KNOWLEDGE

THEY were islanders, our fathers were,
And they watched the encircling seas,
And their hearts drank in the ceaseless stir,
And the freedom of the breeze;
Till they chafed at their narrow bounds
And longed for the sweep of the main,
And they fretted and fumed like hounds
Held in within sight of the plain,
And the play

And the prey.

So they built them ships of wood, and sailed
To many an unknown coast;
They braved the storm and battles hailed,
And danger they loved most;
Till the tiny ships of wood

Grew powerful on the globe,
And the new-found lands for good
They wrapped in a wondrous robe
Of bold design,
Our brave ensign.

And islanders yet in a way are we,
Our knowledge is still confined,
And we hear the roar of encircling sea,
To be crossed in the ship of the mind;
And we dream of lands afar,

Unknown, unconquered yet,
And we chafe at the bounds there are,
And our spirits fume and fret
For the prize

Of the wise.

But we'll never do aught, I know, unless
We are brave as our sires of old,
And face like them the bitterness

Of the battle and storm and cold;
Unless we boldly stand,

When men would hold us back,
With the helm-board in our hand,
And our eyes to the shining track
Of what may be
Beyond the sea.

There are rocks out there in that wide, wide sea,

'Neath many a darkling stream,

And souls that once sailed out bold and free

Have been carried away in a dream ;

HEAT

FROM plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim

Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur

Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,

From sky to sky on either hand, Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun

Soaks in the grass and hath his will ; I count the marguerites one by one; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath

Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath

The cool gloom of the bridge.

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood

Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, Lie waiting for the heat to pass. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dreams I hear

The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.

I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze :
The burning sky-line blinds my sight;
The woods far off are blue with haze;
The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that

Is always sharp or always sweet; In the sloped shadow of my hat

I lean at rest, and drain the heat;