.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 39796
   :PG.Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
   :PG.Released: 2013-06-02
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Francis Sherman
   :DC.Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1900
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
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      A CANADIAN
      CALENDAR:
      XII LYRICS

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      Francis Sherman

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      HABANA:MCM 

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      *To*
      *F. H. D.*

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   *XII. LYRICS: A LIST.*

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   I. `IN THE NORTH.`_
   II. `A ROAD SONG IN MAY.`_
   III. `THE LANDSMAN.`_
   IV. `THE GHOST.`_
   V. `A SONG IN AUGUST.`_
   VI. `TO AUTUMN.`_
   VII. `THREE GREY DAYS.`_
   VIII. `THE WATCH.`_
   IX. `THE SEEKERS.`_
   X. `FELLOWSHIP.`_
   XI. `THE LODGER.`_
   XII. `MARCH WIND.`_

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.. _`IN THE NORTH.`:

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   \I. *IN THE NORTH.*

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   |  Come, let us go and be glad again together
   |  Where of old our eyes were opened and we knew that we were free!
   |  Come, for it is April, and her hands have loosed the tether
   |  That has bound for long her children.—who her children more than we?

   |  Hark! hear you not how the strong waters thunder
   |  Down through the alders with the word they have to bring?
   |  Even now they win the meadow and the withered turf is under,
   |  And, above, the willows quiver with foreknowledge of the spring.

   |  Yea, they come, and joy in coming: for the giant hills have sent them.—
   |  The hills that guard the portal where the South has built her throne:
   |  Unloitering their course is,—can wayside pools content them,
   |  Who were born where old pine forests for the sea forever moan?

   |  And they, behind the hills, where forever bloom the flowers,
   |  So they ever know the worship of the re-arisen Earth?
   |  Do their hands ever clasp such a happiness as ours,
   |  Now the waters foam about us and the grasses have their birth?

   |  Fair is their land,—yea fair beyond all dreaming,—
   |  With its sun upon the roses and its long summer day;
   |  Yet surely they must envy us our vision of the gleaming
   |  Of our lady's white throat as she comes her ancient way.

   |  For their year is never April—Oh what were Time without her!
   |  Yea, the drifted snows may cover us, yet shall we not complain:
   |  Knowing well our Lady April—all her raiment blown about her—
   |  Will return with many kisses for our unremembered pain!

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.. _`A ROAD SONG IN MAY.`:

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   \II. *A ROAD SONG IN MAY.*

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..

   |  O come!  Is it not surely May?
   |  The year is at its poise today.
   |  Northward, I hear the distant beat
   |  Of Spring's irrevocable feet:
   |  Tomorrow June will have her way.

   |  O tawny waters, flecked with sun,
   |  Come: for your labours all are done.
   |  The grey snow fadeth from the hills;
   |  And toward the sound of waking mills
   |  Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.

   |  O bees among the willow-blooms,
   |  Forget your empty waxen rooms
   |  Awhile, and share our golden hours!
   |  Will they not come, the later flowers,
   |  With their old colours and perfumes?

   |  O wind that bloweth from the west,
   |  Is not this morning road the best?
   |  —Let us go hand in hand, as free
   |  And glad as little children be
   |  That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!

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.. _`THE LANDSMAN.`:

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   \III. *THE LANDSMAN.*

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   |  "It well may be just as you say,
   |  Will Carver, that your tales are true;
   |  Yet think what I must put away,
   |  Will Carver, if sail with you."

   |  "If you should sail with me (the wind
   |  Is west, the tide's at full, my men!)
   |  The things that you have left behind
   |  Will be as nothing to you then."

   |  "Inland, it's June!  And birds sing
   |  Among the wooded hills, I know;
   |  Between green fields, unhastening,
   |  The Nashwaak's shadowed waters flow.

   |  "What know you of such things as these
   |  Who have the grey sea at your door,—
   |  Whose path is as the strong winds please
   |  Beyond this narrow strip of shore?"

   |  "*Your* fields and woods!  Now, answer me:
   |  Up what green path have your feet run
   |  So wide as mine, when the deep sea
   |  Lies all-uncovered to the sun?

   |  And down the hollows of what hills
   |  Have you gone—half so glad of heart
   |  As you shall be when our sail fills
   |  And the great waves ride far apart?"

