At the Granite Gate

THERE paused to shut the door
A fellow called the Wind. . . .
With mystery before,
And reticence behind,
A portal waits me too
In the glad house of Spring ;
One day I shall pass through,
And leave you wondering.
It lies beyond the marge
Of evening or of prime,
Silent and dim and large,
The gateway of all time.
There troop by night and day
My brothers of the field ;
And I shall know the way
Their wood-songs have revealed.
The dusk will hold some trace
Of all my radiant crew
Who vanished to that place,
Ephemeral as dew.
Into the twilight dun,
Blue moth and dragonfly,
Adventuring alone,
Shall be more brave than I ?
There innocents shall bloom,
And the white cherry-tree,
With birch and willow plume
To strew the road for me.
The wilding orioles then
Shall make the golden air
Heavy with joy again,
And the dark heart shall dare
Resume the old desire,
The exigence of spring,
To be the orange fire
That tips the world’s gray wing.
And the lone wood-bird (Hark,
The whippoorwill night long
Threshing the summer dark
With his gold flail of song !)
Shall be the lyric lift
When all my senses creep,
To bear me through the rift
In the blue range of sleep.
And so I pass beyond
The solace of your hand ;
But ah, so brave and fond !
Within that morrow land,
Where deed and daring fail,
But joy for evermore
Shall tremble and prevail
Against the narrow door,
Where sorrow knocks too late,
And grief is over-due,
Beyond the granite gate
There will be thoughts of you.
Bliss Carman.