Puslapio vaizdai
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"Out of every picture
Still she comes to me
With the morning freshness
Of the summer sea,—
A glory in her bearing,
A sea-light in her eyes,
As if she could not forget
The spell of Paradise.

"Thrushes in the deep woods,
With their golden themes,
Fluting like the choirs
At the birth of dreams.
Fireflies in the meadows
At the gate of Night,
With their fairy lanterns
Twinkling soft and bright.

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It is all there but the vividness of touch which

brightens such lines as these,"

quoting from memory:

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Jason went on

Between the roadside and the wood,
Between the dawning and the dew,

A tiny flower before the sun,

Ephemeral in time, I grew —

or,

"Your carmine flakes of bloom to-night
The fire of wintry sunsets hold;
Again in dreams you burn to light
A far Canadian garden old.

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The blue north summer over it

Is bland with long ethereal days;

The gleaming martins wheel and flit

Where breaks your sun down orient ways.

"There, when the gradual twilight falls,
Through quietude of dusk afar,
Hermit antiphonal hermit calls

From hills below the first pale star.

"Then in your passionate Love's foredoom
Once more your spirit stirs the air,
And you are lifted through the gloom

To warm the coils of her dark hair."

"You scarcely make out your case, Jason," I said. "The main thing is, that Mr. Carman, whatever you think of his infusion, has lost none of his magic. His muse came out of the North, bringing with it all of the romantic qualities which a northern imagination possesses. There the emerald twilights' are more lucid and transparent; April bugles with a rapture more intense, and a pain more exquisitely arousing, than the passionate maturing of southern climes. Hill, vale, meadow and sea are touched with a glamour and magic, at the heart of which is a wonder white and mysterious; something half elusive with symbolism, half declarative with the plain-song of innocent delight. The whole feeling is one of reticence and virginity in nature,- fresh, strong and vivid; to which the heart gives its confidence of dream and vision.

"This substance has a twofold significance. There is the exterior delight of the senses; pure, simple witchery of associated memories; the will playing upon the surface of experience, arrayed in all the illusions worn by the healthy instincts of

man.

Interwoven with this delight of the senses is a natural symbolism, with its inexplicable and supernatural meanings. Bliss Carman's poetry from the beginning had the glamour of the one and the magic of the other. He gave to them a felicity of expression.'

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"What I like about Bliss Carman is not his flowers, but his bouquets," Jason countered. "He is a poet that does arrange his poems with some view to unity of effect."

"If we grant you that," Psyche addressed Jason, "does it dim his imaginative vision? Such a vision as Mr. Carman's does not dim with time. April has always been the symbol of the poet's dreams of life and nature. From the first to the last of his poetic utterance he has never lost his responsiveness to Nature's mystery and charm. Her enchantments have been perennial, and the secret of it, kept so profoundly wise all these years, is in these four lines from a poem in April Airs':

"And then it came to me,

That all that I had heard

Was my own voice in the sea's voice
And the wind's lonely word.

He finds, as these lines confess, his own voice in all the elemental things of the world, because his wisdom and aspiration are in compact with their mysteries. For this reason he is aboundingly ardent and youthful; and it is not a great question whether his mood is grave or gay; the felicity of knowledge and the lavish bestowal of sympathy,

makes his heart and soul familiar with the laws ordaining the secrets of nature."

"Take such a poem as 6 A Mountain Gateway,'" I chimed in on the heels of Psyche's remarks. "Doesn't he give us in that poem a more habitable cabin for a poet's mind, than the unrealizable Innisfree of Yeats? His description and allurement of peace (in this beautiful poem), is the reward of the faithful trust which has kept his heart sweet and his mind wistfully confident through the rapid changes of later years."

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"Yes," said Psyche, "hasn't he in that single line in A Mountain Gateway,' when he speaks of the unworn ritual of eternal things,' hasn't he, I repeat, stated poetry's final truth? It is what he heeds and hearkens to. Yet sometimes I seem to see him step aside a little wearily, in his beautiful and holy regard for the eternal things' to let the blatant note, and the stridency of the ultramodern singer, take the road. It puzzles him a little, to see this motley figure in a hurried and arrogant progress trampling down his prophetic wayside flowers; disclaiming a fellowship and love that loses all of its mystery and beauty in the blindness and noise accompanying him. It hurts Mr. Carman most of all to see the spirit of culture gone out of this figure; the reverence for worth and age; the regard for delicate and exquisite courtesies; for in these things is the essence of his desire for truth and beauty."

"I daresay," interpolated Jason, "it was largely this motley figure,' as Psyche called it,

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