Classic Poem

I — BIRTHDAY

This is her day. For, years ago,
On such a bannered day as this —
Dogwood and sumach flaming so —
She died. I cannot go and kiss

Her forehead, as on birthdays gone;
She is a birth ahead of me.
Meantime, she knows I keep this one —
This door of Time where she went free.

I, clinging to the windy sill,
She, stooping from the winged air,
Meet on this ledge of love's high will —
Her birthday, that she lets me share.

II — THE LIGHT IN THE WOODS

Your day has come again. Far overhead,
Cross-stitched in wavering lines against the sky,
Or gleaming buff and silver, wild and high,
The geese slip by like phantoms, phantom-led.
The air is blue as incense-smoke; flame-red
The little maples, idly dreaming by,
Trail their lit lanterns in the lake — and I
Dream of your life among the living Dead.

Through the cathedral-windows of the year
Once more the still November sunlight streams,
And all my World — so low and dim and dear! —
Turns like a maple-leaf to catch the gleams
That tremble down from Yours — it hangs so near,
Clearer than waking, richer than old dreams.

III — MIGRANTS

The wild, great birds, like disembodied Souls,
Haughty with freedom, will not stoop to me,
For all my yearning; but the little ones
Flash for my joy through every bush and tree.

I wonder if the strong-winged spirits go
Swiftly, like that, beyond our farthest scope,
While smaller ones and gentler, stop and stir
The trees about us with their love and hope?

IV — ALL SAINTS' DAY

This is my All Saints' Day. I think you come,
Parting the broidered curtains of the year,
And say to Those whom you have brought from Home,
Softly, " Hush, look! She knows that we are here. "

The woods are lovely as your world must be,
Kindled by delicate, breath-shaken pyres
To haunted light; angelic drapery
Floats in the smoke above the maple-fires.

The air is tranced with beauty; beauty rained
Just now, although the black-gum hardly stirred;
My plain, white hours are shaken, beauty-stained:
I wait and listen, — and I hear your Word.