To-night the very horses springing byToss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dreamThe streets that narrow to the westward gleamLike rows of golden palaces; and highFrom all the crowded chimneys tower and dieA thousand aureoles. Down in the westThe brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall flyThe glorious vision, and the hours shall feelA mightier master; soon from height to height,With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel,Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
To-night the very horses springing byToss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dreamThe streets that narrow to the westward gleamLike rows of golden palaces; and highFrom all the crowded chimneys tower and dieA thousand aureoles. Down in the westThe brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall flyThe glorious vision, and the hours shall feelA mightier master; soon from height to height,With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel,Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
To-night the very horses springing by
Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream
The streets that narrow to the westward gleam
Like rows of golden palaces; and high
From all the crowded chimneys tower and die
A thousand aureoles. Down in the west
The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,
One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly
The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel
A mightier master; soon from height to height,
With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,
Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel,
Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,
Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
By the Nile, the sacred river,I can see the captive hordesStrain beneath the lash and quiverAt the long papyrus cords,While in granite rapt and solemn,Rising over roof and column,Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses,Lord of Lords.I can hear the trumpets wakenFor a victory old and far—Carchemish or Kadesh taken—I can see the conqueror's carBearing down some Hittite valley,Where the bowmen break and sally,Sargina or Esarhaddon,Grim with war!From the mountain streams that sweetenIndus, to the Spanish foam,I can feel the broad earth beatenBy the serried tramp of Rome;Through whatever foes environOnward with the might of iron—Veni, vidi; veni, vici—Crashing home!I can see the kings grow pallidWith astonished fear and hate,As the hosts of Amr or KhaledOn their cities fall like fate;Like the heat-wind from its prisonIn the desert burst and risen—La ilàha illah 'llàhu—God is great!I can hear the iron rattle,I can see the arrows stingIn some far-off northern battle,Where the long swords sweep and swing;I can hear the scalds declaiming,I can see their eyeballs flaming,Gathered in a frenzied circleRound the king.I can hear the horn of UriRoaring in the hills enorm;Kindled at its brazen fury,I can see the clansmen form;In the dawn in misty masses,Pouring from the silent passesOver Granson or MorgartenLike the storm.On the lurid anvil ringingTo some slow fantastic plan,I can hear the sword-smith singingIn the heart of old Japan—Till the cunning blade grows tragicWith his malice and his magic—Tenka tairan! Tenka tairan!War to man!Where a northern river chargesBy a wild and moonlit glade,From the murky forest marges,Round a broken palisade,I can see the red men leaping,See the sword of Daulac sweeping,And the ghostly forms of heroesFall and fade.I can feel the modern thunderOf the cannon beat and blaze,When the lines of men go underOn your proudest battle-days;Through the roar I hear the liftingOf the bloody chorus driftingRound the burning mill at Valmy—Marseillaise!I can see the ocean rippledWith the driving shot like rain,While the hulls are crushed and crippled,And the guns are piled with slain;O'er the blackened broad sea-meadowDrifts a tall and titan shadow,And the cannon of TrafalgarStartle Spain.Still the tides of fight are booming,And the barren blood is spilt;Still the banners are up-looming,And the hands are on the hilt;But the old world waxes wiser,From behind the bolted visorIt descries at last the horrorAnd the guilt.Yet the eyes are dim, nor whollyOpen to the golden gleam,And the brute surrenders slowlyTo the godhead and the dream.From his cage of bar and girder,Still at moments mad with murder,Leaps the tiger, and his demonRules supreme.One more war with fire and famineGathers—I can hear its cries—And the years of might and MammonPerish in a world's demise;When the strength of man is shattered,And the powers of earth are scattered,From beneath the ghastly ruinPeace shall rise!
By the Nile, the sacred river,I can see the captive hordesStrain beneath the lash and quiverAt the long papyrus cords,While in granite rapt and solemn,Rising over roof and column,Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses,Lord of Lords.
By the Nile, the sacred river,
I can see the captive hordes
Strain beneath the lash and quiver
At the long papyrus cords,
While in granite rapt and solemn,
Rising over roof and column,
Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses,
Lord of Lords.
I can hear the trumpets wakenFor a victory old and far—Carchemish or Kadesh taken—I can see the conqueror's carBearing down some Hittite valley,Where the bowmen break and sally,Sargina or Esarhaddon,Grim with war!
I can hear the trumpets waken
For a victory old and far—
Carchemish or Kadesh taken—
I can see the conqueror's car
Bearing down some Hittite valley,
Where the bowmen break and sally,
Sargina or Esarhaddon,
Grim with war!
From the mountain streams that sweetenIndus, to the Spanish foam,I can feel the broad earth beatenBy the serried tramp of Rome;Through whatever foes environOnward with the might of iron—Veni, vidi; veni, vici—Crashing home!
From the mountain streams that sweeten
Indus, to the Spanish foam,
I can feel the broad earth beaten
By the serried tramp of Rome;
Through whatever foes environ
Onward with the might of iron—
Veni, vidi; veni, vici—
Crashing home!
