61 Total Quotes

Henry Dyke Quotes Page 2

It is with rivers as it is with people: the greatest are not always the most agreeable nor the best to live with
Henry Dyke
#Words

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then, someone at my side says; "There, she is gone!" "Gone where?" Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There, she is gone!" There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout; "Here she comes!" And that is dying.
Henry Dyke
#Poetry

I read within a poet's book A word that starred the page: "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!" Yes, that is true; and something more You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home. But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.
Henry Dyke
#Home

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, while for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer. Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, from day to day, The deepening glow of Life that comes from Thee. As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, on Thee at rest, Feel fears depart and troubles fade away. Her every wish fulfill; And even if Thou must refuse In anything, let Thy wise will A comfort bring such as kind mothers use. Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may not understand Life's winding way, lead her in peace divine. I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, wilt not forget Her due reward,--bless her in earth and heaven.
Henry Dyke
#Birthday #Mothers #Prayer

I love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees, Thy rolling plains; Thy rivers' mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep, All thy domains; Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy Golden Gate that stands Wide to the West; Thy flowery Southland fair, Thy sweet and crystal air, -- O land beyond compare, Thee I love best! Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906.
Henry Dyke
#inspirational #Patriotic

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark Makes its mark On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves Over fallen leaves; Then my olden garden, where the golden soil Through the toil Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, Whispers in its sleep. 'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, Where the box Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, There's a voice that talks Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here Year by year,-- Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours, Fading as the flowers. Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; But relief For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow From the Long-Ago, When I think of other lives that learned, like mine, To resign, And remember that the sadness of the fall Comes alike to all. What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs! And what prayers For the silent strength that nerves us to endure Things we cannot cure! Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, I have traced All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find Comfort in my mind. Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: Yet how near Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, Of the human race! Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart, Not apart! They who know the sorrows other lives have known Never walk alone.
Henry Dyke
#Autumn

I Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair With flowers beneath, above with starry lights, And set thine altars everywhere,-- On mountain heights, In woodlands dim with many a dream, In valleys bright with springs, And on the curving capes of every stream: Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings Of morning, to abide Upon the secret places of the sea, And on far islands, where the tide Visits the beauty of untrodden shores, Waiting for worshippers to come to thee In thy great out-of-doors! To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, God of the open air. II Seeking for thee, the heart of man Lonely and longing ran, In that first, solitary hour, When the mysterious power To know and love the wonder of the morn Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; And thou didst meet thy child, Not in some hidden shrine, But in the freedom of the garden wild, And take his hand in thine,-- There all day long in Paradise he walked, And in the cool of evening with thee talked. III Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, And lost the childlike love that worshipped and was sure! For men have dulled their eyes with sin, And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, And built their temple walls to shut thee in, And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. But not for thee the closing of the door, O Spirit unconfined! Thy ways are free As is the wandering wind, And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore Their fellowship with thee, In peace of soul and simpleness of mind. IV Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, Built up a secret stairway to the height Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, Disciples of the Persian seer Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; And wayworn followers of the Indian sage Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree. But One, but One,--ah, child most dear, And perfect image of the Love Unseen,-- Walked every day in pastures green, And all his life the quiet waters by, Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. To him the desert was a place prepared For weary hearts to rest; The hillside was a temple blest; The grassy vale a banquet-room Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. With him the lily shared The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; And every bird that sang beside the nest Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing. He watched the shepherd bring His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, The fisherman at daybreak fling His net across the waters gray and cold, And all day long the patient reaper swing His curving sickle through the harvest-gold. So through the world the foot-path way he trod, Drawing the air of heaven in every breath; And in the evening sacrifice of death Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. Him will I trust, and for my Master take; Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, God of the open air, To thee I make my prayer. V >From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded, >From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded, >From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion, >From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!) I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air. By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me, By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion, Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, (Oh, how the sight of the things that are great enlarges the eyes!) Lead me out of the narrow life, to the peace of the hills and the skies. While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading, And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading; While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under, Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, (Lo, in the marvel of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!) Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth. By the faith that the flowers show when they bloom unbidden, By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, By the trust of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of wild birds' wings on the long migration, (Wonderful secret of peace that abides in Nature's breast!) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest. For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces, For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places, For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers, For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers, For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,-- I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air! VI These are the gifts I ask Of thee, Spirit serene: Strength for the daily task, Courage to face the road, Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load, And, for the hours of rest that come between, An inward joy in all things heard and seen. These are the sins I fain Would have thee take away: Malice, and cold disdain, Hot anger, sullen hate, Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, And discontent that casts a shadow gray On all the brightness of the common day. These are the things I prize And hold of dearest worth: Light of the sapphire skies, Peace of the silent hills, Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, Music of birds, murmur of little rills, Shadow of clouds that swiftly pass, And, after showers, The smell of flowers And of the good brown earth,-- And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. So let me keep These treasures of the humble heart In true possession, owning them by love; And when at last I can no longer move Among them freely, but must part From the green fields and from the waters clear, Let me not creep Into some darkened room and hide From all that makes the world so bright and dear; But throw the windows wide To welcome in the light; And while I clasp a well-beloved hand, Let me once more have sight Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,-- Then gently fall on sleep, And breathe my body back to Nature's care, My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.
Henry Dyke
#God

