the pickeral pond

              (INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS)

    KNOW by the thread of music woven through
    This fragile web of cadences I spin,
    That I have only caught these songs since you
    Voiced them upon your haunting violin.

                  THE OVERTURE
    October's orchestra plays softly on
    The northern forest with its thousand strings,
    And Autumn, the conductor wields anon
    The Golden-rod-The baton that he swings.

                  THE FIRS
     There is a lonely minor chord that sings
     Faintly and far along the forest ways,
     When the first finger faintly on the strings
     Of that rare violin the night wind plays,
     Just as it whispered once to you and me
     Beneath the English pines beyond the sea.

                  MOSSES
      The lost wind wandering, forever grieves
          Low overhead,
      Above grey mosses whispering of leaves
          Fallen and dead.
     And through the lonely night sweeps their refrain
     Like Chopin's prelude, sobbing 'neath the rain.

                  THE VINE

     The wild grape mantling the trail and tree,
     Festoons in graceful veils its drapery,
     Its tendrils cling, as clings the memory stirred
     By some evasive haunting tune, twice heard.

                   THE MAPLE

                       I
     It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong,
     Voicing abroad its patriotic song.

                       II
     Its daring colours bravely flinging forth
     The ensign of the Nation of the North.

                    HARE-BELL

           Elfin bell in azure dress,
           Chiming all day long,
           Ringing through the wilderness
           Dulcet notes of song.
           Daintiest of forest flowers    I
           Weaving like a spell---
           Music through the Autumn hours,
           Little Elfin bell.

                    THE GIANT OAK

    And then the sound of marching armies 'woke
    Amid the branches of the soldier oak,
    And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumb
    The lashing storms that muttered, overcome,
    Choked by the heralding of battle smoke,
    When these gnarled branches beat their martial
        drum.

                     ASPENS                    `

      A sweet high treble threads its silvery song,
      Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thin
      It trills its pure soprano, light and long-
      Like the vibretto of a mandolin.

                  FINALE

    The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn,
    And now the music sleeps-
    Its benediction falling where the dim
    Dusk of the forest creeps.
    Mute grows the great concerto-and the light
    Of day is darkening, Good-night, Good-night.
    But through the night time I shall hear within
    The murmur of these trees,
    The calling of your distant violin
    Sobbing across the seas,
    And waking wind, and star-reflected light
    Shall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.

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