American poet (1878-1960)
And shall I clutch at dear departing things
While leaf and tree in silent splendor part?
Go, little joys! and welcome, fluttering wings
That brush my clinging sorrows from my heart!
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Heart's October", Blue Smoke
I shall be loved as quiet things
Are loved--white pigeons in the sun,
Curled yellow leaves that whisper down
One after one;
The silver reticence of smoke
That tells no secret of its birth
Among the fiery agonies
That turn the earth.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"I Shall Be Loved as Quiet Things"
I love the friendly faces of old sorrows;
I have no secrets that they do not know.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
Burning Bush
And you tempt me into your House of Love--
I, who have come from far
Through wintry forest and homeless heath,
Friend of the wind and star?
Ah, I fear the warmth of the ingleside
And the depths of your dear caress
Will make me forget what I learned out there
In the stubble and loneliness!
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"The Moor-child", Blue Smoke
I weight my mind as best I can to keep it close to earth
With chunky little platitudes and bits of twisted mirth;
For dust will gather in the house, and shirts unmended lie
Unless you learn to keep your mind from gadding in the sky.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"I Weight My Mind", Burning Bush
Living, the nearest claim them; but the dear
Great dead belong to any humble heart.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"W. V. M.", Blue Smoke
The thunder of my heart must go
Under the muffling of the dust--
As my grey dress has guarded it
The grasses must;
For it has hammered loud enough,
Clamored enough, when all is said:
Only its quiet part shall live
When I am dead.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"I Shall Be Loved as Quiet Things"
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
Days
You are a poet, sycamore,
A minor poet.
You are not much good in a practical world;
You shed your ragged leaves early, and clutter up the landscape.
But you are lovely on winter evenings
Against the afterglow--
Bare and pale and a little disdainful,
But yourself.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Temperate Tribute", Burning Bush
My life is a tree,
Yoke-fellow of the earth;
Pledged,
By roots too deep for remembrance,
To stand hard against the storm,
To fill by Place.
(But high in the branches of my green tree there is a wild bird singing:
Wind-free are the wings of my bird: she hath built no mortal nest.)
KARLE WILSON BAKER
The Tree
Masters have wrought in prisons,
At peace in cells of stone:
From their thick walls I fashion
Windows to light my own.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Prisons", Burning Bush
The flame of my life burns low
Under the cluttered days,
Like a fire of leaves.
But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke
Goes up to God.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
Blue Smoke
For love is a mantle and love is a fire
And love is a velvet dress;
I have seen them pass as I roamed the moor
In my rags and nakedness.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"The Moor-child", Blue Smoke
Some days, the pines upon my hills
Speak nothing of their secret wills,
But with an absent smile they say,
"Dear, we can't talk to you today."
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Tree Talk"
Like ashes, grey and tarnished,
My sins are sifting down:
I'll have a heart fire-burnished
To carry back to town!
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Maples in the Fall", Burning Bush
I have long made friends with the open sky--
Rough are its ways, but true.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"The Moor-child", Blue Smoke
But I have wealth he cannot touch,
Spoiler of kings!
For I have tasted agony
And worn joy's wings.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"The Highwayman", Burning Bush
A shiftless clerk, I take the days on trust,
Nor strip them of their spoil before they go.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"The Dusty Way", Blue Smoke
You thought it was a falling leaf we heard:
I knew it was the Summer's gypsy feet.
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Rondel for September", Blue Smoke
Line upon line, a little here and there,
We scrape together wisdom with slow care.
Wherefore? To blossom in a churchyard rose,
Or to go with the spirit--if it goes?
KARLE WILSON BAKER
"Wisdom", Blue Smoke