   |  "O! half your life is good to live,
   |  Will Carver; yet, if I should go,
   |  What are the things that you can give
   |  Lest I regret the things I know!

   |  "Lest I desire the old life's way?
   |  The noises of the crowded town?
   |  The busy streets, where, night and day,
   |  The traffickers go up and down?"

   |  "What can I give for these?  Alas,
   |  That all unchanged your path must be!
   |  Strange lights shall open as we pass
   |  And alien wakes traverse the sea;

   |  "Your ears shall hear (across your sleep)
   |  New hails, remote, disquieted,
   |  For not a hand-breadth of the deep
   |  But has to soothe some restless dead.

   |  "These things shall be.  And other things,
   |  I think, not quite so sad as these!
   |  —Know you the song the rigging sings
   |  When up the opal-tinted seas

   |  "The slow south-wind comes amorously?
   |  The sudden gleam of some far sail
   |  Going the same glad way as we,
   |  Hastily, lest the good wind fail?

   |  "The dreams that come (so strange, so fair!)
   |  When all your world lies well within
   |  The moving magic circle where
   |  The sea ends and the skies begin?"......

   |  ......"What port is that, so far astern,
   |  Will Carver?  And how many miles
   |  Shall we have run ere the tide turn?
   |  —And is it far to the farthest isles?"

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.. _`THE GHOST.`:

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   \IV. *THE GHOST.*

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   |  Just where the field becomes the wood
   |  I thought I saw again
   |  Her old remembered face—made grey
   |  As it had known the rain.

   |  The trees grow thickly there; no place
   |  Has half so many trees;
   |  And hunted things elude one there
   |  Like ancient memories.

   |  The path itself is hard to find,
   |  And slopes up suddenly;
   |  —In the old days it was a path
   |  None knew so well as we.

   |  The path slopes upward, till it leaves
   |  The great trees far behind;
   |  —I met her once where the slender birch
   |  Grow up to meet the wind.

   |  Where the poplars quiver endlessly
   |  And the falling leaves are grey,
   |  I saw her come, and I was glad
   |  That she had learned the way.

   |  She paused a moment where the path
   |  Grew sunlighted and broad;
   |  Within her hair slept all the gold
   |  Of all the golden-rod.

   |  And then the wood closed in on her.
   |  And my hand found her hand;
   |  She had no words to say, yet I
   |  Was quick to understand.

   |  I dared to look in her two eyes;
   |  They too, I thought, were grey:
   |  But no sun shone, and all around
   |  Great, quiet shadows lay.

   |  Yet, as I looked, I surely knew
   |  That they knew nought of tears,—
   |  But this was very long ago,
   |  —A year, perhaps ten years.

   |  All this was long ago.  Today,
   |  Her hand met not with mine;
   |  And where the pathway widened out
   |  I saw no gold hair shine.

   |  I had a weary, fruitless search,
   |  —I think that her wan face
   |  Was but the face of one asleep
   |  Who dreams she knew this place.

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.. _`A SONG IN AUGUST.`:

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   \V. *A SONG IN AUGUST.*

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   |  O gold is the West and gold the river-waters
   |  Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe,
   |  Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle,
   |  The far-off hills cry a golden word of you.

   |  I can almost see you!  Where its own shadow
   |  Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow.
   |  There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle
   |  Glad of you beside them—the fairest thing they know.

   |  Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you,
   |  Grey sheep between,—unfrightened as you pass;
   |  Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one
   |  Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass.

   |  Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches:
   |  Through the thick alders you will break your way:
   |  Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,—
   |  For us the long shadows and the end of day.

   |  Whither shall we go?  See, over to the westward,
   |  An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me;
   |  Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands;
   |  West is it, or East, O Love that you would be?

   |  West now, or East?  For, underneath the moonrise,
   |  Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall,
   |  And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters,
   |  Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall.

   |  And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood,
   |  A lone crane go over to its inland nest:
   |  Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands
   |  And sail overhead to the marshes of the west.

   |  Now a little wind rises up for our returning;
   |  Silver grows the East as the West grows grey;
   |  Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows,
   |  The firs on the hillside—naught so dark as they.

   |  Yet we have known the light!—Was ever such an August?
   |  Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam
   |  As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,—
   |  The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream.

