fruit to pick
The bushes are thornless and not too thick
When they’re dark blue and glossy, round and tight
They’re likelier than not to taste just right
Stuck in a refrigerator drawer
They’ll be good eating for a week or more
The blackberry’s an ordeal and a gamble
Hid away amidst forbidding brambles
Armed with fierce thorns in a crazy tangle
You spend five minutes looking for an angle
Or opening where you can go deep in
Without too many prickles in your skin
But trying to evade the thorns is vain
You soon get stoical about the pain
Within the green fortress, the prickly maze
Blackberries shoot out from the canes in sprays
The prettiest ones are pink or pale rose
But those are just for looking, don’t pick those
They’re still unripe and much too sour to eat
Black’s the signal that they’re getting sweet
But the sour only slowly dissipates
And by the time it’s gone, it’s near too late
The ripest berries let go and fall down
And get lost in the dry leaves on the ground
You can fill a bucket in an hour
If you’re not too careful to avoid the sour
Take them home and turn them into pies,
With ample sugar, and they’re mighty nice
But most will disappoint when eaten raw
Too much sour’s the most common flaw
Yet one in ten’s picked just at the right time
And yields an experience sublime
Wild as wine and natural as the grass
A sweetness of its own distinctive class
Tastes elude my words, so I’ll just say
You’ll wish you could enjoy that taste all day
Take fresh blackberries out of summer’s story,
It’s lost a tenth of its delicious glory
The greedy might call it a poor reward
The more since fresh blackberries can’t be stored
It’s best to eat them hand to mouth, don’t wait
Let a day pass by and it’s too late
The wise know that accumulating stuff
Will always make you feel it’s not enough
Desire, not satisfaction, is the treasure
At which we ought to aim through all life’s pleasures
The wages that the good adventurer earns
Are the rich array of things for which he yearns
And only memory and imagination
Can draw most pleasure out of God’s creation
The blackberry delights us and is gone
But the dreaming and the wishing can go on
And if you can delight in reminiscing
You’ve less to fear from poverty or prison.
13. The Vision of Moses
Moses was forbidden
God's glorious face to see
The face any man living
Who beholds, must cease to be
For fallen, mortal natures
Are feeble shadowy things
It must unmake such creatures
To behold the King of Kings
But God, that he not lack
One glimpse, and yet not die
Let Moses see His back
As He was passing by.
The splendor of sunset
The peace of a lily pond
The fragrance of a wet
Wood, when the rain has gone
The music of the birds
The grace of soft clouds billowing
The whisper without words
Of winds that in the willows sing
Are bits of news from home
For us lonely exiles
Who in strange countries roam
But past the weary miles
Of this benighted life
May hope to find our way
Where no sorrow or strife
Shall mar the endless day
Though God's back's to us turned
We see Him passing by
When bright fall color burns
Against a cold blue sky,
When trees are clad in bloom
In springtime's dance of youth,
When stars twinkle in June.
And if we live in truth
And carry our own cross
And endure to the end
Through wave on wave of loss
Of pleasures, health and friends,
Then we will win the race
And pass safe through death's waters
And look upon God's face
And be His sons and daughters.
14. The Apple Tree Parable
When Jesus taught in the Judean land,
He took His metaphors and illustrations
From things the people there could understand:
The business of their humble occupations
As fishers, herdsmen, tillers of the fields
And everyday phenomena of nature.
In such plain terms were heavenly truths revealed.
That’s part of what made Him such a good Teacher.
But now the Gospel’s spread the world o’er
And some parables, doubtless very good
To people whom Jesus first made them for,
By us are not so easily understood
Who’ve never seen a shepherd his flock lead
And cannot recognize the time for figs,
Who’ve never laid eyes on a mustard seed,
Nor know whether a mustard tree is big.
So I hope I err not in being so bold
As, imitating Him, to try to frame
Such a parable as Jesus might have told
If it were to New England Jesus came.
