June On The Merrimac

O dwellers in the stately towns,     What come ye out to see?     This common earth, this common sky,     This water flowing free?     As gayly as these kalmia flowers     Your door-yard blossoms spring;     As sweetly as these wild-wood birds     Your caged minstrels sing.     You find but common bloom and green,     The rippling river's rune,     The beauty which is everywhere     Beneath the skies of June;     The Hawkswood oaks, the storm-torn plumes     Of old pine-forest kings,     Beneath whose century-woven shade     Deer Island's mistress sings.     And here are pictured Artichoke,     And Curson's bowery mill;     And Pleasant Valley smiles between     The river and the hill.     You know full well these banks of bloom,     The upland's wavy line,     And how the sunshine tips with fire     The needles of the pine.     Yet, like some old remembered psalm,     Or sweet, familiar face,     Not less because of commonness     You love the day and place.     And not in vain in this soft air     Shall hard-strung nerves relax,     Not all in vain the o'erworn brain     Forego its daily tax.     The lust of power, the greed of gain     Have all the year their own;     The haunting demons well may let     Our one bright day alone.     Unheeded let the newsboy call,     Aside the ledger lay     The world will keep its treadmill step     Though we fall out to-day.     The truants of life's weary school,     Without excuse from thrift     We change for once the gains of toil     For God's unpurchased gift.     From ceiled rooms, from silent books,     From crowded car and town,     Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap,     We lay our tired heads down.     Cool, summer wind, our heated brows;     Blue river, through the green     Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes     Which all too much have seen.     For us these pleasant woodland ways     Are thronged with memories old,     Have felt the grasp of friendly hands     And heard love's story told.     A sacred presence overbroods     The earth whereon we meet;     These winding forest-paths are trod     By more than mortal feet.     Old friends called from us by the voice     Which they alone could hear,     From mystery to mystery,     From life to life, draw near.     More closely for the sake of them     Each other's hands we press;     Our voices take from them a tone     Of deeper tenderness.     Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,     Alike below, above,     Or here or there, about us fold     The arms of one great love!     We ask to-day no countersign,     No party names we own;     Unlabelled, individual,     We bring ourselves alone.     What cares the unconventioned wood     For pass-words of the town?     The sound of fashion's shibboleth     The laughing waters drown.     Here cant forgets his dreary tone,     And care his face forlorn;     The liberal air and sunshine laugh     The bigot's zeal to scorn.     From manhood's weary shoulder falls     His load of selfish cares;     And woman takes her rights as flowers     And brooks and birds take theirs.     The license of the happy woods,     The brook's release are ours;     The freedom of the unshamed wind     Among the glad-eyed flowers.     Yet here no evil thought finds place,     Nor foot profane comes in;     Our grove, like that of Samothrace,     Is set apart from sin.     We walk on holy ground; above     A sky more holy smiles;     The chant of the beatitudes     Swells down these leafy aisles.     Thanks to the gracious Providence     That brings us here once more;     For memories of the good behind     And hopes of good before.     And if, unknown to us, sweet days     Of June like this must come,     Unseen of us these laurels clothe     The river-banks with bloom;     And these green paths must soon be trod     By other feet than ours,     Full long may annual pilgrims come     To keep the Feast of Flowers;     The matron be a girl once more,     The bearded man a boy,     And we, in heaven's eternal June,     Be glad for earthly joy