



Produced by David Edwards, David Maranhao and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                        -----------------------

                        _Among the Trees Again_

                        -----------------------




[Illustration:

                         Among the Trees Again
                            By Evaleen Stein

                       The Bowen-Merrill Company
                              Indianapolis

]




                             COPYRIGHT 1902
                       THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
                                OCTOBER




                        -----------------------

                  _To the memory of my beloved brother
                           Orth Harper Stein_

                        -----------------------




                               _CONTENTS_


                                                     PAGE
               AMONG THE TREES AGAIN                    3

               APRIL CONTRADICTIONS                    21

               APRIL MORNING                            8

               AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE           34

               AT NIGHT                                50

               BETWEEN SEASONS                         40

               BINDWEED                                46

               BY THE KANKAKEE                         64

               CACTUS LAND, THE                        67

               CASCADE RAVINE, THE                     71

               DREAM ECHOES                            20

               EARLY NOVEMBER                          79

               FISHER FOLK, THE                        66

               FOREBODING                              74

               GOLDEN WEDDING, THE                     78

               HOME FIELDS, THE                        52

               IDEALS                                  30

               IMPATIENT                               58

               IN LATE SEPTEMBER                       75

               IN SUMMER DEEPS                         54

               IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL      16

               IN THE MOONLIGHT                        45

               JANUARY THAW                            84

               JUNE                                    42

               LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE LIFE BOAT, THE   69

               LITTLE LOVE SONG, A                     41

               LITTLE SISTER, THE                      88

               MONTEZUMA                               38

               MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS                85

               MY LITTLE MASTER                        12

               NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE, THE        14

               ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY”     11

               ON THE PRAIRIE                          62

               OVER THE SIERRA                         61

               PERFECT FRIENDSHIP, THE                 83

               PLEA, A                                 22

               RAIN ON THE RIVER                       59

               REDBIRD, THE                             6

               SEA-DREAMS                              28

               SEA-GARDENS OF SANTA CATALINA, THE      89

               SONG                                    55

               SONG OF THOUGHT, A                      44

               SUMMER SHOWER, THE                      49

               SUNNY NOON                              77

               SYMPATHY                                53

               TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE”   31

               THRUSH, THE                             36

               WHEREFORE WINGS?                        81

               WINTRY TINTS                            82

               WISHING-SPRING, THE                      7

               WOOD FANCY, A                           35




                        _Among the Trees Again_




                _I saw a meadow-land, one day;
                  The grass stood green and high,
                But naught appealed in any way
                  To stay the passer-by._

                _Till suddenly the sunlight strayed
                  Those leafy tangles through,
                And touched to fire, on every blade
                  A golden network grew!_

                _A million airy cobwebs gleamed
                  So silken-soft and bright,
                That all the level lowland seemed
                  A tracery of light._

                _And as I watched the webs, I thought
                  The field of life along,
                As slight as these, so I have wrought
                  With slender threads of song._

                _They bind the grass, and blossoms, too,
                  The bee and butterfly,
                And some go faintly wavering through
                  The tender azure sky._

                _Yet still I wait that golden glow
                  Whose fine transmuting art
                Must smite my web of song, and so
                  Reveal it to the heart._

                _Ah therefore, thou, I pray thee, touch
                  These frail threads I have spun,
                With grace of sympathy, for such
                  Might light them like the sun!_




                        _AMONG THE TREES AGAIN_


        Aye, throb, my heart! is it not sweet to be,
          To breathe, to bide, by growing things once more!
                  We did not guess before
        How close our life was locked in greenery.
        Hark! how the sparrows in the apple tree
          Are chattering, chirping, till their tiny throats
        Are fairly brimmed and quivering through and through
                  With rollick notes!
              Good morrow, little birds!
        Good morrow! morrow!—O, I would I knew
              Some light-winged language, kindred singing words
                  Wherein to say
            This day, this day, at last this happy day
        I come to be a neighbor unto you!

        Too long, too long, we heard strange footsteps pass,
          Harsh, strident echoes stricken out of stone;
        But never softened by green, growing grass,
          Or mellowed to faint, earthy undertone.
                  And then, O heart,
        Did we not ofttimes feel ourselves apart,
                              Alone,
          Wrought to vague discord by some touch unknown?
        Did we not weary with a nameless grief,
          In dreaming of tall clover, daisy sown,
                    Or music blown
        From the wind-harping of some little leaf?

        It was not that within the city’s core
          There dwelt no sympathies, nor interests keen,
              No human ties to temper its fatigues.
        —’Twas only that we needed something more;
                      Some note rang wrong;
        A foolish fancy, may be, but still strong,
          That life sang sweeter snatched between the green
              Close-lapping verdure of a fret of twigs.

