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The Piper of Dreams
by
Noël H Wilcox
1927
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CONTENTS.
Piper of Dreams |
5 |
Dartmouth Lakes |
6 |
The Little Rivers |
7 |
Sapphics |
8 |
The Awakening |
9 |
Echo Mountain |
10 |
Reverie |
11 |
Woodland Lullaby |
12 |
Iris |
13 |
Swallows |
14 |
The Trail |
15 |
Fisherman’s Luck |
16 |
The Medway |
17 |
The Squirrel’s Daisy |
18 |
Thrift |
19 |
The Fish Weir |
20 |
Avonian Hills |
21 |
The Swamp |
22 |
To an Aster |
23 |
Rainbow Gold |
24 |
The Three Elms |
25 |
The Apple Harvest |
26 |
Hulks |
27 |
Kempt Shore |
28 |
Blomidon |
29 |
Peggy’s Cove |
30 |
Castle Wait and See |
31 |
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PIPER OF DREAMS
Pipe to me, piper of beautiful dreams, Pensive you sit by the bole of a tree, Light and delightful your melody seems; Piper, my piper, pipe blithely to me! Charm to my vision blue nymphs from the rivers Momently hovering, mistlike and frail; Call all the loveliness nature delivers, Shyly, my piper, her beauties unveil! Open my lips with the sweetness of earth— Open my ears to the songs of the air— I, too, would sing of the land of my birth, Lend me a reed and its secrets declare! Pipe to me, piper of beautiful dreams. Pensive you sit by the bole of a tree, Light and delightful your melody seems; Piper, my piper, pipe blithely to me! [page 5]
DARTMOUTH LAKES
Across this drifted mantle on the lake The crunching snowshoes print their stencilled track With swinging stride, where dinghys used to tack, Swift paddles dip, and curling wavelets break. Only the fairy zephyrs seem awake To romp around the islands’ sleeping trees, For where they touch them in their revelries The air is starred with many a glittering flake. More beauty can no other season show Or moonlit magic, than winter, when her sway Holds firm the locks and stills the forest stream That fain would murmur in a wintry dream, And summer glades, the haunts of holiday, Are wrapped in silvery silence deep as snow. [page 6]
THE LITTLE RIVERS
The little rivers safely flow Beneath their coverlet of snow, From hidden chime of icy bells The muffled music faintly wells And tinkles from the rills below. Content are they, for well they know The rains that drenched gay autumn’s glow Have fed the streams in all the dells, The little rivers. Happy they murmur as they go Their wintry lilt, a glad rondeau Inspired by hope, which now foretells Blithe spring’s return, whose magic spells Will free them all, they love her so, The little rivers. [page 7]
SAPPHICS
Drenched with showers, dappled with clouds, elusive, Dawns the springtime, bursting with buds and sunshine Over every meadow and hill and woodland, Always capricious. Feed from iron bondage of northern silence, Strewn with sodden remnants of autumn’s grandeur, Down their courses, murmuring pebbly music, Sparkle the brooklets. Back to loved lands, valiantly building new homes, Feathered folk, now mated and hopeful, pour out Limpid notes, enrapturing all who listen, Breathing forth beauty. Here among the mosses and bracken nestling, Frail and fragrant mayflowers lift their faces, Now no longer veiled with the hood of winter, Wistful and winsome. Man, too, taught the mystery that enfolds life, Wakening it to meaningful love and beauty, Knows the heart of spiritual purpose living, Ceaselessly throbbing. [page 8]
THE AWAKENING
There sighs a wind that blows the world awake And breaks the grip of winter’s icy thrall; It waves a wand o’er garden, stream and lake, And breathes to restless birds a welcome call. Then bulbs begin to stir in thawing beds; From dayless chill so glad to find day warm, The snowdrops lift their brave and dainty heads And give a friendly nod to every storm; Then crocuses, their shell-like petals preen, And then the scillas—clear, cerulean blue; Soon thoughtful pansies peer amid the green Of lupin leaves held out to catch the dew; And colour every tulip chalice fills When golden trumpets grace the daffodils. [page 9]
ECHO MOUNTAIN
Athwart our lake Long shadows, light as a caress are sweeping. The hermit thrush is sleeping. A frowning hill whose granite crags now make A deep reflection, seems to dare me break The solitude. My challenge call is heard: At once returns: and then the echoing word Reverberates to whip the hills awake. It echoes on From ridge to ridge and sets the forest ringing, But far and fainter winging, Until so far no ear is sure it hears The voiceless voice is hushed in distant spheres And then is gone. [page 10]
