Wild Garden

by Bliss Carman




You will never know the glory of the coming of the spring
Till you look upon its magic in the North,
When the wilderness is waking in a mist of Magian green
To the everlasting wonder of new birth.

Here in a starry silence when the Manitou sent forth


His summons to the Keepers of the Word,
The pine-tops caught his whisper, and from the swampy lands
The shrilling frogs made answer as they heard.

Now the birches break in yellow against the morning blue,
The aspens are a wash of palest gold,


And tamaracks in young green are soft as drifted smoke
In the freshness of enchantment never told.

The open lakes are sparkling, the rivers running white
With rapids calling all along the trail,
And Wise-heart and Fond-heart, they know ‘tis time to go


Where lonely valleys answer to their hail.

Old heart, dear heart, hold the glory dream!
There’s a cabin in a clearing round the bend,
With pointed firs about it, a river at the door,
And hermit thrushes singing at day’s end.


For the Master of the Open, the Spirit of the Wild,
Our guide in wisdom, beauty and desire,
Is making the old Medicine whose conjure name is love,
And all the hills are smoky with Green Fire.