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.. _`TO AUTUMN.`:

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   \VI. *TO AUTUMN.*

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..

   |  How shall I greet thee, Autumn? with loud praise
   |  And joyous song and wild, tumultuous laughter?
   |  Or unrestrained tears?
   |  Shall I behold only the scarlet haze
   |  Of these thy days
   |  That come to crown this best of all the years?
   |  Or shall I hear, even now, those sad hours chime—
   |  Those unborn hours that surely follow after
   |  The shedding of thy last-relinquished leaf—
   |  Till I, too, learn the strength and change of time
   |  Who am made one with grief?

   |  For now thou comest not as thou of old
   |  Wast wont to come; and now mine old desire
   |  Is sated not at all
   |  With sunset-visions of thy splendid gold
   |  Or fold on fold
   |  Of the stained clouds thou hast for coronal.
   |  Still all these ways and things are thine, and still
   |  Before thine altar burneth the ancient fire;
   |  The blackness of the pines is still the same,
   |  And the same peace broodeth behind the hill
   |  Where the old maples flame.

   |  I, counting these, behold no change; and yet,
   |  To-day, I deem, they know not me for lover,
   |  Nor live because of me.
   |  And yesterday, was it not thou I met,
   |  Thy warm lips wet
   |  And purpled with wild grapes crushed wantonly,
   |  And yellow wind-swept wheat bound round thy hair,
   |  Thy brawn breast half set free and half draped over
   |  With long green leaves of corn?  Was it not thou,
   |  Thy feet unsandaled, and thy shoulders bare
   |  As the gleaned fields are now?

   |  Yea, Autumn, it was thou, and glad was I
   |  To meet thee and caress thee for an hour
   |  And fancy I was thine;
   |  For then I had not learned all things must die
   |  Under the sky,—
   |  That everywhere (a flaw in the design!)
   |  Decay crept in, unquickening the mass,—
   |  Creed, empire, man-at-arms, or stone, or flower.
   |  In my unwisdom then, I had not read
   |  The message writ across Earth's face, alas,
   |  But scanned the sun instead.

   |  For all men sow; and then it happeneth—
   |  When harvest time is come, and thou are season—
   |  Each goeth forth to reap.
   |  "This cometh unto him" (perchance one saith)
   |  "Who laboreth:
   |  This is my wage: I will lie down and sleep."—
   |  He maketh no oblation unto Earth.
   |  Another, in his heart divine unreason,
   |  Seeing his fields lie barren in the sun,
   |  Crieth, "O fool!  Behold the little worth
   |  Of that thy toil hath won!"

   |  And so one sleepeth, dreaming of no prayer;
   |  And so one lieth sleepless, till thou comest
   |  To bid his cursing cease;
   |  Then, in his dreams, envieth the other's share.
   |  Whilst, otherwhere,
   |  Thou showest still thy perfect face of peace,
   |  O Autumn, unto men of alien lands!
   |  Along their paths a little while thou roamest.
   |  A little while they deem thee queenliest,
   |  And good the laying-on of thy warm hands,—
   |  And then, they, too, would rest.

   |  They, too, would only rest, forgetting thee!
   |  But I, who am grown the wiser for thy loving,
   |  Never may thee deny!
   |  And when the last child hath forsaken me,
   |  And quietly
   |  Men go about the house wherein I lie,
   |  I shall lie glad, feeling across my face
   |  Thy damp and clinging hair, and thy hands moving
   |  To find my wasted hands that wait for thine
   |  Beneath white cloths; and, for one whisper's space,
   |  Autumn, thy lips on mine!

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.. _`THREE GREY DAYS.`:

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   \VII. *THREE GREY DAYS.*

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   |  If she would come, now, and say, *What will you Lover?*—
   |  She who has the fairest gifts of all the earth to give—
   |  Think you I should ask some tremendous thing to prove her,
   |  Her life, say, and all her love, so long as she might live?
   |  Should I touch her hair? her hands? her garments, even?
   |  Nay! for such rewards the gods their own good time have set!
   |  Once, these were *all* mine: the least, poor one was heaven:
   |  Now, lest she remember, I pray that she forget.