REVERIE
I listen alone beside a lake That’s full of stars which quietly take Their light from heaven, where drifted deep They glimmer above the woodland sleep. Afar there sounds a sleepy note, Blown from the nest of the sweet white-throat, That sings just once in feathered dream Beyond some shadowy wildwood stream That dances down the crystal stairs. A breathless breeze brings piny airs Upgathered in a forest dale, And leaves them here beside the trail. With measured pulse the silence beats His muffled drum, while quiet entreats From star and tree, from heart and sod— “Be still and know that I am God!” [page 11]
WOODLAND LULLABY
Sleep, little breeze, lie down and sleep, For you danced with the waves all day, Your soft melodies entranced the trees, But the woods are now quiet and grey. Sleep, sleep, where ferns are deep; The vesper bells of the thrush chime, Sleep, little breeze, sleep. Rest, little breeze, the day goes west And the leaves no longer desire to leap; The tired wings rest in the cosy nest And flowers are nodding themselves to sleep. Rest, rest, the birds know best, And the fragrant forest lulls to rest. Rest, little breeze, rest. [page 12]
IRIS
I have found a fairy palace Where fairies surely dwell, But an arching dome of azure Seems to hide them well. I am sure some elves have built it With silks from Samarcand, Starred with golden dust of Ophir Washed from magic sand. For they made the stairs of amber, The walls of summer sky, Cut gems from every rainbow For the canopy. With swords they still protect it, Lest unenchanted see Where happy little fairies Dwell in secrecy. [page 13]
SWALLOWS
They skim the skies all day— My lovely, leaping swallows. On lithe and daring wings They luff and dart; away Beyond far grassy hollows And back they swerve As swift as sight, But make the pure air purer For their flight— My faithful, friendly swallows. [page 14]
THE TRAIL
Guide me through a rugged trail Where woods-birds are moving, Where I find some flowers frail And the moose go roving, Show their tracks on leaves still damp O’er wet mosses striding, Take me to a friendly camp In the forest hiding. [page 15]
FISHERMAN’S LUCK
The clouds bend low to wrap the hills about With fleecy folds. Straight falls my lissom line Toward the run-in of a little brook That surely cherishes some wily trout Which glide somewhere beneath, but now decline The taunting dare to touch my hopeful hook. Can this be fishing when no avid fish Would seem to want the fly I think he ought To want? Yet I persist and cast again And yet again, until my jaded wish Be charged with secret tumult, and far thought Surprised will leap to meet the sudden strain. [page 16]
THE MEDWAY
I sat beside the Medway, And heard the Medway flow, Its tinkling trebles playing Like pan-pipes soft and low; And the river seemed to linger Where the lordly maples grow. To the far sound of an anthem The lithesome ripple calls, While golden shallows glitter Below the foam-flecked falls; And the grilse hide in the shadows Beneath high silvan walls. I watched the sunlit river With many a curve and cove Glide grandly by the shadows That fall from woods and grove; And a perfect web of beauty Their lights and shades inwove. [page 17]
THE SQUIRREL’S DAISY
There’s a little red squirrel— A quick, jumpy one— That sits under his tail And frisks in the sun. I went with my daddy For a walk in the wood, And there my red squirrel Sat still as he could, Hunched on a stump. And what do you think The mischief was doing? As quick as a wink He was biting off pieces From a dried-up spruce cone Which he grabbed in his hands And gnawed to the bone. First he said “she loves me!” Then “she loves me not!” He must have meant someone— I wonder what he thought! For when he had finished He looked mad at me, Swore worse than anything And ran up a tree. [page 18]
THRIFT
I got a cent for the cold toad That I put in the garden; I found him hopping on the road; He seems to like our garden, And hides beneaf a shady leaf And doesn’t want to hop, But when some fly or bug comes by He makes his tongue go—plop— And eats the fly. So that is why My daddy likes cold toads. I fink I’ll find a hundred toads And then I’ll get a dollar, ‘Cause I’m not scared of catching warts, But sister starts to holler Every time I pick up mine, But when she sees my dollar She’ll wish she liked cold toads. [page 19]