        Where all the ground was paven out of sight,
            And only from a far-off strip of sky
              My mother Nature strove to speak to me,
        I could not harken to her voice aright;
                      I knew not why,
              But ever to mine ears some whispering tree
        Seemed of the inmost golden soul of her,
                      The best interpreter.
            And so what wonder, Life, that you and I,
        Shut out from such glad confidence, should miss
                      And grieve for this.

        —But all this yearning we’ll forget; for now
                        Within my window,
                                So,
                          By finger-tips,
        I’ll draw into mine arms this dancing bough,
            And stroke its silky buds across my lips.
        O generous-natured, friendly, neighbor tree!
          Weave gentle blessings in the shade and shine;
        And granting gracious patience to my plea,
          Some simple lesson of your lore make mine,
                      Make mine, I pray!
        O, be a kindly teacher unto me,
          And I’ll pour out such worshipful heart-wine,
        Not any bird that sings to you all day,
              Or nestles to low, leafy lullaby,
        Shall hold you in such dear observance, nay,
              Nor love you half so tenderly as I.




                             _THE REDBIRD_


                  Swept lightly by the south wind
                    The elm leaves softly stirred,
                  And in their pale green clusters
                    There straightway bloomed a bird!

                  His glossy feathers glistened
                    With dyes as richly red
                  As any tulip flaming
                    From out the garden bed.

                  But ah, unlike the tulips,
                    In joyous strain, ere long,
                  This redbird flower unfolded
                    A heart of golden song!




                          _THE WISHING-SPRING_


                I knelt beside the fairy spring,
                  Among the tasseled weeds;
                Far off, with dreamy murmuring,
                  The wind piped through the reeds.

                Once, twice, the brimming cup I raised
                  With trembling finger-tips,
                And in its limpid crystal gazed,
                  Nor laid it to my lips.

                Ah me! the eager heart-desires,
                  So thronging swift they came,
                My spirit surged like wind-swept fires,
                  I knew not which to name.

                —Then all at once, I quickly quaffed
                  The shining drops; but lo,
                The wish with that enchanted draught
                  No man must ever know!




                            _APRIL MORNING_


             I lean upon the bridge’s rail,
               In idle joy, and gazing down,
             So watch the frothy bubbles sail,
             And bits of tangled grasses trail
               Along the current’s tawny brown.

             The river flows at full to-day;
               And though within the tide it pours
               There grow no mocking sycamores,
             Nor any crystal hints betray
               The spicewood thickets, nor the pale
             Soft willow wands of pearly gray,
               Whose interwoven mazes veil
                 The fretted banks, yet here and there,
                 Adown some swirling eddy, where
                   A delving sunbeam shines,
                       What mines
               Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold
                         The waters hold!

             And so, by rapid currents rolled
               In billowy swells that break and chime
             In riotous tumult uncontrolled,
             The March flood plashes past the pier;
             But through its sweeping tones, I hear
               The sweet, receding murmurs rhyme
               The burden of the April time;
                 And throbbing like a glad refrain,
                 Now far, now full, now far again,
                     The freshened breeze
             Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear
                   The fitful, tinkling cadences.

             But listen! faint, from out the sheer
                 Deep borders of the morning sky,
                 Slips down the distance-softened cry
                 Of shy wild geese that northward fly;
             It vibrates nearer, and more near,
                             —And see!
               There! wheeling into sight,
                 Far as the vision may descry.
                     A level-winged advancing “V,”
               They keep their swift, unswerving flight.
                 North, north, beyond that scudding fleece
                 Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese,
                   That join their ranks, and journey, too,
                   On,—on,—into the farthest blue.

             Then, from the boundless space above,
               I drop my dazzled eyes to view
               The soft field-grass and meadow-rue,
             The restful, brown earth, that I love.
                 A trick of blinding sun, maybe,
             That halo on the hills may prove—
                 And yet, they are so dear to me,
                   The golden glory that they wear
                   Is like none other anywhere,
               And, in my heart, I hold it true.

             Though, surely, what least loving eye
               Could wander up the river there,
             And see aught otherwise than I?
                       Or could deny
               That yonder little glimpse is fair?
             The slender point of jutting land
               Where, faintly burgeoning anew
             With rounds of downy buds, there stand
                 A score of water-willow trees
               In clustered tufts, and twinkling through,
                 Across the stream, beside of these,
             A line of shining yellow light;
                   And half in sight,
             And hidden half, upon the right,
                 By wild red-sumac shrubberies,
             A windmill, rising tall and white,
                 Slow turning in the breeze.

             And then beyond—but how express,
               What word in any tongue conveys
             The depth of dreamy tenderness
               That laps, and wraps, and overlays
                 The far blue hills,
                 And spills and fills
               The valleys with pale purple haze?
             O, what sweet syllables confess
               The glad heart-happiness that plays
               Through all my pulses as I gaze,
               And drink the beauty, past all praise—
             The old, immortal blessedness
                     Of April days!