Home, for my heart still calls me; Home, through the danger zone; Home, whatever befalls me, I will sail again to my own! Wolves of the sea are hiding Closely along the way, Under the water biding Their moment to rend and slay. Black is the eagle that brands them, Black are their hearts as the night, Black is the hate that sends them To murder but not to fight. Flower of the German Culture, Boast of the Kaiser's Marine, Choose for your emblem the vulture, Cowardly, cruel, obscene! Forth from her sheltered haven Our peaceful ship glides slow, Noiseless in flight as a raven, Gray as a hoodie crow. She doubles and turns in her bearing, Like a twisting plover she goes; The way of her westward faring Only the captain knows. In a lonely bay concealing She lingers for days, and slips At dusk from her covert, stealing Thro' channels feared by the ships. Brave are the men, and steady, Who guide her over the deep,-- British mariners, ready To face the sea-wolf's leap. Lord of the winds and waters, Bring our ship to her mark, Safe from this game of hide-and-seek With murderers in the dark!
Henry Dyke
#Home

Hours fly, Flowers die: New days, New ways: Pass by! Love stays.
Henry Dyke
#Short

I Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, Why the sweet Spring delays, And where she hides, -- the dear desire Of every heart that longs For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire Of maple-buds along the misty hills, And that immortal call which fills The waiting wood with songs? The snow-drops came so long ago, It seemed that Spring was near! But then returned the snow With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere, And sullen clouds drooped low To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain Beat on the window-pane, Through which I watched the solitary bird That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed, With rumpled feathers, down the wind again. Oh, were the seeds all lost When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? I searched their haunts in vain For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. The woods were bare: and every night the frost To all my longings spoke a silent nay, And told me Spring was far and far away. Even the robins were too cold to sing, Except a broken and discouraged note, -- Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat Music has put her triple finger-print, Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, -- "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!" II But now, Carina, what divine amends For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, What wine of joy that blends A hundred flavours in a single cup, Is poured into this perfect day! For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers, That lingered on their way, Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, And mingled with the bloom of later hours, -- Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue And white, and iris richly gleaming through The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze Of butter-cups and daisies in the field, Filling the air with praise, As if a silver chime of bells had pealed! The frozen songs within the breast Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, Melt into rippling floods Of gladness unrepressed. Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark, Warbler and wren and vireo, Confuse their music; for the living spark Of Love has touched the fuel of desire, And every heart leaps up in singing fire. It seems as if the land Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, Trembling with tenderness, While all the woods expand, In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, To veil the joys too sacred to be seen. III Come, put your hand in mine, True love, long sought and found at last, And lead me deep into the Spring divine That makes amends for all the wintry past. For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss Arrive with you; And in the lingering pressure of your kiss My dreams come true; And in the promise of your generous eyes I read the mystic sign Of joy more perfect made Because so long delayed, And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise. Ah, think not early love alone is strong; He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait: Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, You're doubly dear because you come so late.
Henry Dyke
#Spring

Let me but live my life from year to year, With forward face and unreluctant soul; Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal; Not mourning for the things that disappear In the dim past, nor holding back in fear From what the future veils; but with a whole And happy heart, that pays its toll To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer. So let the way wind up the hill or down, O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, My heart will keep the courage of the quest, And hope the road's last turn will be the best.
Henry Dyke
#Poems about Life

Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song, -- Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred, Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long! Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away? Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air? Gone, -- it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day! The Master has finished his work, and the glory of music is -- where? Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old: Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground, Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous harmonies rolled! Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea; Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll, Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee, -- The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.
Henry Dyke
#Music

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field, Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive, Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows! Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast, Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless, All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning, Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning. Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures, Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand. But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that revealed them, -- Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and longing: Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above thee: Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee? Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless, Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover Working within thee awakened the man-child to breathe thy secret. All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of the spirit; Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean, Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion.
Henry Dyke
#Mothers #Mothers Day

