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381 The Love of the World (1894) I hope in Heaven there are silver firs Grown straightly up by winding water ways, And bud and bloom for seasons and for days. The wind that through the herdgrass pasture stirs The frost that pricks the pine tree’s swelling burrs, The bind-weed and the sulphur flower, The owl that brings the gilia’s hour, The blundering moth that to the primrose whirrs. I trust I shall not miss the meadow grass From fields elysian, nor the wind-rung bells Of columbine among the asphodels. Nor dipping willows where the waters pass, I have no mind for harps and seraph’s wings, ’Tis Heaven for me with all green growing things. If I could after death, which meaneth sleep, Rid of the cumbering of this fleshly frame, Come up this path whereby the poppies flame, By hanging meadow and fir planted steep With these wild loves of mine a tryst to keep,— If I could, looking with new lighted eyes, Some happy secret of their bloom surprise I would not think that death were cause to weep. If I could learn the mystery and the power Whereby one soil makes perfume sharp or sweet, If I could know what star-moved forces meet In the rhymed season’s flow of leaf and flower No other heaven I’d ask, no more of earth Than but to sing their meaning and their worth. How shall I tune my voice to angel choirs Who cannot speak the crooning river calls, Nor catch one anthem of the chanting falls 382 Whose hymns outreach the fretted forest spires, The storms that quench the sunset lighted fires Along wild headlands when the summers wane, And the long thunder, and the drumming rain— More than my soul can compass, each inspires. How reach the throne who cannot with all care Proclaim the white evangel of the snow; Though the soul struggles strongly panting so All its great weight of wonder to outbear. No dread apocalypse my soul can bow To more of awe than bids it silence now. Editor’s Notes AU 329 ...

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