John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Occasional PoemsJune on the Merrimac
O
What come ye out to see?
This common earth, this common sky,
This water flowing free?
Your door-yard blossoms spring;
As sweetly as these wild-wood birds
Your cagëd minstrels sing.
The rippling river’s rune,
The beauty which is everywhere
Beneath the skies of June;
Of old pine-forest kings,
Beneath whose century-woven shade
Deer Island’s mistress sings.
And Curson’s bowery mill;
And Pleasant Valley smiles between
The river and the hill.
The upland’s wavy line,
And how the sunshine tips with fire
The needles of the pine.
Or sweet, familiar face,
Not less because of commonness
You love the day and place.
Shall hard-strung nerves relax,
Not all in vain the o’erworn brain
Forego its daily tax.
Have all the year their own;
The haunting demons well may let
Our one bright day alone.
Aside the ledger lay:
The world will keep its treadmill step
Though we fall out to-day.
Without excuse from thrift
We change for once the gains of toil
For God’s unpurchased gift.
From crowded car and town,
Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap,
We lay our tired heads down.
Blue river, through the green
Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes
Which all too much have seen.
Are thronged with memories old,
Have felt the grasp of friendly hands
And heard love’s story told.
The earth whereon we meet;
These winding forest-paths are trod
By more than mortal feet.
Which they alone could hear,
From mystery to mystery,
From life to life, draw near.
Each other’s hands we press;
Our voices take from them a tone
Of deeper tenderness.
Alike below, above,
Or here or there, about us fold
The arms of one great love!
No party names we own;
Unlabelled, individual,
We bring ourselves alone.
For pass-words of the town?
The sound of fashion’s shibboleth
The laughing waters drown.
And care his face forlorn;
The liberal air and sunshine laugh
The bigot’s zeal to scorn.
His load of selfish cares;
And woman takes her rights as flowers
And brooks and birds take theirs.
The brook’s release are ours;
The freedom of the unshamed wind
Among the glad-eyed flowers.
Nor foot profane comes in;
Our grove, like that of Samothrace,
Is set apart from sin.
A sky more holy smiles;
The chant of the beatitudes
Swells down these leafy aisles.
That brings us here once more;
For memories of the good behind
And hopes of good before!
Of June like this must come,
Unseen of us these laurels clothe
The river-banks with bloom;
By other feet than ours,
Full long may annual pilgrims come
To keep the Feast of Flowers;
The bearded man a boy,
And we, in heaven’s eternal June,
Be glad for earthly joy!