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                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ




                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
                           A BOOK OF LYRICS:
                                   BY
                              BLISS CARMAN

                          [Illustration: logo]

                     CHARLES L. WEBSTER AND COMPANY
                     PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII




                            COPYRIGHT, 1893,
                            BY BLISS CARMAN.
                        (_All rights reserved._)

                                PRESS OF
                           JENKINS & MCCOWAN,
                               NEW YORK.

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    The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their
similarity of tone. They are variations on a single theme, more or less
aptly suggested by the title, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_. It seemed better
to bring together between the same covers only those pieces of work
which happened to be in the same key, rather than to publish a larger
book of more uncertain aim.

                                                                   B. C.

    _By Grand Pré, September, 1893._




                                CONTENTS


                                                    PAGE

               LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ                  11

               WHY                                    15

               THE UNRETURNING                        18

               A WINDFLOWER                           19

               IN LYRIC SEASON                        21

               THE PENSIONERS                         23

               AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD                 27

               WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM           31

               SEVEN THINGS                           44

               A SEA CHILD                            47

               PULVIS ET UMBRA                        48

               THROUGH THE TWILIGHT                   61

               CARNATIONS IN WINTER                   63

               A NORTHERN VIGIL                       65

               THE EAVESDROPPER                       73

               IN APPLE TIME                          77

               WANDERER                               79

               AFOOT                                  89

               WAYFARING                              94

               THE END OF THE TRAIL                  103

               THE VAGABONDS                         111

               WHITHER                               118




                                   TO

                                S. M. C.

           _Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit._




                         LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ


               The sun goes down, and over all
                 These barren reaches by the tide
               Such unelusive glories fall,
                 I almost dream they yet will bide
                 Until the coming of the tide.

               And yet I know that not for us,
                 By any ecstasy of dream,
               He lingers to keep luminous
                 A little while the grievous stream,
                 Which frets, uncomforted of dream—

               A grievous stream, that to and fro
                 Athrough the fields of Acadie
               Goes wandering, as if to know
                 Why one beloved face should be
                 So long from home and Acadie.

               Was it a year or lives ago
                 We took the grasses in our hands,
               And caught the summer flying low
                 Over the waving meadow lands,
                 And held it there between our hands?

               The while the river at our feet—
                 A drowsy inland meadow stream—
               At set of sun the after-heat
                 Made running gold, and in the gleam
                 We freed our birch upon the stream.

               There down along the elms at dusk
                 We lifted dripping blade to drift,
               Through twilight scented fine like musk,
                 Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
                 Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.

               And that we took into our hands
                 Spirit of life or subtler thing—
               Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
                 Of death, and taught us, whispering,
                 The secret of some wonder-thing.

               Then all your face grew light, and seemed
                 To hold the shadow of the sun;
               The evening faltered, and I deemed
                 That time was ripe, and years had done
                 Their wheeling underneath the sun.

               So all desire and all regret,
                 And fear and memory, were naught;
               One to remember or forget
                 The keen delight our hands had caught;
                 Morrow and yesterday were naught.

               The night has fallen, and the tide....
                 Now and again comes drifting home,
               Across these aching barrens wide,
                 A sigh like driven wind or foam:
                 In grief the flood is bursting home.




                                  WHY


                        For a name unknown,
                        Whose fame unblown
                        Sleeps in the hills
                          For ever and aye;

                        For her who hears
                        The stir of the years
                        Go by on the wind
                          By night and day;

                        And heeds no thing
                        Of the needs of spring,
                        Of autumn