THE GREAT BLUE HERON—“AND HE WAITS AND THINKS, AND THINKS AND BIDES.”
BY LAURA SPENCER PORTOR
The great blue heron flies for the lakes, But no one knows the path he takes. We never know, and we never hear, But there comes a time, at the turn of the year, When from his wings the dew he shakes When from his dream he turns and wakes,— His dream of the great blue Northern lakes. Then his foot uncurls, slow, downward drawn; Fan-like and sleepy, his wings they yawn, Then twitter down quiet against his sides: And he waits and thinks, and thinks and bides. For his dream has been long, and his waking slow, But this is the way you may guess and know That he tires of the swamps, and the Southern breeze, And the cypress-moss, and the Southern trees.
And the North, meantime,—though you hear no word, You know as plainly as though you heard— It is saying, “Is it not nearly time For the heron to come from the Southern clime ?” The low, bare apple boughs all wait, And the poplars shiver and think him late;
And the maples watch in the evening chill Hour after hour, but he comes not, still. And the young moon climbs the sky, and says, “Is the heron come? Oh, length of days! Has he left the marsh for our Northern home? Does any know?—Has the heron come?”
Then the apples and maples and poplars sway Bloomless; and, shaking their boughs, say, “Nay.” Then the young moon wearies, and goes to bed, And the great stars watch in her place instead. Then another day and night; but still The moon sees naught from the western hill But bloomless pastures, leafless, chill.
Another night she comes and says, “Is the heron come? Oh, length of days! From the South is the great blue heron flown?” Then the first star whispers, “Yes, Lady, gone!”
Then the moon’s pale finger beckons and gleams Heavy with jeweled rings of dreams; And her skirts trail over the woods and streams. And wherever they trail, on branch or stem, Stir wonderful dreams at the touch of them— In boughs all bare but yesternight, Stir wonderful dreams of blossoms white; In boughs that yesternight seemed dead, Stir marvelous dreams of blossoms red. Then the sap creeps swift; the bare boughs bloom;
The violets under the boughs make room. And because the heron is on the wing, The earth blooms into the waking spring!
And the heron? They say he seeks some tree, The tallest northmost pine maybe, Beyond the great blue Northern lakes, And here it is his rest he takes, Away from human sound and sight; And he sleeps by day, and he dreams by night. He sleeps with his head beneath his wing, And he pays no heed to anything Save his dreams of the year And the tides of spring. ’Til he knows again ’t is the mystic day, ’T is the time once more to fly away; ’Til he knows once more ’t is the mystic time To fly again to the Southern clime.
O great blue heron, wake and fly! We are tired of the clouds and the leaden sky;— We are tired of winter, my brother and I.
