Poems (Hardy)/Among the oaks
AMONG THE OAKS
I
BLUE are the skies; the warm wind trails No cloud across the land,Save yonder straggling stream of birds, The blackbirds' nomad band.
II
The distant wheelman flashing sweeps Along the hillside road,Shimmers across the sight, is gone— A guess, an episode.
II
The lark that loves these somber fields Sings yet with summer trills,Although November's sun slants low On Palo Alto hills.
IV
These tufted groups of oak invite; The field's gray monotoneOffers repose of thought; 'tis good This hour to be alone.
V
O sov'reign oaks, with courage clear, You go from strength to more!Perennial praises spring from you; You live and you adore.
VI
Adoring still, your outward reach Excels your upward gain.How count you growth? Is height not sweet? Is compensation pain?
VII
Twilights of purple, rose, and blue, Soft dusks of green and gray,Rest in your shadows, make of you Fit place wherein to pray.
VIII
So tabernacled in this veil, The thought is cleared from dust;Pavilioned so, the soul renews Her ancient faith and trust.
IX
For do behold the light stream in, Through netted arch and dome!It is the light that ever lives,— "It comes from God, our home."
X
The light that sun, nor moon, nor star, Hath part nor parcel in—Forevermore its lamp is lit, Forevermore hath been.
XI
Howbeit Nature hints of it In every flower that blows,Love we her works for something less Than that which through them flows—
XII
Radiance from the Soul of all The Light that Was and Is,That yet doth penetrate the chinks And claim this clay for His?
XIII
Though worn-out creeds of yesterday, Though sins of self and gain,Thrust in opaquely, blur and blot, But cannot wholly stain,
XIV
Across the hurry of our souls, Through thriftless toil and haste,There slants a beam we do not see, To save our years from waste.
XV
O wherefore pine as knowing not? And wherefore live so scant?Why art thou alien, who wast born Thine own hierophant?
XVI
Before the altars of His praise, the Oaks Go forth, my soul, to leadProcessional and anthem choir, Let Nature not precede.
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XVII
Dear are the chidings of the oak, And dear the field's reproof;Nor wise are we nor wise have been To hold our lives aloof.
XVIII
But still the world will claim its own, And life go on amiss;We fain would have the good of that And yet hold fast to this.