great winds,
    That my feet may wander through.

  North or South, and East or West;
    Over the rim with the bellied sails,
  From the mountain's feet to the empty plains,
    Or down the silent trails—

  It matters not which door you choose;
    The same clear tune blows through them all,
  Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas
    And one to the rain-bird's call.

  However you hide in the city's din
    And drown your ears with its siren songs,
  Some day steal in those thin, wild notes,
    And you leave the foolish throngs.

  God grant that the day will find me not
    When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain—
  So long as the plains are red with sun,
    And the woods are black with rain.

August on the River

    The swooning heat of August
      Swims along the valley's bed.
    The tall reeds burn and blacken,
      While the gray elm droops its head,
  And the smoky sun above the hills is glaring
            hot and red.

    Along the shrinking river,
      Where the salmon-nets hang brown,
    Piles the driftwood of the freshets,
      And the naked logs move down
  To the clanking chains and shrieking saws
            of the mills above the town.

    Outside the booms of cedar,
      The fish-hawks drop at noon;
    When night comes trailing up the stars,
      We hear the ghostly loon;
  And watch the herons swing their flight
            against the crimson moon.

The Wind Tongues

  I wandered in the woodlands where the red glades begin,
  And a wind in every tree-top was talking small and thin:
  "The dead hand of Winter is knocking at the door,
  And the white froth of flowers will float no more.

  "The gray ranks of grasses are bared of their bees,
  Their voices sound like falling spume between the leaden seas;
  We hear beyond the alders where the long swamps lie
  The creak of broken rushes and the last snipe's cry."

  And I marked the poignant sorrow in each high tree tongue,
  Conferring there above me where the blue moss hung;
  Till anguish grew from far away and broke in sullen roar,
  As when a smoking surf meets a rock-ribbed shore.

Musk-Rats

  When the mists move down from the barren hill,
  To roll where the waters are black and chill,
  When the moonlight gleams on the lily-pads
  And even the winds are still.

  The musk-rats slip from the clammy bank,
  Where the tangled reeds are long and dank,
  Where the dew lies white on the iris bed,
  And the rushes stand in rank.

  Their black heads furrow the stagnant stream,
  While the water breaks in a silver gleam,
  Till it joins the reeds where the night lies hid
  And the purple herons dream.

  Through the mist and the moon's mysterious light
  They hear the honking geese take flight,
  Threshing up from the arrow-heads
  As the lonely East grows white.

The Kill

  Black and white the face of night,
    And roar the rapids to the moon;
  Dust of stars beyond the bars,
    And mirthless laughter of the loon.

  Swirling blades through inky shades,
    And ghostly shadows slipping by;
  Clogging beds of arrowheads,
    And jagging spruce tops in the sky,

  Rasping groans of birchen cones
    Re-answering from shore to shore;
  Through the hush the snapping brush—
    Then silence, and the stars once more.

  Mutters slow, appealing, low,
    The throaty pleading of the bark;
  Roar of might that rends the night—
    His body bulking through the dark.

  Then the white, cruel tongue of light
    Leaps stinging in his startled eyes;
  Red and black the night falls back,
    The rocking echo drifts and dies.

On the Marshes

  Out on the marsh in the misty rain,
  The air is full of the harsh refrain;
  The long swamps echo the beat of wings;
  The birds are back in the reeds again.

  Down from the north they wing their way.
  Out of the east they cross the bay.
  From north and east they're steering home
  To the inland ponds at the close of day.

  Hid in the sea of reeds we lie,
  And watch the wild geese driving by;
  And listen to the plover's piping,—
  The gray snipe's thin and lonely cry.

  All day over the tangled mass,
  The marsh-birds wheel and scream and pass.
  The smoke hangs white in the broken rice.
  The feathers drift in the water-grass.

The Scarlet Trails

  Crimson and gold in the paling sky;
  The rampikes black where they tower on high,—
  And we follow the trails in the early dawn
  Through the glades where the white frosts lie.

  Down where the flaming maples meet;
  Where the leaves are blood before our feet
  We follow the lure of the twisting paths
  While the air tastes thin and sweet

  Leggings and jackets are drenched with dew
  The long twin barrels are cold and blue;
  But the glow of the Autumn burns in our veins,
  And our eyes and hands are true.

  Where the sun drifts down from overhead
  (Tangled gleams in the scarlet bed),
  Rush of wings through the forest aisle—
  And the leaves are a brighter red.

  Loud drum the cocks in the thickets nigh;
  Gray is the smoke where the ruffed grouse die.
  There's blackened shell in the trampled fern
  When the white moon swims the sky.

At the Year's End

  The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows.
  The last gray feather to southward goes.
  Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
  When the lonely north-wind blows.

  The harrow and sickle are laid away.
  The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
  While Death stalks free in the silent world,
  Through the gloom of a winter's day.

  In the creeping night the black winds cry.
  The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
  The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
  Crawls up to a grayer sky.

Winter Winds

  Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds
            are laid on the back of the land,
    Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting
            the feet of the plain,
  Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe
            at the lift of the hand,
    And the white-ribbed