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Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame；
Whose heads are where the gods are； and whose sides
Of strength are belted round with all the zones
Of all the world； I dedicate these songs。
And if； within the compass of this book；
There lives and glows one verse in which there beats
The pulse of wind and torrent … if one line
Is here that like a running water sounds；
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And seems an echo from the lands of leaf；
Be sure that line is thine。 Here； in this home；
Away from men and books and all the schools；
I take thee for my Teacher。 In thy voice
Of deathless majesty； I； kneeling； hear
God's grand authentic Gospel！ Year by year；
The great sublime cantata of thy storm
Strikes through my spirit … fills it with a life
Of startling beauty！ Thou my Bible art；
With holy leaves of rock； and flower； and tree；
And moss； and shining runnel。 From each page
That helps to make thy awful volume； I
Have learned a noble lesson。 In the psalm
Of thy grave winds； and in the liturgy
Of singing waters； lo！ my soul has heard
The higher worship； and from thee； indeed；
The broad foundations of a finer hope
Were gathered in； and thou hast lifted up
The blind horizon for a larger faith！
Moreover； walking in exalted woods
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Of naked glory； in the green and gold
Of forest sunshine； I have paused like one
With all the life transfigured； and a flood
Of light ineffable has made me feel
As felt the grand old prophets caught away
By flames of inspiration； but the words
Sufficient for the story of my Dream
Are far too splendid for poor human lips。
But thou； to whom I turn with reverent eyes …
O stately Father； whose majestic face
Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud；
Where high dominion of the morning is …
Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs
Are pallid adumbrations！ Certain sounds
Of strong authentic sorrow in this book
May have the sob of upland torrents … these；
And only these； may touch the great World's heart；
For； lo！ they are the issues of that grief
Which makes a man more human； and his life
More like that frank； exalted life of thine。
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But in these pages there are other tones
In which thy large； superior voice is not …
Through which no beauty that resembles thine
Has ever shone。 These are the broken words
Of blind occasions； when the World has come
Between me and my Dream。 No song is here
Of mighty compass； for my singing robes
I've worn in stolen moments。 All my days
Have been the days of a laborious life；
And ever on my struggling soul has burned
The fierce heat of this hurried sphere。 But thou；
To whose fair majesty I dedicate
My book of rhymes … thou hast the perfect rest
Which makes the heaven of the highest gods！
To thee the noises of this violent time
Are far； faint whispers； and； from age to age；
Within the world and yet apart from it；
Thou standest！ Round thy lordly capes the sea
Rolls on with a superb indifference
For ever； in thy deep； green； gracious glens
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The silver fountains sing for ever。 Far
Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves；
The royal robe of morning on thy head
Abides for ever。 Evermore the wind
Is thy august companion； and thy peers
Are cloud； and thunder； and the face sublime
Of blue mid…heaven！ On thy awful brow
Is Deity； and in that voice of thine
There is the great imperial utterance
Of God for ever； and thy feet are set
Where evermore； through all the days and years；
There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave。
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MARY RIVERS
Path beside the silver waters； flashing in October's sun …
Walk； by green and golden margins where the sister streamlets run …
Twenty shining springs have vanished； full of flower； and leaf； and bird；
Since the step of Mary Rivers in your lawny dell was heard！
Twenty white…haired Junes have left us … grey with frost and bleak with gale …
Since the hand of her we loved so plucked the blossoms in your dale。
Twenty summers； twenty autumns； from the grand old hills have passed；
With their robes of royal colour； since we saw the darling last。
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Morning comes … the blessed morning！ and the slow song of the sea；
Like a psalm from radiant altars； floats across a rose…red lea；
Then the fair； strong noonday blossoms； and the reaper seeks the cool
Valley of the moss and myrtle； and the glimmering water…pool。
Noonday flames and evening follows； and the lordly mountains rest
Heads arrayed with tenfold splendour on the rich heart of the West。
Evening walks with moon and music where the higher life has been；
But the face of Mary Rivers there will nevermore be seen。
Ah！ when autumn dells are dewy； and the wave is very still；
And that grey ghost called the Twilight passes from the distant hill …
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Even in the hallowed nightfall； when the fathers sit and dream；
And the splendid rose of heaven sees a sister in the stream …
Often do I watch the waters gleaming in a starry bay；
Thinking of a bygone beauty； and a season far away；
Musing on the grace that left us in a time of singing rain；
On the lady who will never walk amongst these heaths again。
Four there were； but two were taken； and this darling we deplore；
She was sweetest of the circle … she was dearest of the four！
In the daytime and the dewtime comes the phantom of her face：
None will ever sit where she did … none will ever fill her place。
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With the passing of our Mary； like a sunset out of sight；
Passed away our pure first passion … all its life and all its light！
All that made the world a dreamland … all the glory and the glow
Of the fine； fresh； morning feeling vanished twenty years ago。
Girl； whose strange； unearthly beauty haunts us ever in our sleep；
Many griefs have worn our hearts out … we are now too tired to weep！
Time has tried us； years have changed us； but the sweetness shed by you
Falls upon our spirits daily； like divine； immortal dew。
Shining are our thoughts about you … of the blossoms past recall；
You are still the rose of lustre … still the fairest of them all；
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In the sleep that brings the garland gathered from the bygone hours；
You are still our Mary Rivers … still the queen of all the flowers。
Let me ask； where none can hear me … When you passed into the shine；
And you heard a great love calling； did you know that it was mine？
In your life of light and music； tell me did you ever see；
Shining in a holy silence； what was as a flame in me？
Ah； my darling！ no one saw it。 Purer than untrodden dew
Was that first unhappy passion burie