I can see the kings grow pallidWith astonished fear and hate,As the hosts of Amr or KhaledOn their cities fall like fate;Like the heat-wind from its prisonIn the desert burst and risen—La ilàha illah 'llàhu—God is great!
I can see the kings grow pallid
With astonished fear and hate,
As the hosts of Amr or Khaled
On their cities fall like fate;
Like the heat-wind from its prison
In the desert burst and risen—
La ilàha illah 'llàhu—
God is great!
I can hear the iron rattle,I can see the arrows stingIn some far-off northern battle,Where the long swords sweep and swing;I can hear the scalds declaiming,I can see their eyeballs flaming,Gathered in a frenzied circleRound the king.
I can hear the iron rattle,
I can see the arrows sting
In some far-off northern battle,
Where the long swords sweep and swing;
I can hear the scalds declaiming,
I can see their eyeballs flaming,
Gathered in a frenzied circle
Round the king.
I can hear the horn of UriRoaring in the hills enorm;Kindled at its brazen fury,I can see the clansmen form;In the dawn in misty masses,Pouring from the silent passesOver Granson or MorgartenLike the storm.
I can hear the horn of Uri
Roaring in the hills enorm;
Kindled at its brazen fury,
I can see the clansmen form;
In the dawn in misty masses,
Pouring from the silent passes
Over Granson or Morgarten
Like the storm.
On the lurid anvil ringingTo some slow fantastic plan,I can hear the sword-smith singingIn the heart of old Japan—Till the cunning blade grows tragicWith his malice and his magic—Tenka tairan! Tenka tairan!War to man!
On the lurid anvil ringing
To some slow fantastic plan,
I can hear the sword-smith singing
In the heart of old Japan—
Till the cunning blade grows tragic
With his malice and his magic—
Tenka tairan! Tenka tairan!
War to man!
Where a northern river chargesBy a wild and moonlit glade,From the murky forest marges,Round a broken palisade,I can see the red men leaping,See the sword of Daulac sweeping,And the ghostly forms of heroesFall and fade.
Where a northern river charges
By a wild and moonlit glade,
From the murky forest marges,
Round a broken palisade,
I can see the red men leaping,
See the sword of Daulac sweeping,
And the ghostly forms of heroes
Fall and fade.
I can feel the modern thunderOf the cannon beat and blaze,When the lines of men go underOn your proudest battle-days;Through the roar I hear the liftingOf the bloody chorus driftingRound the burning mill at Valmy—Marseillaise!
I can feel the modern thunder
Of the cannon beat and blaze,
When the lines of men go under
On your proudest battle-days;
Through the roar I hear the lifting
Of the bloody chorus drifting
Round the burning mill at Valmy—
Marseillaise!
I can see the ocean rippledWith the driving shot like rain,While the hulls are crushed and crippled,And the guns are piled with slain;O'er the blackened broad sea-meadowDrifts a tall and titan shadow,And the cannon of TrafalgarStartle Spain.
I can see the ocean rippled
With the driving shot like rain,
While the hulls are crushed and crippled,
And the guns are piled with slain;
O'er the blackened broad sea-meadow
Drifts a tall and titan shadow,
And the cannon of Trafalgar
Startle Spain.
Still the tides of fight are booming,And the barren blood is spilt;Still the banners are up-looming,And the hands are on the hilt;But the old world waxes wiser,From behind the bolted visorIt descries at last the horrorAnd the guilt.
Still the tides of fight are booming,
And the barren blood is spilt;
Still the banners are up-looming,
And the hands are on the hilt;
But the old world waxes wiser,
From behind the bolted visor
It descries at last the horror
And the guilt.
Yet the eyes are dim, nor whollyOpen to the golden gleam,And the brute surrenders slowlyTo the godhead and the dream.From his cage of bar and girder,Still at moments mad with murder,Leaps the tiger, and his demonRules supreme.
Yet the eyes are dim, nor wholly
Open to the golden gleam,
And the brute surrenders slowly
To the godhead and the dream.
From his cage of bar and girder,
Still at moments mad with murder,
Leaps the tiger, and his demon
Rules supreme.
One more war with fire and famineGathers—I can hear its cries—And the years of might and MammonPerish in a world's demise;When the strength of man is shattered,And the powers of earth are scattered,From beneath the ghastly ruinPeace shall rise!
One more war with fire and famine
Gathers—I can hear its cries—
And the years of might and Mammon
Perish in a world's demise;
When the strength of man is shattered,
And the powers of earth are scattered,
From beneath the ghastly ruin
Peace shall rise!
Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods,Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that showA blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow.In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air,The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bareThe woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracksWith the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe.Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird—The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch—is heard;Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed,And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed.Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge,Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge,With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word,And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord.Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there,Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear.And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan,And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone,As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught,Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought.Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east,He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast,Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire,Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire.Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below,Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and goIn roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift,All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift.But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams,And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams;Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor,And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door;The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on,The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone.He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields,To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields.He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet,The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete.And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds,Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds;The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand,The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand.So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow,You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago;And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone,Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and gone,The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command,The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.
Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods,Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that showA blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow.In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air,The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bareThe woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracksWith the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe.Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird—The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch—is heard;Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed,And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed.Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge,Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge,With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word,And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord.Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there,Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear.And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan,And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone,As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught,Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought.Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east,He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast,Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire,Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire.Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below,Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and goIn roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift,All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift.But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams,And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams;Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor,And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door;The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on,The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone.He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields,To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields.He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet,The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete.And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds,Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds;The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand,The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand.So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow,You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago;And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone,Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and gone,The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command,The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.
Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods,
Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,
The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show
A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow.
In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air,
The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bare
The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracks
With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe.
Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird—
The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch—is heard;
Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed,
And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed.
Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge,
Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge,
With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word,
And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord.
Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there,
Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear.
And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan,
And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone,
As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught,
Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought.
Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east,
He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast,
Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire,
Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire.
Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below,
Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go
In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift,
All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift.
But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams,
And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams;
Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor,
And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door;
The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on,
The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone.
He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields,
To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields.
He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet,
The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete.
And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds,
Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds;
The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand,
The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand.
So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow,
You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago;
And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone,
Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and gone,
The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command,
The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.
I love the warm bare earth and allThat works and dreams thereon:I love the seasons yet to fall:I love the ages gone,The valleys with the sheeted grain,The river's smiling might,The merry wind, the rustling rain,The vastness of the night.I love the morning's flame, the steepWhere down the vapour clings:I love the clouds that float and sleep,And every bird that sings.I love the purple shower that poursOn far-off fields at even:I love the pine-wood dusk whose floorsAre like the courts of heaven.I love the heaven's azure span,The grass beneath my feet:I love the face of every manWhose thought is swift and sweet.I let the wrangling world go by,And like an idle breathIts echoes and its phantoms fly:I care no jot for death.Time like a Titan bright and strongSpreads one enchanted gleam:Each hour is but a fluted song,And life a lofty dream.
I love the warm bare earth and allThat works and dreams thereon:I love the seasons yet to fall:I love the ages gone,
I love the warm bare earth and all
That works and dreams thereon:
I love the seasons yet to fall:
I love the ages gone,
The valleys with the sheeted grain,The river's smiling might,The merry wind, the rustling rain,The vastness of the night.
The valleys with the sheeted grain,
The river's smiling might,
The merry wind, the rustling rain,
The vastness of the night.
I love the morning's flame, the steepWhere down the vapour clings:I love the clouds that float and sleep,And every bird that sings.
I love the morning's flame, the steep
Where down the vapour clings:
I love the clouds that float and sleep,
And every bird that sings.
I love the purple shower that poursOn far-off fields at even:I love the pine-wood dusk whose floorsAre like the courts of heaven.
I love the purple shower that pours
On far-off fields at even:
I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors
Are like the courts of heaven.
I love the heaven's azure span,The grass beneath my feet:I love the face of every manWhose thought is swift and sweet.
I love the heaven's azure span,
The grass beneath my feet:
I love the face of every man
Whose thought is swift and sweet.
I let the wrangling world go by,And like an idle breathIts echoes and its phantoms fly:I care no jot for death.
I let the wrangling world go by,
And like an idle breath
Its echoes and its phantoms fly:
I care no jot for death.
Time like a Titan bright and strongSpreads one enchanted gleam:Each hour is but a fluted song,And life a lofty dream.
Time like a Titan bright and strong
Spreads one enchanted gleam:
Each hour is but a fluted song,
And life a lofty dream.
All day between high-curded clouds the sunShone down like summer on the steaming planks.The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranksDripped from the murmuring eaves till one by oneThey fell. As if the spring had now begun,The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core,Loosened and shunted with a sudden roarFrom downward roofs. Not even with day doneHad ceased the sound of waters, but all nightI heard it. In my dreams forgetfully brightMethought I wandered in the April woods,Where many a silver-piping sparrow was,By gurgling brooks and spouting solitudes,And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas.
All day between high-curded clouds the sunShone down like summer on the steaming planks.The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranksDripped from the murmuring eaves till one by oneThey fell. As if the spring had now begun,The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core,Loosened and shunted with a sudden roarFrom downward roofs. Not even with day doneHad ceased the sound of waters, but all nightI heard it. In my dreams forgetfully brightMethought I wandered in the April woods,Where many a silver-piping sparrow was,By gurgling brooks and spouting solitudes,And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas.
All day between high-curded clouds the sun
Shone down like summer on the steaming planks.
The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranks
Dripped from the murmuring eaves till one by one
They fell. As if the spring had now begun,
The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core,
Loosened and shunted with a sudden roar
From downward roofs. Not even with day done
Had ceased the sound of waters, but all night
I heard it. In my dreams forgetfully bright
Methought I wandered in the April woods,
Where many a silver-piping sparrow was,
By gurgling brooks and spouting solitudes,
And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas.