Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/259

Rh The truants of life’s weary school,
 * Without excuse from thrift

We change for once the gains of toil
 * For God’s unpurchased gift.

From ceilëd rooms, from silent books,
 * From crowded car and town,

Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap
 * We lay our tired heads down.

Cool, summer wind, our heated brows;
 * Blue river, through the green

Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes
 * Which all too much have seen.

For us these pleasant woodland ways
 * Are thronged with memories old,

Have felt the grasp of friendly hands
 * And heard love’s story told.

A sacred presence overbroods
 * The earth whereon we meet;

These winding forest-paths are trod
 * By more than mortal feet.

Old friends called from us by the voice
 * Which they alone could hear,

From mystery to mystery,
 * From life to life, draw near.

More closely for the sake of them
 * Each other’s hands we press;

Our voices take from them a tone
 * Of deeper tenderness.

Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,
 * Alike below, above,

Or here or there, about us fold
 * The arms of one great love!

We ask to-day no countersign,
 * No party names we own;

Unlabelled, individual,
 * We bring ourselves alone.

What cares the unconventioned wood
 * For pass-words of the town?

The sound of fashion’s shibboleth
 * The laughing waters drown.

Here cant forgets his dreary tone,
 * And care his face forlorn;

The liberal air and sunshine laugh
 * The bigot’s zeal to scorn.

From manhood’s weary shoulder falls
 * His load of selfish cares;

And woman takes her rights as flowers
 * And brooks and birds take theirs.

The license of the happy woods,
 * The brook’s release are ours;

The freedom of the unshamed wind
 * Among the glad-eyed flowers.

Yet here no evil thought finds place,
 * Nor foot profane comes in;

Our grove, like that of Samothrace,
 * Is set apart from sin.

We walk on holy ground; above
 * A sky more holy smiles;

The chant of the beatitudes
 * Swells down these leafy aisles.

Thanks to the gracious Providence
 * That brings us here once more;

For memories of the good behind
 * And hopes of good before!

And if, unknown to us, sweet days
 * Of June like this must come,

Unseen of us these laurels clothe
 * The river-banks with bloom;

And these green paths must soon be trod
 * By other feet than ours,

Full long may annual pilgrims come
 * To keep the Feast of Flowers;

The matron be a girl once more,
 * The bearded man a boy,

And we, in heaven’s eternal June,
 * Be glad for earthly joy!

these glorious works of Thine, The solemn minarets of the pine, And awful Shasta’s icy shrine,—