Two Songs

YOU love the chant of green,The low-voiced trees, the meadow's monotone.O friend of mine, it is for these you pray.This alien land must call unheard, unseen,While one beloved note your heart has known,To hunger for it, half a world away.

Come with me to my height,And stand at sunset when the winds are still,Watching the hollow valleys balm with light,The red and brown and yellow hills—they shout,And on the shoulders of the marching hostThe bayonets are gleaming points of white.

Pressing beyond to deep and gradual blues,Their lessening voices die in distance pale—Ineffably dissolved in opal hues;Against the sky the last sweet echoes failWhile all the West is quivering, fold on foldTo one great voice—one vibrant peal of gold.