THE FISH WEIR
Away to the weir I go today At the ebb of the tide, Where I often got a bass or shad When I tried. For a sudden impulse urges me— A whim I’ll not resist, To hear the mutter of gulls again Through the mist: And feel the mud on my naked feet Refreshing once more, While plodding steps to the weir progress From the shore: To smell the tang of the salty flats On the floor of the sea: And glean some dulse from the dripping brush Leisurely When teasing winds from the meadowlands Pursue the flying scud Far away to the hills of Cobequid Till the flood. And when from the weir the tide recedes, I hope to fulfill a wish, And capture glittering on the sands A silvery fish. [page 20]
AVONIAN HILLS
I’m lonely for my hills again— The hills that lift from Avon plain, Blue forests which climb up so high, They silhouette against the sky— The hills that guard wide meadowlands That hold securely in their hands The love-built homes and fruitful farms Embraced by Avon’s sunbrown arms. I’m lonely for my hills again— Or sunny hills or sweet with rain, Dear hills that had I but the art I’d paint forever in my heart With sunset colours, heather blue And pearly clouds that bid adieu, But leave their love in all the rills To sing sweet music to my hills. I’m lonely for my hills again, Where every trail’s a lovers’ lane From Fall Brook’s hemlock-limbed ravine To Dumpling Mountain, and between, The heights where Blomidon will show Beyond the river’s ebb and flow. Dear hills childhood mystery, Avonian Hills are still to me. [page 21]
THE SWAMP
Here is a place where wine-veined pitcherplants Hide cups of water all the summer days, And rose pogonias trembling peer askance Lest he who finds their native home betrays. It is a garden, called in a scorn a swamp, And hated still by men who team and drive; Yet here come roving moose to wade and romp, And here shy nature’s rarest flowers thrive. When cricket fifing fills the August air And flocking birds upon ripe berries fare, A nearby tarn mirrors bright goldenrod And azure asters line the little stream, All this haphazard beauty seems a dream Of loveliness—the handiwork of God. [page 22]
TO AN ASTER
Within my study’s cosy little world A light falls on your petals wreathed and curled, Serene, yet deftly poised like feathery wings Awaiting motion for their flutterings. Fair flower, with wonder have I watched you lead To this perfection from a tiny seed That scarce would seem to hold within its shell The promise of September’s asphodel. But when, as now, you lift your tousled head And toss these tints of azure touched with red, You seem to me so friendly and so fair That other blossoms, winsome, too, and rare, Must envy you this beauty, charm and grace, Yet love the haunting sweetness of your face. [page 23]
RAINBOW GOLD
Golden, glittering through the cloud Bursts the sun from his thunder shroud, Flooding the rain-sweet afternoon With glowing gold, by magic rune; Then golden fruit immediately Bends the bough of an apple tree; Grain is nodding from stooks of gold In fields that run to the ferny wold Where golden sheep on a green-gold hill Are cropping the glistening grass at will, And the golden note of a pastoral bell Tinkles an angelus far in the dell; But the sparkling smile of a child we befriend Is the gold that is found at the rainbow’s end. [page 24]
THE THREE ELMS
The blue forsakes the hills and darkness falls Around your home, but steadfast you abide And lisp your leafy whispering denied To those who never love heeds not. It calls To mind past years—a song of happy halls And chapel bells, of cricket fields and mirth, Of men and books and love and autumn earth. And daunts the fate that felled our ancient walls. Old Elms, sing softly in my longing ear: Your paean tells of strange vicissitude Since first you marked the travellers’ resting place: To you the tramp of student feet was dear Who now fret restlessly in solitude, And guard the thoughts which time will not efface. [page 25]
THE APPLE HARVEST
The racy air brings apple-time again. Long since the beauty cast o’er vale and dune By fairy blossoms, myriad in June Has bid adieu; for then on greening grain That broke the soil there fell a dainty rain Of shell-like petals, fluttering down the breeze; Maturing time now fruits the gracious trees With this rich benison their boughs sustain. While Autumn paints with matchless artifice October hills, far seen through orchard lanes, And barrels waiting by each grassy road Receive their gift—a fragrant, ruddy load, The year is crowned—the apple harvest reigns In vales of Avon and Annapolis. [page 26]
