Quotes from Karle Wilson Baker

Today I have grown taller from walking with the trees.

I love the friendly faces of old sorrows; I have no secrets that they do not know.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

I love the friendly faces of old sorrows; I have no secrets that they do not know.

Living, the nearest claim them; but the dear Great dead belong to any humble heart.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

Like ashes, grey and tarnished, My sins are sifting down: I'll have a heart fire-burnished To carry back to town!

Masters have wrought in prisons, At peace in cells of stone: From their thick walls I fashion Windows to light my own.

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."

I have long made friends with the open sky-- Rough are its ways, but true.

But I have wealth he cannot touch, Spoiler of kings! For I have tasted agony And worn joy's wings.

A shiftless clerk, I take the days on trust, Nor strip them of their spoil before they go.

You thought it was a falling leaf we heard: I knew it was the Summer's gypsy feet.

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?