                 _ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY”_


         A plaintive song, so strangely sweet and old,
         That all my soul within itself would fold
           And gently keep so quaint a melody,
         That like a bird’s its notes of liquid gold
           Might oft repeat their sweetness unto me.

         A tale of joyless splendor long ago,
         Of wedded lady and of loveless woe,
           How she to soothe her sick heart’s misery
         Cradled in vines her little child, and so
           Sang of dear love beneath a greenwood tree.

         And through it all there runs such saddest plaint,
         As sweet as lutes, now murmurous, now faint,
           Till, like the far-heard sighing of the sea,
         It sweeps in gathering passion past restraint,
           Then breaks, and croons in mournful minor key.

         Ah, well-a-day! I listen breathless till
         I half believe that sorrowing singer still
           Dreams on divinely by the whispering tree;
         For in your voice all tenderest heart-strings thrill,
           And all the woodland’s marvelous minstrelsy!




                           _MY LITTLE MASTER_


               O little poet, winging through
               The sheer, clear blue,
               Is it the sky you’re singing to?
                   Or is it that afar you see
                   Some leafy, laden apple-tree,
                 And half concealed and half confessed,
                         A nest?
               Ah, truly now, I would I knew
                   The happy secret of your glee,
                 That joy wherewith you birds are blest,
                         Red-breast!

               So airy and so light of wing,
               You soar and sing,
               I pray, could you not softly fling,
                   My merry minstrel, down to me
                   Some echo of that melody
                 That spills from out your tiny bill?
                         Some trill
               Of all those liquid tones that ring
                   So full of purest poetry,
                 That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until
                         They fill
               These vibrant seas of azure air,
               Whose blue tides bear
               Their witching sweetness everywhere?
                   O little master, heed to me!
                   And ah, so true, so tenderly,
                 I’ll learn to sing how lovely grows
                         This rose,
               Till, by and by, dear heart, I’ll dare
                   To touch some bolder note, maybe,
                 Some chord whence deeper music flows;
                         Who knows?




                   _THE NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE_


       The roar of the seas where the freezing clouds lower,
         The shriek of the storm-wind, the turbulent tide,
       The conquering currents, all vaunt of their power,
         And taunt with the centuries’ secret they hide.

       Of towering icebergs and glittering floes,
         The sun of the midnight in luminous rings,
       Of hopes held at bay by beleaguering snows,
         Of man in his weakness the fierce ocean sings.

       Bright over the sky the aurora is red,
         And crimson as life-blood the snowflakes below;
       Swift updarting streamers of fire overspread
         All heaven and earth with a roseate glow.

       Hark! Hark! to the rumble, the thunderous roar
         Of the ancient ice-mountains that shatter and rend
       And crash with the tide dashing up on the shore,
         In turmoil titanic and toil without end.

       O, woe to the ship that the pitiless clutch
         Of those crushing ice-demons drags down to her doom!
       The path to the pole is o’er-scattered with such,
         And deep sleep the heroes the tempests entomb.

       Beneath the wan moon of the long arctic night
         The frost-smitten sea stretches boundless and lone;
       The Shores of the Dead Men loom spectral and white,
         In Helheim, the death-goddess waits for her own.

       But ho, to her hatred! the soul of the brave
         He bears not who dares not her fury defy!
       And ho, to her giants of wind and of wave!
         We crave but to meet and defeat them, or die!

       Farewell, and farewell!—the anchor rope strains,
         Loose cable and canvas, and hasten we forth!
       The fire of desire quivers hot in our veins,
         We must sail with the gale, to the north! to the north!

       Must speed with the blast to its ultimate goal,
         The path of its pinions must follow and find
       The lure of the ages, the boreal pole,
         And the measureless halls of the house of the wind!




                  _IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL_


              O golden day, wherein at last,
              Long leagues and wintry overpast,
                I stand beneath a sky as blue
                As April violets drenched in dew,
                And live within a dream come true!

              From rosy-berried pepper-trees
              The winds blow spicy fragrances;
                The palms sway softly to and fro,
                    And down below,
              Between the glossy leaves of these,
                The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep
              The mission garden, where the bees
                    Are hoarding deep
              Of heliotrope that hangs the wall
              As for some princely festival,
                    While white and tall
              Bright lilies bloom in grace untold,
                And those rare roses, passing all
              In splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”

              O heart, my heart, throb high and fast
                With rapture! for how couldst thou know
                Amid the far-off frost and snow
              Where all the skies are overcast
                And shrill and chill the north-winds blow,
                    How couldst thou know
              December heavens anywhere
                    Could show such rare
              Such tender and divinest guise,
                    That earth and air
                Could weave such strange, resistless spell
              As this that folds us flower-wise
                    At sweet San Gabriel!

              San Gabriel! the holy words
                Fall soft as music on the ear;
                I think they are as sweet to hear
              As any song of summer birds;
                And harkening them, the while in clear,
                    Pure, quivering notes,
                The ancient bells