The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an Indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois.
(Mid-morning)
The sun is a smouldering fire, That creeps through the high gray plain, And leaves not a bush of cloud To blossom with flowers of rain.
(Noon)
The sun is a wounded deer, That treads pale gra.s.s in the skies, Shaking his golden horns, Flashing his baleful eyes.
(Sunset)
The sun is an eagle old, There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs He builds him a crimson nest.
The Hearth Eternal
There dwelt a widow learned and devout, Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill.
Three sons she had, who went to find the world.
They promised to return, but wandered still.
The cities used them well, they won their way, Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother"s sighs.
Worn out with honors, and apart from her, They died as many a self-made exile dies.
The mother had a hearth that would not quench, The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom.
She said to us who came with wondering eyes-- "This is a magic fire, a magic room."
The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light.
The neighbors peering in were half afraid.
Then st.u.r.dy beggars, needing f.a.gots, came, One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor.
They left a naked stone, but how it blazed!
And in the thunderstorm it flared the more.
And now it was that men were heard to say, "This light should be beloved by all the town."
At last they made the slope a place of prayer, Where marvellous thoughts from G.o.d came sweeping down.
They left their churches crumbling in the sun, They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; One strength and valor only, one delight, One laughing, brooding genius, great and good.
Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, The place out-flames the cities of the land, And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, With subtle eyes prepared to understand.
Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, Showing the roads that march from every place, A steady beacon o"er the weary leagues, At dead of night it lights the traveller"s face!
Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, She who increased in faith, though all alone, Who kept her empty house a magic place, Has made the town a holy angel"s throne.
The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit
A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois
Censers are swinging Over the town; Censers are swinging, Look overhead!
Censers are swinging, Heaven comes down.
City, dead city, Awake from the dead!
Censers, tremendous, Gleam overhead.
Wind-harps are ringing, Wind-harps unseen-- Calling and calling:-- "Wake from the dead.
Rise, little city, Shine like a queen."
Soldiers of Christ For battle grow keen.
Heaven-sent winds Haunt alley and lane.
Singing of life In town-meadows green After the toil And battle and pain.
Incense is pouring Like the spring rain Down on the mob That moil through the street.
Blessed are they Who behold it and gain Power made more mighty Thro" every defeat.
Builders, toil on.
Make all complete.
Make Springfield wonderful.
Make her renown Worthy this day, Till, at G.o.d"s feet, Tranced, saved forever, Waits the white town.
Censers are swinging Over the town, Censers gigantic!
Look overhead!
Hear the winds singing:-- "Heaven comes down.
City, dead city, Awake from the dead."
By the Spring, at Sunset
Sometimes we remember kisses, Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: Not always, but sometimes we remember The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame Of laughter and farewell.
Beside the road Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, Far from my city task, my lawful load.
Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder Make bold my soul for some new wise delight.
I write the day"s event, and quench my drouth, Pausing beside the spring with happy mind.
And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, Hers most of all, one little friend most kind.
I Went down into the Desert