To-day when the birches are yellow,
And red is the wayfaring tree,
Sit down in the sun, my soul,
And talk of yourself to me!
Here where the old blue rocks
Bask in the forest shine,
Dappled with shade and lost
In their reverie divine.
How goodly and sage they are!
Priests of the taciturn smile
Rebuking our babble and haste,
Yet loving us all the while.
In the asters the wild gold bees
Make a warm busy drone,
Where our Mother at Autumn's door
Sits warming her through to the bone.
What is your afterthought
When a red leaf rustles down,
Or the chickadees from the hush
Challenge a brief renown?
When silence falls again
Asleep on hill-side and crest,
Resuming her ancient mood,
Do you still say, "Life is best?"
We have been friends so long,
And yet not a single word
Of yourself, your kith or kin
Or home, have I ever heard.
Nightly we sup and part,
Daily you come to my door;
Strange we should be such mates,
Yet never have talked before.
A cousin to downy-feather,
And brother to shining-fin,
Am I, of the breed of earth,
And yet of an alien kin,
Made from the dust of the road
And a measure of silver rain,
To follow you brave and glad,
Unmindful of plaudit or pain.
Dear to the mighty heart,
Born of her finest mood,
Great with the impulse of joy,
With the rapture of life imbued,
Radiant moments are yours,
Glimmerings over the verge
Of a country where one day
Our forest trail shall emerge.
When the road winds under a ledge,
You keep the trudging pace,
Till it mounts a shoulder of hill
To the open sun and space.
Ah, then you dance and go,
Illumined spirit again,
Child of the foreign tongue
And the dark wilding strain!
Through the long winter dark,
When slumber is at my sill,
Will you leave me dreamfast there,
For your journey over the hill?
To-night when the forest trees
Gleam in the frosty air,
And over the roofs of men
Stillness is everywhere,
By the cold hunter's moon,
What trail will you take alone,
Through the white realms of sleep,
To your native land unknown?
Here while the birches are yellow,
And red is the wayfaring tree,
Sit down in the sun, my soul,
And talk of yourself to me.
[Illustration: John was a very poor machine, indeed.—Page 450.]