I PRELUDE Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that last night When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight, She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart, Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn Into a single cry, and thou wast born? Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief; Invisible enchantress of the heart; Mistress of charms that bring relief To sorrow, and to joy impart A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled,-- Thou art the child Of Amor, and by right divine A throne of love is thine, Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen, Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen! II Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps, While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps, Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll In healing murmurs round the weary soul. Ah, when wilt thou draw near, Thou messenger of mercy robed in song? My lonely heart has listened for thee long; And now I seem to hear Across the crowded market-place of life, Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear Above the unmeaning noises and the unruly strife; In quiet cadence, sweet and slow, Serenely pacing to and fro, Thy far-off steps are magical and dear. Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me! >From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free, And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee III Where wilt thou lead me first? In what still region Of thy domain, Whose provinces are legion, Wilt thou restore me to myself again, And quench my heart's long thirst? I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down, And put away thy starry crown: For one dear restful hour Assume a state more mild. Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown That breathes familiar scent of many a flower, Take the low path that leads thro' pastures green; And though thou art a Queen, Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower, By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled, Sing to my soul, as mother to her child. IV O lead me by the hand, And let my heart have rest, And bring me back to childhood land, To find again the long-lost band Of playmates blithe and blest. Some quaint, old-fashioned air, That all the children knew, Shall run before us everywhere, Like a little maid with flying hair, To guide the merry crew. Along the garden ways We chase the light-foot tune, And in and out the flowery maze, With eager haste and fond delays, In pleasant paths of June. For us the fields are new, For us the woods are rife With fairy secrets, deep and true, And heaven is but a tent of blue Above the game of life. The world is far away: The fever and the fret, And all that makes the heart grow gray, Is out of sight and far away, Dear Music, while I hear thee play That olden, golden roundelay, "Remember and forget!" V SLEEP SONG Forget, forget! The tide of life is turning; The waves of light ebb slowly down the west: Along the edge of dark some stars are burning To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest. A little rocking on the tranquil deep Of song, to soothe thy yearning, A little slumber and a little sleep, And so, forget, forget! Forget, forget,-- The day was long in pleasure; Its echoes die away across the hill; Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still. Then, like a weary child that loves to keep Locked in its arms some treasure, Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep, And so forget, forget. Forget, forget,-- And if thou hast been weeping, Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep That one by one come creeping Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep, And so forget, forget! Forget, forget,-- Thou art a child and knowest So little of thy life! But music tells One secret of the world thro' which thou goest To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: Life is in tune with harmony so deep That when the notes are lowest Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep, For God will not forget. VI HUNTING SONG Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest. Hark, how the galloping measure Quickens the pulses of pleasure; Gaily saluting the morn With the long clear note of the hunting-horn Echoing up from the valley, Over the mountain side,-- Rally, you hunters, rally, Rally, and ride! Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine, Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine! Leave all your troubles behind you, Ride where they never can find you, Into the gladness of morn, With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow, Sweeping along with the wind,-- Follow, you hunters, follow, Follow and find! What will you reach with your riding? What is the charm of the chase? Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. Danger is sweet when you front her,-- In at the death, every hunter! Now on the breeze the mort is borne In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Winding merrily, over and over,-- Come, come, come! Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover! Turn again, home! VII DANCE-MUSIC Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune, Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. Half of it sighing, half of it smiling, Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling, Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. Every drop of blood Rises with the flood, Rocking on the waves of the strain; Youth and beauty glide Turning with the tide-- Music making one out of twain, Bearing them away, and away, and away, Like a tone and its terce-- Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, And reverse. Violins leading, take up the measure, Turn with the tune again,--clarinets clear Answer their pleading,--harps full of pleasure Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. Semiquaver notes, Merry little motes, Tangled in the haze Of the lamp's golden rays, Quiver everywhere In the air, Like a spray,-- Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune, Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon, Bears them all away, and away, and away, Floating in the trance of the dance. Then begins a measure stately, Languid, slow, serene; All the dancers move sedately, Stepping leisurely and straitly, With a courtly mien; Crossing hands and changing places, Bowing low between, While the minuet inlaces Waving arms and woven paces,-- Glittering damaskeen. Where is she whose form is folden In its royal sheen? >From our longing eyes withholden By her mystic girdle golden, Beauty sought but never seen, Music walks the maze, a queen. VIII THE SYMPHONY Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art Is only to enchant the sense. For every timid motion of the heart, And every passion too intense To bear the chain of the imperfect word, And every tremulous longing, stirred By spirit winds that come we know not whence And go we know not where, And every inarticulate prayer Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, Like some bewildered bird That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, The drowsy hour between the day and night, The wakeful hour between the night and day,-- Imprisoned, waits for thee, Impatient, yearns for thee, The queen who comes to set the captive free Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; And every dumb desire that Storms within the breast Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest. All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. For love is joy and grief, And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, In pain most human, and in rapture brief Almost divine. Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; And love would give, yet hungers to receive; Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. Love is most bold: He leads his dreams like armed men in line; Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, Calling the fortress to resign Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes He claims the longed-for prize: Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach The mystery of measured tone, The Pentecostal speech That every listener heareth as his own. For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,-- Diminished chords that quiver with desire, And major chords that glow with perfect peace,-- Have fallen from above; And thou canst give release In music to the burdened heart of love. Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain The yearning theme, and let the flute reply In placid melody, while violins complain, And sob, and sigh, With muted string; Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, While 'cellos plead and plead again, With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. So runs the andante, making plain The hopes and fears of love without a word. Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream, While horns and mild bassoons are heard In tender tune, that seems to float Like an enchanted boat Upon the downward-gliding stream, Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, Where every instrument is sounding free, And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown Around the barque of love That sweeps, with smiling skies above, A royal galley, many-oared, Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord. IX IRIS Light to the eye and Music to the ear,-- These are the builders of the bridge that springs >From earths's dim shore of half-remembered things To reach the spirit's home, the heavenly sphere Where nothing silent is and nothing dark. So when I see the rainbow's arc Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear Music, and every colour sings: And while the symphony builds up its round Full sweep of architectural harmony Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see A bow of colour in the bow of sound. Red as the dawn the trumpet rings, Imperial purple from the trombone flows, The mellow horn melts into evening rose. Blue as the sky, the choir of strings Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue, Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, With threads of quivering light shot through and through. Green as the mantle that the summer flings Around the world, the pastoral reeds in time Embroider melodies of May and June. Yellow as gold, Yea, thrice-refined gold, And purer than the treasures of the mine, Floods of the human voice divine Along the arch in choral song are rolled. So bends the bow complete: And radiant rapture flows Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet, That the uplifted spirit hardly knows Whether the Music-Light that glows Within the arch of tones and colours seven Is sunset-peace of earth, or sunrise-joy of Heaven. X SEA AND SHORE Music, I yield to thee; As swimmer to the sea I give my Spirit to the flood of song: Bear me upon thy breast In rapture and at rest, Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; From strife and struggle bring release, And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace. Remember'd songs, most dear, In living songs I hear, While blending voices gently swing and sway In melodies of love, Whose mighty currents move, With singing near and singing far away; Sweet in the glow of morning light, And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night. Music, in thee we float, And lose the lonely note Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, Until at last we find The life to love resigned In harmony of joy restored again; And songs that cheered our mortal days Break on the coast of light in endless hymns of praise.
Henry Dyke
#Music

Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock, Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock? What are you making here? "Listen," said Pan, -- "Out of a river-reed music for man!"
Henry Dyke
#Music

I IN EXCELSIS Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. One is the mountain-height, Uplifted in the loneliness of light Beyond the realm of shadows,--fine, And far, and clear,--where advent of the night Means only glorious nearness of the stars, And dawn, unhindered, breaks above the bars That long the lower world in twilight keep. Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, In vain expense of passion, pass Before thy sight like visions in a glass, Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep Across the sea and leave no trace Of trouble on that immemorial face,-- So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight The wounds men give, the things for which they fight. Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,-- A lichen clinging to the rock: There sails a fleet upon the deep,-- A wandering flock Of snow-winged gulls: and yonder, in the plain, A marble palace shines,--a grain Of mica glittering in the rain. Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled By voiceless winds: and far between The rolling clouds new shores and peaks are seen, In shimmering robes of green and gold, And faint aerial hue That silent fades into the silent blue. Thou, from thy mountain-hold, All day, in tranquil wisdom, looking down On distant scenes of human toil and strife, All night, with eyes aware of loftier life, Uplooking to the sky, where stars are sown, Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white Unto the harvest of the sons of light, And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime The few strong souls that dare to climb The slippery crags and find thee on the height. II DE PROFUNDIS But in the depth thou hast another home, For hearts less daring, or more frail. Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; And pilgrim-souls that roam With weary feet o'er hill and dale, Bearing the burden and the heat Of toilful days, Turn from the dusty ways To find thee in thy green and still retreat. Here is no vision wide outspread Before the lonely and exalted seat Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, A little garden, and a sheltered nook, With outlooks brief and sweet Across the meadows, and along the brook,-- A little stream that little knows Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,-- A little field that bears a little wheat To make a portion of earth's daily bread. The vast cloud-armies overhead Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell Whence the storm comes nor where it goes. Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well; Thy daily task is done, And though a lowly one, Thou gavest it of thy best, And art content to rest In patience till its slow reward is won. Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear; Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear; For life is love, and love is always near. Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart, Sure of itself and sure of all the rest, Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part In open converse, bringing forth its best: Here is Sweet music, melting every chain Of lassitude and pain: And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts, The tender nurse, who lifts The soul grown weary of the waking world, And lays it, with its thoughts all furled, Its fears forgotten, and its passions still, On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.
Henry Dyke
#Peace

Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings; Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling, See how the pine-wood grows alive with wings; Blue-jays fluttering, yodeling and crying, Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass, Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,-- Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass? Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing, Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn; Red are the hill-sides of the early ploughing, Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn. Earth seems asleep still, but she's only feigning; Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest. Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast! Now on the plum the snowy bloom is sifted, Now on the peach the glory of the rose, Over the hills a tender haze is drifted, Full to the brim the yellow river flows. Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten, Greener than emeralds shining in the sun. Who has wrought the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen! The mocking-bird is singing Spring has begun. Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving! All of his heart he pours into his lay,-- "Love, love, love, and pure delight of living: Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!" Fair in your face I read the flowery presage, Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth: Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,-- Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!
Henry Dyke
#Spring

O Music hast thou only heard The laughing river, the singing bird, The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,-- Nothing but Nature's melodies? Nay, thou hearest all her tones, As a Queen must hear! Sounds of wrath and fear, Mutterings, shouts, and moans, Madness, tumult, and despair, All she has that shakes the air With voices fierce and wild! Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,-- Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign Triumphant in a world of storm and strain! Echo the long-drawn sighs Of the mounting wind in the pines; And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise In the dark of the troubled deep To break on the beach in fiery lines. Echo the far-off roll of thunder, Rumbling loud And ever louder, under The blue-black curtain of cloud, Where the lightning serpents gleam. Echo the moaning Of the forest in its sleep Like a giant groaning In the torment of a dream. Now an interval of quiet For a moment holds the air In the breathless hush Of a silent prayer. Then the sudden rush Of the rain, and the riot Of the shrieking, tearing gale Breaks loose in the night, With a fusillade of hail! Hear the forest fight, With its tossing arms that crack and clash In the thunder's cannonade, While the lightning's forked flash Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash! Hear the breakers' deepening roar, Driven like a herd of cattle In the wild stampede of battle, Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore! Is it the end of all? Will the land crumble and fall? Nay, for a voice replies Out of the hidden skies, "Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go, So long, O wind, shalt thou blow: Return to your bounds and cease, And let the earth have peace!" O Music, lead the way-- The stormy night is past, Lift up our hearts to greet the day, And the joy of things that last. The dissonance and pain That mortals must endure, Are changed in thine immortal strain To something great and pure. True love will conquer strife, And strength from conflict flows, For discord is the thorn of life And harmony the rose.
Henry Dyke
#Music

The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies! With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow. No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colors ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While the ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams. In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again. The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them clear, Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer. Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Canals and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.
Henry Dyke
#Heaven

In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, Catching the lilt of every easy tune; But when the day departs he sings of love,-- His own wild song beneath the listening moon.
Henry Dyke
#Short

Peace without Justice is a low estate,-- A coward cringing to an iron Fate! But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,-- We'll pay the price of war to make it real.
Henry Dyke
#Peace #Short

The fire of love was burning, yet so low That in the dark we scarce could see its rays, And in the light of perfect-placid days Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow. Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways We missed the radiant heat of long ago. Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears, That drove us trembling to each other's arms -- Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears, Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame.
Henry Dyke
#Sorrow

Time is Too Slow for those who Wait, Too Swift for those who Fear, Too Long for those who Grieve, Too Short for those who Rejoice; But for those who Love, Time is not.
Henry Dyke
#Short

Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede Of marble maidens round this urn divine: But when your golden voice began to read, The empty urn was filled with Chian wine.
Henry Dyke
#Short

I put my heart to school In the world, where men grow wise, "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule; Come back when you win a prize." My heart came back again: "Now where is the prize?" I cried. ---- "The rule was false, and the prize was pain, And the teacher's name was Pride." I put my heart to school In the woods, where veeries sing, And brooks run cool and clear; In the fields, where wild flowers spring, And the blue of heaven bends near. "Go out," I said: "you are half a fool, But perhaps they can teach you here." "And why do you stay so long, My heart, and where do you roam?" The answer came with a laugh and a song, --- "I find this school is home."
Henry Dyke
#School