Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Little Songs of the ForestWilliam Griffith
Spring Song
S
Down from the Green House on the Hill,
Enchanting many a ghostly bole
And wood song with the ancient thrill.
Spring and the wandering breezes say
God has thrown heaven open wide
And let the thrushes out today.
The Moon puts on her silver veil
And shawl of lace: and with far lutes
And violins in many a dale
The thrushes blow their woodland flutes.
Under the moon the forest heaves
And sways with ecstasy to hear
The eerie laughter of the leaves.
Devoutly worshiping the oak
Wherein the barred owl stares,
The little feathered forest folk
Are praying sleepy prayers:
And drowsy to the end,
And daily full of sun and song,
That broken hopes may mend.
Until the whippoorwill
Appoints a windy moving-day,
And hurries from the hill.
Once more the crimson rumor
Fills the forest and the town;
And the green fires of summer
Are burning—burning down.
Are burning down once more;
And my heart is in the ashes
On the forest floor!
Since yesterday has been no word,
Nor voice of anything
To thrill the forest: and no bird
Has any heart to sing.
Of Pan nor any power,
To lure the gypsy summer back,
And fool a single flower.
Gray are the sentry leaves and thinned
That whisper at my cabin door,
Sighing and mourning as the wind
Worries and walks the forest floor.
In the white silence of the snows,
To bid the crimson woods rejoice,
Or wake the wonder of the rose!