Where Wild Ferns Grow

The wild ferns grow, about this home of mine,
Beneath cathedral trees where peace is found.
The silent mountains are green-robed in pine;
And deer are startled by a man-made sound.
The huckleberries grow along the trails;
Gay flowers beautify in nature's bowl.
A master-painting in a gallery pales
Before the work of the Great Oversoul.
The glowing lamps I need are singing stars,
My symphony, a joyous lilting bird.
No blinding walls of greed or hatred's scars
Where silence speaks a sermon that is heard.
Where wild ferns grow upon the living sod,
I hold a daily rendezvous with God.

Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

The Willow Sings

The willow sings as the night moths dance--
A soothing song on its rhythmic strings.
While flickering moonlit shadows prance
        The willow sings.

The night wind, whispering gently, brings
The song of the willow--an old romance.
To my tethered heart each memory clings.

I thrill to an old caress, a glance;
My love returns on a night bird's wings.
While firefly-torches, glowing, enhance,
        The willow sings!

Twilight Symphony

(To Margaret Ball Dickson)

She guides a tranquil Pegasus and mounts
The crest of laureate hills, and humbly counts
The hours by friends who hear within her song:
The eagle's dauntless challenge, clear and strong;
The lark's rinsed lyric through cool April air;
The timid phoebe's lullaby of prayer;
The benediction of a killdeer-chime
Tuning the heart to peace at vesper time.
With mellowed overtones, serene and free,
How beautiful her twilight symphony!

Too Brief the Interlude

Through silent air, cool-dewed--
A country dawn is never trite--
A lark sang morning in my heart until
In ecstasy I watched the sunrise spill
Its gold upon a gull in flight--
Too brief the interlude ...

The sun paused with his chin upon the hill;
Departed in a blaze of light.
In gentle quietude--
The soul of beauty nude--
Beneath star-mariners of night,
A killdeer-Angelus chimed, "Still ... Be still...!"

Wealth of the West

Give me the joy of the laughing brooks,
The flute-throated meadow larks;
The peace of the cooling emerald nooks
Or a killdeer-cry through the dark.

Give me the gold of the wild daffodils;
The violet's sweet perfume;
The beauty of bluebells on greening hills;
Let me bloom as the wild roses bloom.

Let my thoughts be high as the mountains reach;
Let me hear every star that calls;
Let me sing my songs with the silver speech
Of the rivers and waterfalls.

When I am Old

Let me still see the beauty of the hills
Waving immortal banners in the spring;
Hear lark-flutes pierce the dawn. But let me ring
The bells of joy that youthful hearts may sing
Unhaunted by the twilight hours. Let frills
Of laughter trim my soul, and daffodils
Of sunshine bloom within my heart that spills
Joyance and hope at each day's offering.

May little children love to walk with me
No matter how infirm my step, and find
A kindred spirit, singing joyously,
Questing in burgeoning meadows of the mind.
And when at last I hear the Twilight Gong,
May hearts remember lyrics from my song.

Midwest Chaparral

Aspen Grove

Remembering, I saw
A grove of aspen by a cooling spring
That sang of pine-robed canyons as it tripped
Across the road. I heard their velvet laughter
Tuning the twilight hours to reverence;                                        
Then whispering lullabies to little stars
That twinkled over moon-veiled mountain heights
Like jewels in the dusky robe of night.

When dawn called radiantly
Wearing a copper veil announcing day,
Majestically they reached to touch the sky,
Yet loved the wild rose maidens at their feet
Content to catch an errant sunbeam's kiss.
Their fluttering leaves like tinkling silvery bells
Bade lilting robins meet for morning prayer.

When lightning streaking through
A darkened sky brought awful fear, they played
A symphony to calm the elements;                                                
As even now they calm my restless soul.
When lying sleepless on my bed in pain,
The quiet laughter of this aspen grove
Retunes my heart and I am spirit-free.

Plowing

I watch the west field being plowed today:
My grandson rides the tractor leisurely.
Viewing the fresh-turned furrows of black clay,
Through dim, nostalgic eyes I seem to see
His grandpa walking there behind the plow
The lines about his neck; his sleek bay team
Plodding with labored breath. I listen now
Longing to hear the seagull's strident scream,
The robins bugling, and the mating lark
Playing in ecstasy his silver flute
Above the rhythmic noise--Then hark! Oh, hark!
Comes startled silence. With the tractor mute,
Song fills the air! My grandson wears a frown--
His grandpa's team would never have broke down!

Where Robins Call

Through city-sounds, I hear the new green word
That April in the country speaks. Joy-stirred,
I swift-wing back where robin bugles call
And larks release a splashing waterfall
Of melody to crystal-thread the dawn.
I watch the sunrise spill pale gold upon
A white hawk wheeling low against the blue.
The requiem of mourning doves tolls through
The wrens small chatterings. Then hush! Oh, hush!
Canary lyrics frill the willow brush
And fringe the hawthorne. Low-contralto clear
A killdeer-Angelus chimes, "God is near."
Prophetic are symphonic canticles
From fields, fresh-furrowed, blossoming with gulls.

I Love the Old

The hills no longer echo songs I sang
When copper glow announced the break of day.
The winding trails where children's laughter rang
Are concrete walks; and all along the way
Where pink wild roses, modestly yet gay,
Lifted their faces to the sun are found
Their cultured sisters flaunting an array
Of brilliant color. Thirsty, parching ground
Is now a greening carpet where abound
Tall junipers with pfitzers at their feet.
The loved old rambling home, enlarged and gowned
In luxury, is leisure's calm retreat.
Upon my soul the homestead left its stamp
For still I love to light the coal-oil lamp.

Not Far from Earth

I ask not for the highest, brightest star
On which to dwell;
But give me a little twinkling one
So near the earth I love
That I can smell
The pines upon the mountains
And the sweet breath of wild roses
By the lanes;
And hear the gentle lowing of cattle
In clover meadows
Where timid new-born foal
Toss their silken manes--
A little star so near to earth that I,
When looking down
At dusk upon a quiet town,
Can watch the stars come out among the trees
And name them, lingering long
Upon the one I love.
I ask not for the highest,brightest star
But a twinkling one not far from earth, not far.

Song of Praise

O Master Poet, for Thy immortal poems
That freely lilt from springtime's fluent tongue,
       I sing my praise to Thee.

I hear Thy footsteps in the April grasses;
Thy lyric voice when larks in the bronze hour
Release a crystal fountain for my thirst.
Thy fingers touch my face in April rain.
Serenity is in Thy symphonies
Strummed on night's harpsichord by silver birches.

O Master Poet, for Thy poetry
I see and hear in every living thing,
       My song ascends to Thee.