William Bliss Carman

I see the great blue heron
Rising among the reeds
And floating down the wind,
Like a gliding sail
–
With the set of the stream.
I hear the two-horse mower
Clacking among the hay,
In the heat of a July noon,
And the driver’s voice
As he turns his team.
–
I see the meadow lilies
Flecked with their darker tan,
The elms, and the great white clouds;
And all the world
Is a passing dream.
– The Blue Heron by William Bliss Carman

The word of the Lord of the outer worlds
Went forth on the deeps of space,
That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael,
Should stand before his face,
The seraphs of his threefold will,
Each in his ordered place.

Brave Michael, the right hand of God,
Strong Gabriel, his voice,
Fair Rafael, his holy breath
That makes the world rejoice,-
Archangels of omnipotence,
Of knowledge, and of choice;

Michael, angel of loveliness
In all things that survive,
And Gabriel, whose part it is
To ponder and contrive,
And

THERE is no grief for me
Nor sadness any more;
For since I first knew thee
Great Joy has kept my door.
–
That angel of the calm
All-comprehending smile,
No menace can dismay,
No falsity beguile.
–
Out of the house of life
Before him fled away
Languor, regret, and strife
And sorrow on that day.
–
Grim fear, unmanly doubt,
And impotent despair
Went at his bidding forth
Among the things that were,-
–
Leaving a place all clean,
Resounding of the sea
And decked with forest green,
To be

If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment,
and gold the hush of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian’s, the heart to lift and the head to bow.

I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, too,-
The

ALL day long beneath the sun
Shining through the fields they run,
–
Singing in a cadence known
To the seraphs round the throne.
–
And the traveller drawing near
Through the meadow, halts to hear
–
Anthems of a natural joy
No disaster can destroy.
–
All night long from set of sun
Through the starry woods they run,
–
Singing through the purple dark
Songs to make a traveller hark.
–
All night long, when winds are low,
Underneath my window go
–
The immortal happy streams,
Making music

THE hilltop trees are bowing
Under the coming of storm.
The low, gray clouds are trailing
Like squadrons that sweep and form,
With their ammunition of rain.
–
Then the trumpeter wind gives signal
To unlimber the viewless guns;
The cattle huddle together;
Indoors the farmer runs;
And the first shot lashes the pane.
–
They charge through the quiet orchard;
One pear tree is snapped like a wand;
As they sweep from the shattered hillside,
Ruffling the blackened pond,
Ere the sun takes the

IN the pure solitude of dusk
One star is set to shine
Above the sundown’s dying rose,
A lamp before a shrine.
It is the star of Michael lit
In the minster of the sun,
That every toiling hand may give
Thanks for the day’s work done.

For when the almighty word went forth
To bid creation be,-
The glimmering star-tracks on the blue,
The tide-belts on the sea,-
Perfect as planned, from Michael’s hand
The lasting hills arose,
Their bases on the

OVER the hills of April
With soft winds hand in hand,
Impassionate and dreamy-eyed,
Spring leads her saraband.
Her garments float and gather
And swirl along the plain,
Her headgear is the golden sun,
Her cloak the silver rain.

With color and with music,
With perfumes and with pomp,
By meadowland and upland,
Through pasture, wood, and swamp,
With promise and enchantment
Leading her mystic mime,
She comes to lure the world anew
With joy as old as time.

Quick lifts the marshy chorus
To transport,

In the wondrous star-sown night,
In the first sweet warmth of spring,
I lie awake and listen
To hear the glad earth sing.
–
I hear the brook in the wood
Murmuring, as it goes,
The song of the happy journey
Only the wise heart knows.
–
I hear the trilling note
Of the tree-frog under the hill,
And the clear and watery treble
Of his brother, silvery shrill.
–
And then I wander away
Through the mighty forest of Sleep,
To follow the fairy music
To

We are the roadside flowers,
Straying from garden grounds,-
Lovers of idle hours,
Breakers of ordered bounds.

If only the earth will feed us,
If only the wind be kind,
We blossom for those who need us,
The stragglers left behind.

And lo, the Lord of the Garden,
He makes his sun to rise,
And his rain to fall with pardon
On our dusty paradise.

On us he has laid the duty,-
The task of the wandering breed,-
To better the world with

O all the little rivers that run to Hudson’s Bay,
They call me and call me to follow them away.
Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current–where they run
Dancing and sparkling I see them in the sun.
I hear the brawling rapid, the thunder of the fall,
And when I think upon them I cannot stay at all.
At the far end of the carry, where the wilderness begins,
Set me down with my canoe-load–and forgiveness of my

LO, now comes the April pageant
And the Easter of the year.
Now the tulip lifts her chalice,
And the hyacinth his spear;
All the daffodils and jonquils
With their hearts of gold are here.
Child of the immortal vision,
What hast thou to do with fear?

