New Hampshire Letter

I

Last frozen particle of the late April storm, Driven to shadowed earth, Safe from the murderous sun, is given birth The arbutus flower, that is both snow in May And presage to the fast approaching day When the world sees, with a cry Piled along branches, the white foam of the sky.

The trailing arbutus puts out glossy leaves From brown-dry crackling shells, Unfolds a spray whose mute miraculous bells Speak prelude that is caught and rung from the throat Of the young trumpet-lily, imperious note To squire the ultimate spring, The long-heralded, the once more awakening.

After arbutus and the trumpeter lily White dog-wood always came From tree to tree spreading, like song, like flame In the green boughs; it will be so this year, And the blue timorous violet will appear, And trillium, dark red Like blood on the stained swords of the ancient dead

Here in the shelved Connecticut River valley The great stream, winding south, Bears over it a wind sharp to the mouth, Wind that congeals the marrow in the bone, Mounts to the guttering stars, then, sweeping down, Lies close, mysteriously On the chill wave, and follows it to the sea.

Prom Meeting-House Hill you may watch the sun descend

In a maelstrom of fire Over Mansfield, beyond Lake Champlain, until higher and higher

On the far rim of the East will arise the full moon Like a wild bird from the sea still dripping, and soon It will soar, and the bright Peaks to the North will gleam in its cold blue light.

II

So far I have put in this my poem spring flowers, And what may be seen Of the high mountains, the river that rolls between; Now let me tell of my friends. There is one named Jack, Player of soccer, who pounds like death in the track Of the wandering ball, And one named Bob who plays no soccer at all.

My friend from Georgia has the hot South in his voice; The scowling brown

Texan rides hard and long, and the Maine boy down From the North woods, bringing his lore with him, Can urge fire out of flint, knows how to brim With cool water the well By waving his peeled willow and mouthing a spell.

Three men I admire because they have taught me more Than lies within covers Of a dry text. They are inveterate lovers; One has a passion for poetry in the throat, One loves to fish from the seat of a flat-bottomed boat, Another, between drinking And stroking his yellow dog, finds time for thinking.

And one man smiles, holding the reins of power In his strong hands As kings were used firmly to rule their lands, A very Greek for wisdom; him you may know By the shaggy deer-high creature that, noble and slow Like some grave, storied hound Out of old time, leads on with incredible bound.

The rest? Some are shy men; some, pompous fools, Yet all are most sincere. You, Puritan, may your water turn to beer; You, Scientist, may you propagate a frog; Mathematician, count the snails in a bog; And you, 0 Debonair, May bats come down and settle in your hair!

III

Trailing arbutus, flower of Dartmouth men, Hides under the deep drift, And over it all winter smoke these swift, These hickory-sandalled wolves, these loping, lean Dream-haunted spirits the dark trees between, Bending from narrow hips With scorn and silent laughter upon their lips.

I sing New Hampshire, a most pitiless state, As any man will attest Who has felt heart and lungs torn from his breast With savage force on the last wind-swept grade Up Washington, where each foot must be made To go sure and slow, While death waits an ice-covered step below.

For the brief beauty of fall I sing New Hampshire, When elms like torches stand In the wide valleys, and hills on either hand, Bewildered at all this burning, turn to run In terror, but iron chains them, the sack is begun, The invasion, the yoke, The cries, the curling of leaves by invisible smoke. I sing the arbutus, growing alone and still, Where no plant dares to cling That is less hardy, being afraid; I sing The smooth waxed flower of it, half tinged with rose, The indescribable, exquisite scent that blows Through forest floor and dome, Calling the bees like lost adventurers home.

You have learned silence from New Hampshire hills, O tall, O level-eyed, O fearless ones. You are the gods that ride The stinging blast, for you the warm sun frees The imprisoned seed, the sap bound up in trees; Never can you be gone From these firred hills, from this New Hampshire dawn.

(.First 'published in "College Verse")