The kingdom of heaven’s like an apple tree
Growing on the edges of a wood.
All its fruit is beautiful to see
But only some of it is really good.
In some, a wholesome juicy sweetness hides,
Fed by sunlight, moistened by dew and storms
While others are being eaten away inside,
Becoming naught but homes, and food, for worms.
Good and bad both grow till summer’s past
Then all alike would fall and rot away,
Having no power in themselves to last,
Nor knowing how to make their sweetness stay
But pickers come to pluck them in their prime
And drop them into bushel baskets deep,
For they have arts to thwart the thefts of time
And make the fruits of fall and summer keep.
Some apples to the branches cling so tight
That when the pickers pull them, they come not
And so they leave them there, still red and bright
But winter spoils them, and they fall and rot.
Bad apples they discover and discard
And dump them in a ditch or in a field.
The good ones must be cooked and cored and peeled,
Or ground and pressed, ere they have their reward
Which is, into man’s own house to be brought
And on his merry banquet table placed,
Where ravages of storm and worm come not
And the master of the feast shall praise their taste.
So let us cling not to this world’s tree,
But by the holy angels gathered be
And in the Church’s bushel basket stored
And bravely endure every tribulation
By which we’re purged and fitted for salvation
And the wedding banquet of the Lord.
15. The Fat Cat
In olden, golden days I was a cat
I slept before the fire, on a mat
The prized pet of a cozy little farm
I hunted mice in hay bales in the barn
I loved a puss who would another wed
I'd no alibi when he turned up dead
Twas known I hated that she'd be his wife
Fearing the gallows, I fled for my life
I stopped in a towering, bustling, cold grey city
Where, to secure my anonymity
I donned shirt, jacket, tie, socks, shoes and pants
And, bored, launched a career in high finance
And proved uncommonly talented at it
It had its downsides… Curse the human habit
Of walking upright instead of on all fours!
But proper posture opens certain doors
And so I learned to balance on two feet
To make a good impression on Wall Street
I found I could trust feline intuitions
To pounce on the right long and short positions
I prowled through macroeconomic shocks
And caught the mice of undervalued stocks
I roamed to London and some petrostates
Arbitraging foreign interest rates
The Wall Street Journal’s writers’ heads were spinning
By the time someone ghost-wrote my Art of Winning
And then, more crudely: How to Make a Billion
For which the publisher advanced me 15 million
By that time, I had long given up trading
And turned my time and cash to corporate raiding
I bought mismanaged companies in crisis
Cut costs, and sold at double, triple prices
Over a glass of wine and gourmet meal
I did many a billion dollar deal
Alas, they served me shrimp scampi, couscous,
Grilled artichokes, quinoa, chocolate mousse
Sautéed snow peas, asparagus with shallots…
Such dishes do not suit the feline palate
The more I grimly tried food after food
The more my misfed belly did protrude
And with so many dinner meetings, soon
I started burgeoning like a balloon.
You have probably heard of me, in fact
If not by name, at least in the abstract
Are you familiar with the phrase “fat cat?”
It was my career inspired that.
As the years passed, oft I yearned to be
Back home, where little children petted me
How nice it was to lie in laps and purr
While small, fond hands caressed my silky fur!
Gilded four-poster beds give me no rest
I like my shaggy fireside mat the best
I wish I could lie, lazy, in the sun
Or chase a soft brown mouse and watch it run
And how I long to get under my paw
Some fresh, plump rodent and just eat it raw!
Are all captains of finance and industry
As lonely, heartsick, and as sad as me?
Addicted to the power money gives
We lose the joys by which the spirit lives
For aren't the memories you most want to keep
Of things that were spontaneous, and cheap?
A foolish fear haunts my imagination
I'll be in some intense negotiation
And just about to close my greatest deal
When, goaded by some waiter beyond all patience
I'll burst out: “No, I don't want your braised veal,
Your buttered scallops or your lemon ice,
Your Chardonnay… give me a wholesome meal!
For goodness sakes, man, have you any mice?”
16. Selling Goats
Candid faces, almost insolent
Full of curiosity; no shame!
They're leaning with their funny bald knees bent
Over the low wall to show they're glad you came
In the pasture, they enjoy the happy grass
Feasting on a field lush and sweet
But let even dry, dusty old hay pass
Scrumptiously through their jaws, and it looks good to eat
They nibble fingers, cushions, hair, books, chairs
They're fond and affectionate, but never polite!
In innocence of inhibitions and cares
Lies their charm, and we laugh at them with delight
Because they'll never mind it... They're our friends,
But in the order of creation, of lesser rank.
Man's needs trump beasts', and so the friendship ends
Those faces, merry, inquisitive and frank,
Can't understand "I love you" and "Farewell,"
"Necessity" nor "Plans have changed" nor tears
None of the sad reluctance with which we sell
Them, nor how they'll linger in memory for years...
God, let them get new masters who are kind
And grass as green as that in which here they played
And then, in the hereafter, let us find
Them, in the verdant fields of a world remade.
17. Highway Sunset
Such bounteous colors paint the sky tonight
As mock man's power to tell or understand
The western sky is luminous with a light
Like arid fire, suggesting desert sand
And pyramids, and camel caravans
Gold, red, and orange are mingled and aligned
In rippling bands, but not like waves at sea
(Such was the impression on my mind)
More like layers of rock laid down by time,
That record eons of natural history
From which geologists read the distant past
When canyon depths expose them to the sun...
Forgive the far-fetched comparison
I’m trying to make a fleeting impression last...
While east from the horizon, teary blue and blushing pink
Take turns, like roses drifting on the sea,
And in half an hour the world will be black as ink.
But meanwhile, I wish that I could be
On the feathery beaches of a pink cloud-bank,
And dip my toes in that fathomless sky.
In short, through heaven's imperial expanse
The mystic colors multiply and dance
As if a painter's paints had all been sto-
len and brought to life, like Pinocchio.
Stripped of the garish definiteness of day
The dimmed land borrows the sunset’s subtle fire
Pinkens magically, and seems faraway,
A country that might heroic legends inspire
By haunting the mind with yearning throbs and thrills
As shadows caress the semi-desert hills
And lull them to pale blue, still strangely bright
Yet sleepy, like a dream... the fading light
Sings a lullaby to soften the coming night.
It matters for no worldly affairs
No one made or lost a single cent
It solved no problems, and eased no one’s cares,
It came unbidden and it swiftly went.
Now neon lights advertise food and gas
No longer by the sunset’s glory eclipsed
But though transient, yet it was a glimpse
Of what, when neon lights are gone, will last.
What fortune might a heartsick king not give for
The sight of it? Is not this what we live for?
But we can’t hoard it. Either we miss
It, or let it go, or make praises, like this.
18. Aspen Gold
In olden days, so I’ve been told
The best of the money was made of gold
That stone, so transcendentally pretty,
‘Twill pave the streets of the Heavenly City
(So the holy evangelist said)
Was traded for coal, and wine, and bread
And whenever earned, was jealously stored
In a merchant’s chest, or a miser’s hoard.
In the mountains, there’s a place I know
Where slender, white-trunked aspens grow
And nature, for whatever reason,
Plays banker in a certain season
On all the branches of all the trees
Turning wildly in the slightest breeze
Are living coins of gold as bright as crowns
Twirling and rustling till they tumble down
To lie in their bounty strewn across the ground.
The aspens lend, like those whom Jesus blessed
Without expecting principal or interest.
God laughs at what we call our wealth,
Nor values much our youth and health
All that’s scarce to us he makes
With ease, abundantly; the stakes
In all life’s trials and all life’s pleasures
Are to procure more lasting treasures.
Poverty in spirit will suffice
To buy entry to Paradise
Where a kingdom of gold is given for free
Like the living gold of the aspen tree.