* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook * This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact an FP administrator before proceeding. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. Title: At Michaelmas : A Lyric Date of first publication: 1895 Author: William Bliss Carman (Apr 15, 1861-Jun 8, 1929) Date first posted: Sep. 9, 2013 Date last updated: Sep. 9, 2013 Faded Page eBook #20130908 This eBook was produced by: L. Harrison & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net AT MICHAELMAS. At Michaelmas A Lyric By Bliss Carman 1895 _To T. B. M._ _For every one_ _Beneath the sun,_ _Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes._ _There is a word,_ _Just overheard_ _When hill to purple hill replies_ _This afternoon_ _As warm as June._ _With the red apples on the bough,_ _I set my ear_ _To hark, and hear_ _The wood-folk talking, you know how_ _There comes a "Hush!"_ _And then a "Tush,"_ _As tree to scarlet tree responds,_ "_Babble away!_ _He'll not betray_ _The secrets of us vagabonds_ "_Are we not all,_ _Both great and small,_ _Cousins and kindred in a joy_ _No school can teach,_ _No worldling reach,_ _Nor any wreck of chance destroy?_" _And so, we are,_ _However far_ _We journey ere the journey ends,_ _One brotherhood_ _With leaf and bud_ _And every thing that wakes or wends._ _The breath that blows_ _My Autumn rose_ _Through apple lands of Acadie,_ _Talks in the leaves_ _About your eaves,_ _Where Tortoise Shell looks out to sea._ AT MICHAELMAS. About the time of Michael's feast And all his angels, There comes a word to man and beast By dark evangels. Then hearing what the wild things say To one another, Those creatures firstborn of our gray Mysterious Mother, The greatness of the world's unrest Steals through our pulses, Our own life takes a meaning guessed From the torn dulse's. The draft and set of deep sea tides Swirling and flowing, Bears every filmy flake that rides Grandly unknowing. The sunlight listens, thin and fine The crickets whistle, And floating midges fill the shine Like a seeding thistle. The hawkbit flies his golden flag From rocky pasture, Bidding his legions never lag Through morning's vasture. Soon we shall see the red vines ramp Through forest borders, And Indian summer breaking camp To silent orders. The glossy chestnuts swell and burst Their prickly houses, Agog at news which reached them first In sap's carouses. The long noons turn the ribstons red, The pippins yellow; The wild duck from his reedy bed Summons his fellow. The robins keep the underbrush, Songless and wary, As though they feared some frostier hush Might bid them tarry; Perhaps in the great north they heard Of silence falling Upon the world without a word, White and appalling. The ash tree and the lady fern, In russet frondage, Proclaim 'tis time for our return To vagabondage. All summer idle have we kept; But on a morning, Where the blue hazy mountain slept, A scarlet warning Disturbs our day-dream with a start; A leaf turns over; And every earthling is at heart Once more a rover. All winter we shall toil and plod, Eating and drinking; But now's the little time when God Sets folk a-thinking. "Consider," says the quiet sun, "How far I wander; Yet when had I not time on one More flower to squander?" "Consider," says the restless tide, "My endless labor; Yet when was I content beside My nearest neighbor?" So wander-lust to wander-lure, As seed to season, Must rise and wend, possessed and sure In sweet unreason. For doorstone and repose are good, And kind is duty; But joy is in the solitude With shy-heart beauty. And truth is one whose ways are meek Beyond foretelling; Yet they must journey far who seek Her lowly dwelling. Broad are the eaves, the hearth is warm, And wide the portal; And there is shelter from the storm For every mortal. She leads him by a thousand heights, Lonelily faring, With sunrise and with eagle flights To mate his daring. For her he fronts a vaster fog Than Leif of yore did, Voyaging for continents no log Has yet recorded. He travels by a polar star, Now bright, now hidden, For a free land, though rest be far And roads forbidden. Till on a day with sweet coarse bread And wine she stays him, Then in a cool and narrow bed To slumber lays him. So we are hers; and, fellows mine Of fin and feather, By shady wood and shadowy brine, When comes the weather For migrants to be moving on, By lost indenture You flock and gather and are gone: The old adventure! I too have my unwritten date, My gipsy presage; And on the brink of fall I wait The darkling message. The sign, from prying eyes concealed, Is yet how flagrant! Here's ragged-robin in the field, A simple vagrant. * * * * * _Written at The Little Red House in the Orchard, and privately printed in one hundred copies at "The Acadian" Press, Wolfville, Nova Scotia during October, 1895._ [The end of _At Michaelmas : A Lyric_ by William Bliss Carman]