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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  987 Ecce in Deserto

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Henry AugustinBeers

987 Ecce in Deserto

THE WILDERNESS a secret keeps

Upon whose guess I go:

Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard;

And yet I know, I know,

Some day the viewless latch will lift,

The door of air swing wide

To one lost chamber of the wood

Where those shy mysteries hide,—

One yet unfound, receding depth,

From which the wood-thrush sings,

Still luring in to darker shades,

In—in to colder springs.

There is no wind abroad to-day.

But hark!—the pine-tops’ roar,

That sleep and in their dreams repeat

The music of the shore.

What wisdom in their needles stirs?

What song is that they sing?

Those airs that search the forest’s heart,

What rumor do they bring?

A hushed excitement fills the gloom,

And, in the stillness, clear

The vireo’s tell-tale warning rings:

“’T is near—’t is near—’t is near!”

As, in the fairy-tale, more loud

The ghostly music plays

When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince

Draws closer through the maze.

Nay—nay. I track a fleeter game,

A wilder than ye know,

To lairs beyond the inmost haunt

Of thrush or vireo.

This way it passed: the scent lies fresh;

The ferns still lightly shake.

Ever I follow hard upon,

But never overtake.

To other woods the trail leads on,

To other worlds and new,

Where they who keep the secret here

Will keep the promise too.