thousand feet have run,
    Till waters scream in anger and the wide-mouthed valley fills.

  Among the moaning spruces we threshed our heedless way;
    And out upon the barrens where the lonely spaces hide,
  We stamped the miles of mosses and blackened out the day,
    And waked the awful silence where all the winds have died.

  The stars flamed brave before us and the greater light hung still
    When the white smoke of our breath blew up
          and drowned the hollow night.
  We crushed them out beneath our feet and leapt from hill to hill,
    Till east to east the sweep of space was rocking with our flight.

  The little walls of man uprose like shields beneath our feet;
    We beat upon their hollow cells a million shafts of rain;
  Our wild song of freedom was loud in every street,
    While down along the slimy wharves the great ships lift and strain.

  The dawn pushed pale thin fingers above the flattened sea,
    Groping blind white fingers that clawed the shroud of night;
  'Till from the straining eddies the pale forms turned to flee,
    And a million tongues of madness rose singing through the fight.

  Across the quaking marshes we turned and wandered back;
    The trapper in the clearing heard the wan thin hosts of rain.
  We moved between the steaming trails where all the woods dripped black,
    And high among the empty hills we pitched our tents again.

Spring Madness

  I stoop and tear the sandals from my feet
  While the green fires glimmer in the gloom;
  The hot roar of madness
  Swells my veins with gladness;
  I smell the rotting wood-stuff
  And the drift of willow-bloom,
  And the moon's wet face
  Lifts above the place
  Till gaunt and black the shadows are crowding close for room.

  The alder thickets brush against my limbs;
  The heavy tramp of water shakes the night;
  I cross the naked hills,
  Where the thin dawn lifts and fills;
  All the black woods wail behind me—
  They cannot stay my flight
  Till the sun's red stain
  Dyes the world again
  And winds beyond the heavens are dancing in the light.

One Morning when the Rain-Birds Call

  The snows have joined the little streams and slid into the sea;
    The mountain sides are damp and black and steaming in the sun;
  But Spring, who should be with us now, is waiting timidly
    For Winter to unbar the gates and let the rivers run.

  It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold,
    How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough,
  That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold,
    And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now.

  For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
    And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
  Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
    And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.

  One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
    And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
  The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills—
    An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,

  Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
    With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
  The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
    And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.

Spring's Singing

    Spring once more is here—
    Joyous, sweet, and clear—
  Singing down the leafless aisles
    To the budding year.

    Her chanting is the thrush
    Through the twilight hush,
  And the silver tongues of waters
    Where the willows blush;

    Stir of lifting heads
    Over violet beds;
  Piping of the first glad robin
    Through the greens and reds;

    Croak of sullen crows
    When the south wind blows,
  Sighing in the shaggy spruces
    Wet with melted snows;

    Whisper of the rain
    Down the hills again,
  And the heavy feet of waters
    Tramping on the plain.

    Now the Goddess Spring
    Makes the woodlands ring,
  Bringing with a hundred voices
    Joy to everything.

The Flutes of the Frogs

  'Tis not the notes of the homing birds through the first warm April rain,
  Or the scarlet buds and the rising green come back to the land again,
  That stirs my heart from its winter sleep to pulse to the old refrain;

  But when from the miles of bubbling marsh and
          the valley's steaming floor,
  Shrilling keen with a million flutes the ancient spring-time lore,
  I hear the myriad emerald frogs awake in the world once more.

  All day when the clouds drive overhead and the shadows run below,
  Crossing the wind-swept pasture lots where the thin, red willows glow,
  There's not a throat in the joyous host that does not swell and blow.

  And all night long to the march of stars the wild mad music thrills,
  Voicing the birth of the glad wet spring in a thousand stops and trills,
  Till the pale sun lifts through the rosy mists
          and floats from the harbour hills.

Miss Pixie

  Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Spruces?
    Did you ever glimpse her mocking elfin face?
  Did you ever hear her calling while the whip-poor-wills were calling,
    And slipped your pack and taken up the chase?

  Her feet are clad in moccasins and beads.
    Her dress? Oh, next to nothing. Though undressed,
  Her slender arms are circled round with vine
    And dusky locks cling close about her breast.

  Red berries droop below each pointed ear;
    Her nut-brown legs are criss-crossed white with scratches;
  Her merry laughter sifts among the pines;
    Her eager face gleams pale from milk-weed patches.

  And though I never yet have reached her hand—
    God knows I've tried with all my heart's desire;—
  One morning just at dawn she caught me sleeping
    And with her soft lips touched my soul with fire.

  And once when camping near a foaming rip,
    Lying wide-eyed beneath the milky stars,
  Sudden I heard her voice ring sweet and clear,
    Calling my soul beyond the river bars.

  Dear, dancing Pixie of the wind and weather,
    Aglow with love and merriment and sun,
  I chase thee down my dreams, but catch thee never—
    God grant I catch thee ere the trail is done!