   |  Merely should I ask—ah! she would not refuse them
   |  Who still seems very kind when I meet with her in dreams—
   |  Only three of our old days, and—should she help to choose them
   |  Would the first not be in April, beside the sudden streams?......
   |  Once, upon a morning, up the path that we had taken,
   |  We saw Spring come where the willow-buds are grey;
   |  Heard the high hills, as with tread of armies, shaken;
   |  Felt the strong sun—O, the glory of that day!

   |  And then—what? one afternoon of quiet summer weather
   |  O, woodlands and meadow-lands along the blue St. John,
   |  My birch finds a path—though your rafts lie close together—
   |  Then O! what starry miles before the grey o' the dawn!........
   |  I have met the new day, among the misty islands,
   |  Come with whine of saw-mills and whirr of hidden wings,
   |  Gleam of dewy cobwebs, smell of grassy highlands.—
   |  Ah! the blood grows young again thinking of these things.

   |  Then, last and best of all!  Though all else were found hollow
   |  Would Time not send a little space, before the Autumn's close,
   |  And lead us up the road—the old road we used to follow
   |  Among the sunset hills till the Hunter's Moon arise?......
   |  Then, Home through the poplar-wood! damp across our faces
   |  The grey leaves that fall, the moths that flutter by:
   |  Yea! this for me, now, of all old hours and places,
   |  To keep when I am dead, Time, until she come to die.

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.. _`THE WATCH.`:

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   \VIII. *THE WATCH.*

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   |  Are those her feet at last upon the stair?
   |  Her trailing garments echoing there?
   |  The falling of her hair?

   |  About a year ago I heard her come,
   |  Thus; as a child recalling some
   |  Vague memories of home.

   |  O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!
   |  I saw them open, and grow wise:
   |  No questions, no replies.

   |  And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.
   |  The wet boughs reach against the pane
   |  In the same way, again.

   |  In the old way I hear the moaning wind
   |  Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,—
   |  Blind as the stars are blind.

   |  —She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,
   |  Yet,—what if once again at dawn
   |  I wake to find her gone?

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.. _`THE SEEKERS.`:

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   \IX. *THE SEEKERS.*

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   |  Is it very long ago things were as they are
   |  Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
   |  Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
   |  Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?

   |  O, the way was good to tread!  Up hill and down;
   |  Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
   |  Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
   |  Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.

   |  Strange and evil things we met—but what cared we,
   |  Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?
   |  Battles by the countless score, red blood running free—
   |  Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.

   |  Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
   |  They were weak—we were strong—health we held to yet:
   |  Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,—
   |  Then to the road again, striving to forget.

   |  Once again upon the road!  The seasons passed us by—
   |  Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
   |  Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,—
   |  One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.

   |  O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
   |  Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
   |  Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,—
   |  We might tarry but a while, far away from home.

   |  Far away the home we sought,—soon we must be gone;
   |  The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
   |  The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn—
   |  Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.

   |        *      *      *      *      *

   |  Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
   |  Yesterday,—last year—a million years ago?
   |  Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
   |  Hangs above the hidden hills—white and very low.

   |  Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
   |  All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
   |  —Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep;
   |  Just beyond the turn o' the road,—surely Peace is thee!

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.. _`FELLOWSHIP.`:

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   \X. *FELLOWSHIP*.

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   \1.

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..

   |  At last we reached the pointed firs
   |  And rested for a little while;
   |  The light of home was in her smile
   |  And my cold hand grew warm as her's.

   |  Behind, across the level snow,
   |  We saw the half-moon touch the hill
   |  Where we had felt the sunset; still
   |  Our feet had many miles to go.

   |  And now, new little stars were born
   |  In the dark hollows of the sky:—
   |  Perhaps (she said) lest we should die
   |  Of weariness before the morn.

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   \2.

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..

   |  Once, when the year stood still at June,
   |  At even we had tarried there
   |  Till Dusk came in—her noiseless hair
   |  Trailing along a pathway strewn

   |  With broken cones and year-old things,
   |  But now, tonight, it seemed that She
   |  Therein abode continually,
   |  With weighted feet and folded wings,

   |  And so we lingered not for dawn
   |  To mark the edges of out path;
   |  But with such home a blind man hath
   |  At midnight, we went groping on.

   |  —I do not know how many firs
   |  We stumbled past in that still wood:
   |  Only I know that once we stood
   |  Together there—my lips on her's.