When the summons wakes the impulse,
And the blood beats in the vein,
Let no grief thy dream encumber,
No regret thy thought detain.
Through the scented bloom-hung valleys,
Over tillage, wood and plain,
Comes the

THE sleeping tarn is dark
Below the wooded hill.
Save for its homing sounds,
The twilit world grows still.
–
And I am left to muse
In grave-eyed mystery,
And watch the stars come out
As sandalled dusk goes by.
–
And now the light is gone,
The drowsy murmurs cease,
And through the still unknown
I wonder whence comes peace.
–
Then softly falls the word
Of one beyond a name,
“Peace only comes to him
Who guards his life from shame,-
–
“Who gives his heart to

They say that he is dead, and now no more
The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills,
When the long summer heat is on the land.
But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing,
And therefore am incredulous of death,
Of pain and sorrow and mortality.

In these blue cañons, deep with hemlock shade,
In solitudes of twilight or of dawn,
I have been rapt away from time and care
By the enchantment of a golden strain
As pure

One August day I sat beside
A cafe window open wide
To let the shower-freshened air
Blow in across the Plaza, where
In golden pomp against the dark
Green leafy background of the Park,
St. Gaudens’ hero, gaunt and grim,
Rides on with Victory leading him.
The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold

TO the assembled folk
At great St. Kavin’s spoke
Young Brother Amiel on Christmas Eve;
I give you joy, my friends,
That as the round year ends,
We meet once more for gladness by God’s leave.

On other festal days
For penitence or praise
Or prayer we meet, or fullness of thanksgiving;
To-night we calendar
The rising of that star
Which lit the old world with new joy of living.

Ah, we disparage still
The Tidings of Good Will,
Discrediting Love’s gospel now

Have you sailed Nantucket Sound
By lightship, buoy, and bell,
And lain becalmed at noon
On an oily summer swell?

Lazily drooped the sail,
Moveless the pennant hung,
Sagging over the rail
Idle the main boom swung;

The sea, one mirror of shine
A single breath would destroy,
Save for the far low line
Of treacherous Monomoy.

Yet eastward there toward Spain,
What castled cities rise
From the Atlantic plain,
To our enchanted eyes!

Turret and spire and roof
Looming out of the sea,
Where the prosy

Now the lilac tree’s in bud,
And the morning birds are loud.
Now a stirring in the blood
Moves the heart of every crowd.

Word has gone abroad somewhere
Of a great impending change.
There’s a message in the air
Of an import glad and strange.

Not an idler in the street,
But is better off to-day.
Not a traveller you meet,
But has something wise to say.

Now there’s not a road too long,
Not a day that is not good,
Not

NOW is the time of year
When all the flutes begin,-
The redwing bold and clear,
The rainbird far and thin.

In all the waking lands
There’s not a wilding thing
But knows and understands
The burden of the spring.

Now every voice alive
By rocky wood and stream
Is lifted to revive
The ecstasy, the dream.

For Nature, never old,
But busy as of yore,
From sun and rain and mould
Is making spring once more.

She sounds her magic note
By river-marge and hill,
And

NOW Winter at the end of day
Along the ridges takes her way,
–
Upon her twilight round to light
The faithful candles of the night.
–
As quiet as the nun she goes
With silver lamp in hand, to close
–
The silent doors of dusk that keep
The hours of memory and sleep.
–
She pauses to tread out the fires
Where Autumn’s festal train retires.
–
The last red embers smoulder down
Behind the steeples of the town.
–
Austere and fine the trees

WHAT do men give thanks for?
I give thanks for one,
Lovelier than morning,
Dearer than the sun.

Such a head the victors
Must have praised and known,
With that breast and bearing,
Nike’s very own-

As superb, untrammeled,
Rhythmed and poised and free
As the strong pure sea-wind
Walking on the sea;

Such a hand as Beauty
Uses with full heart,
Seeking for her freedom
In new shapes of art;

Soft as rain in April,
Quiet as the days
Of the purple asters
And the autumn haze;

With

How quiet is the morning in the hills!
The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds
Trail through the cañon, and the mountain stream
Sounds his sonorous music far below
In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.

Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir
Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge,
While in the hollows of the dark ravine
See the red road emerge, then disappear
Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.

My forest cabin half-way up the glen
Is

AT the end of the road through the wood
I see the great moon rise.
The fields are flooded with shine,
And my soul with surmise.
…..
What if that mystic orb
With her shadowy beams,
Should be the revealer at last
Of my darkest dreams!
……
What if this tender fire
In my heart’s deep hold
Should be wiser than all the lore
Of the sages of old!
– Moonrise by William Bliss Carman

HERE hangs at last, you see, my row
Of sketches,-all I have to show
Of one enchanted summer spent
In sweet laborious content,
At little ‘Sconset by the moors,
With the sea thundering by its doors,
Its grassy streets, and gardens gay
With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet,
With the last brush of paint still wet,
(Showing how inspiration toils),
Is one where the white surf-line boils
Along the sand, and the whole sea
Lifts to the skyline,