t? But
how could he be other when, in "The Breath of the Reed" (_From the
Green Book of the Bards_), he makes the appeal?

Make me thy priest, O Mother,
And prophet of thy mood,
With all the forest wonder
Enraptured and imbued.

As becomes such a poet, and particularly a poet whose birth-month is
April, Mr. Carman sings much of the early spring. Again and again he
takes up his woodland pipe, and lo! Pan himself and all his train troop
joyously before us. Yet the singer's notes for all his singing never
become wearied or strident; his airs are ever new and fresh; his latest
songs are no less spontaneous and winning than were his first, written
how many years ago, while at the same time they have gained in beauty
and melody. What heart will not stir to the vibrant music of his
immortal "Spring Song," which was originally published in the first
_Songs from Vagabondia_, and the opening verses of which follow?

Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
When thy flowery hand delivers
All the mountain-prisoned rivers,
And thy great heart beats and quivers
To revive the days that were,
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!

Take my dust and all my dreaming,
Count my heart-beats one by one,
Send them where the winters perish;
Then some golden noon recherish
And restore them in the sun,
Flower and scent and dust and dreaming,
With their heart-beats every one!

That poem is sufficient in itself to prove that Bliss Carman has full
right and title to be called Spring's own lyrist, though it may be
remarked here that not all his spring poems are so unfeignedly joyous.
Many of them indeed, have a touch, or more than a touch, of
wistfulness, for the poet knows well that sorrow lurks under all joy,
deep and well hidden though it may be.

Mr. Carman sings equally finely, though perhaps not so frequently, of
summer and the other seasons; but as he has other claims upon our
attention, I shall forbear to labor the fact, particularly as the
following collection demonstrates it sufficiently. One of those other
claims is as a writer of sea poetry. Few poets, it may be said, have
pictured the majesty and the mystery, the beauty and the terror of the
sea, better than he. His _Ballads of Lost Haven_ is a veritable
treasure-house for those whose spirits find kinship in wide expanses of
moving waters. One of the best known poems in this volume is "The