HULKS
Old hulks whose splendid day is done, Here they are leaning on a beach, Forlorn, bereft of shroud and spar, With hollow holds where echoes are, And giant bones now left to bleach. And then I see them sail away The pride of Avon’s famous fleet, Aloft all set for sovereign seas, A canvas cloud from truck to trees, With sheet and tackle taut and neat. They clear for cargoes in the East, Their royals are sighted down the West, They glide by tropic everglades, The typhoon’s blackened storm they breast, While holding to the steady trades They rip the sea-leagues in their quest. For years our forests built such ships And hearths gave men to man them Whose hardihood and stratagem In ship or barque or barquentine Was famed wherever they have been From Singapore to Argentine. The ships are hulks, gone are the men Who roved undaunted on the mains, But never shall their fame recede While we, the sons, a sailor breed Can feel the salt within our veins. [page 27]
KEMPT SHORE
The tide ebbs slowly from a friendly beach, And hour by hour brown flats show more and more, And yet, the change from surf that strives to reach High-water mark and curls along the shore Which pearly birds sheer past, to mucky clay And rocky reefs, that form the sea’s vast floor Is beautiful; for now across the bay The noble bluffs of Blomidon assume A hue as if rare amethysts which lay Prisoned in stone, have broken forth to loom With purple light on misty craggs and dells; And rosy petals of a sunset bloom Are flung to tint each cloud where beauty dwells And flutter over reefs and flats and fells. [page 28]
BLOMIDON
Beautiful Cape, tameless as Fundy’s tide That romps around your shores, tell me The secret of your charm, the mystery Those azure ramparts always seem to hide. When yet a child I loved to lie all day Watching pale wisps of summer cloud asleep Upon high forests, wake from dreams and leap Sheer off the cliff into a sunbright bay. Then from warm meadows, sweet with ripening hay, I used to gaze toward that rugged steep Until you taunted me to sail the deep I knew rolled on beyond and far away. And now when far and foreign ports I’ve won, And past strange capes and headlands I am blown, My longing thoughts wing homeward to my own Still standing blue beneath the crimson sun. And when this voyage port to port is run I mean to sail around the craggs whose stone Will melt into a scene I’ve ever known, To be, from happy fields, my Blomidon. [page 29]
PEGGY’S COVE
There is a road that leads me to the sea, A beckoning road that calls insistently From hill to hill and on until It shows the way to a demure bay Where dories bide and the tired tide Has an interlude of quietude. It climbs a path where terraces between Outcropping stone make little lawns of green, And many a cosy cottage knows the men Who fill the drying flakes with fish; and then There rolls toward me long, moving miles of sea From the rim of the world to these rocks hurled.. No longer do I hear dull, hollow thunder Coming as if from caverns buried under The ground thudding in my wondering ear; For now, through salt-edged air, I see the sheer, Steep, rising walls of water, crumple and crash In baffled surf upon the roaring rocks. And that tall ship—a dream of canvas and oak— How very soon the sea with his wild will Could break her beauty into driftwood smoke, When blind fogs sweep the deep And every crevice of this granite bastion Is drenched with bitter brine. [page 30]
CASTLE WAIT AND SEE
Out of a silent, silvery cloud, Where nothing but love can be, Through air that none can buy or bind, There comes in a dream to me The whim to go on a journey slow To a castle called Wait and See. A woodsy world with summer is filled, On, on my pathway guides, While sweet winds leap from leaf to leaf And crisp the brook that glides From sunny pool to shady pool As it wends its way to the tides. A poet’s rhymes are spun from dreams, And happy his thoughts may be As he trudges along the brightening road Of lyric minstrelsy; But who can foretell of the future well, Or the castle called Wait and See? [page 31]
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