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   \3.

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..

   |  Between the midnight and the dawn
   |  We came out on the farther side;
   |  —What if the wood *was* dark and wide?
   |  Its shadows now here far withdrawn,

   |  And O the white stars in the sky!
   |  And O the glitter of the snow!—
   |  Henceforth we know our feet should know
   |  Fair ways to travel—she and I—

   |  For One—Whose shadow is the Night—
   |  Unwound them where the Great Bear swung
   |  And wide across the darkness flung
   |  The ribbons of the Northern Light.


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.. _`THE LODGER.`:

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   \XI. *THE LODGER.*

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..

   |  What! and do you find it good,
   |  Sitting here alone with me?
   |  Hark! the wind goes through the wood
   |  And the snow drifts heavily,

   |  When the morning brings the light
   |  How know I you will not say,
   |  "What a storm there fell last night,
   |  Is the next inn far away?"

   |  How know I you do not dream
   |  Of some country where the grass
   |  Grows up tall around the gleam
   |  Of the milestones you must pass?

   |  Even now perhaps you tell
   |  (While your hands play through my hair)
   |  Every hill, each hidden well,
   |  All the pleasant valleys there,

   |  That before a clear moon shines
   |  You will be with them again!
   |  —Hear the booming of the pines
   |  And the sleet against the pane.

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   \2.

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..

   |  Wake, and look upon the sun,
   |  I awoke an hour ago,
   |  When the night was hardly done
   |  And still fell a little snow,

   |  Since the hill-tops touched the light
   |  Many things have my hands made,
   |  Just that you should think them right
   |  And be glad that you have stayed.

   |  —How I worked the while you slept!
   |  Scarcely did I dare to sing!
   |  All my soul a silence kept—
   |  Fearing your awakening.

   |  Now, indeed, I do not care
   |  If you wake; for now the sun
   |  Makes the least of all things fair
   |  That my poor two hands have done.

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   \3.

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..

   |  No, it is not hard to find.
   |  You will know it by the hills—
   |  Seven—sloping up behind;
   |  By the soft perfume that fills

   |  (O, the red, red roses there!)
   |  Full the narrow path thereto:
   |  By the dark pine-forest where
   |  Such a little wind breathes through;

   |  By the way the bend o' the stream
   |  Takes the peace that twilight brings:
   |  By the sunset, and the gleam
   |  Of uncounted swallows' wings.

   |  —No, indeed, I have not been
   |  There: but such dreams I have had!
   |  And, when I grow old, the green
   |  Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.

   |  Yes, you must go now, I know.
   |  You are sure you understand?
   |  —How I wish that I could go
   |  Now, and lead you by the hand.

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.. _`MARCH WIND.`:

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   \XII. *MARCH WIND.*

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..

   |  High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,
   |  There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow;
   |  And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover
   |  And the wavering shadows fade along the snow.
   |  Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)
   |  That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain;
   |  And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn rivers
   |  Come to make our Northland glad and free again.

   |  O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!
   |  Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?
   |  All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you returning
   |  But I waited all those hours that you were gone,
   |  For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes that fell
   |  Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew
   |  (When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such weather!)
   |  That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.

   |  Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs
   |  And remember many winters overpast:
   |  All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,
   |  Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.
   |  Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift:
   |  A rock, there, behind a covered spring;
   |  And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,—
   |  Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?

   |  And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail!
   |  By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,
   |  Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the clearing,—
   |  O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!
   |  But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;
   |  And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,
   |  Beckoned us beyond the shadows—down the hill—across the meadows
   |  Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.

   |  And that night, too—remember?—outside our quiet house,
   |  Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind:
   |  Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created
   |  And it hid the very things it came to find.
   |  In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,
   |  (Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!)
   |  Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world was keeping
   |  All the silence of the Houses of the dead?

   |  Ah, but that was long ago!  And tonight the wind foretells
   |  (Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)
   |  Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break tomorrow
   |  And lead me to the bases of the hills:
   |  To the low southern hills where of old we used to go—
   |  (Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!)
   |  O my love, to thy dark quiet—far beyond our North's mad riot—
   |  Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?

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   A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
   written by Francis Sherman and
   privately printed in Havana is
   issued at Christmastide M.C.M.

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