The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run— One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here today, I would believe your charming lay, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
Along the shady road I look— Who’s coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white— The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet—, Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
=Biography.= Henry van Dyke (1852-⸺) was born in Germantown, which is now a part of the city of Philadelphia. When a small boy, his parents moved to Brooklyn. He was graduated from Princeton College in 1873 and from the Princeton Theological Seminary in 1877. For several years he was pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in New York City. Later he was made professor of English Literature at Princeton University, which position he still holds. In 1913 Dr. van Dyke was appointed United States Minister to Holland, where he lived during the early years of the World War. He has written many stories and poems of great literary charm.
=Discussion.= 1. What bird does the poet celebrate in this poem? 2. What pictures does the first stanza give you? 3. What does the Yellow-Throat seem to say? 4. Make a list of all the names by which the poet speaks of the bird. 5. What fancy does the poet express in the third and fourth stanzas? 6. What does the poet say is wanting to make the day’s charm complete? 7. Which stanza do you like best? 8. What is the name of the “woodland maid”?
May bedecks the naked trees, 43, 1 incantation so serene, 43, 8 befits the scene, 43, 9 living sunbeam, 43, 12 you prophet, 43, 15 blossom into melody, 43, 24 the woods are greening, 44, 1 charming lay, 44, 6
On the cross-beam under the Old South bell, The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter, that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street With his wary eye and active feet; And I often watch him, as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last.
’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There’s a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well.