APRIL MORNING
I leanupon the bridge’s rail,In idle joy, and gazing down,So watch the frothy bubbles sail,And bits of tangled grasses trailAlong the current’s tawny brown.The river flows at full to-day;And though within the tide it poursThere grow no mocking sycamores,Nor any crystal hints betrayThe spicewood thickets, nor the paleSoft willow wands of pearly gray,Whose interwoven mazes veilThe fretted banks, yet here and there,Adown some swirling eddy, whereA delving sunbeam shines,What minesOf gleaming, streaming, liquid goldThe waters hold!And so, by rapid currents rolledIn billowy swells that break and chimeIn riotous tumult uncontrolled,The March flood plashes past the pier;But through its sweeping tones, I hearThe sweet, receding murmurs rhymeThe burden of the April time;And throbbing like a glad refrain,Now far, now full, now far again,The freshened breezeBlows gaily, bringing pure and clearThe fitful, tinkling cadences.But listen! faint, from out the sheerDeep borders of the morning sky,Slips down the distance-softened cryOf shy wild geese that northward fly;It vibrates nearer, and more near,—And see!There! wheeling into sight,Far as the vision may descry.A level-winged advancing “V,”They keep their swift, unswerving flight.North, north, beyond that scudding fleeceOf tiny clouds, like wilder geese,That join their ranks, and journey, too,On,—on,—into the farthest blue.Then, from the boundless space above,I drop my dazzled eyes to viewThe soft field-grass and meadow-rue,The restful, brown earth, that I love.A trick of blinding sun, maybe,That halo on the hills may prove—And yet, they are so dear to me,The golden glory that they wearIs like none other anywhere,And, in my heart, I hold it true.Though, surely, what least loving eyeCould wander up the river there,And see aught otherwise than I?Or could denyThat yonder little glimpse is fair?The slender point of jutting landWhere, faintly burgeoning anewWith rounds of downy buds, there standA score of water-willow treesIn clustered tufts, and twinkling through,Across the stream, beside of these,A line of shining yellow light;And half in sight,And hidden half, upon the right,By wild red-sumac shrubberies,A windmill, rising tall and white,Slow turning in the breeze.And then beyond—but how express,What word in any tongue conveysThe depth of dreamy tendernessThat laps, and wraps, and overlaysThe far blue hills,And spills and fillsThe valleys with pale purple haze?O, what sweet syllables confessThe glad heart-happiness that playsThrough all my pulses as I gaze,And drink the beauty, past all praise—The old, immortal blessednessOf April days!
I leanupon the bridge’s rail,In idle joy, and gazing down,So watch the frothy bubbles sail,And bits of tangled grasses trailAlong the current’s tawny brown.The river flows at full to-day;And though within the tide it poursThere grow no mocking sycamores,Nor any crystal hints betrayThe spicewood thickets, nor the paleSoft willow wands of pearly gray,Whose interwoven mazes veilThe fretted banks, yet here and there,Adown some swirling eddy, whereA delving sunbeam shines,What minesOf gleaming, streaming, liquid goldThe waters hold!And so, by rapid currents rolledIn billowy swells that break and chimeIn riotous tumult uncontrolled,The March flood plashes past the pier;But through its sweeping tones, I hearThe sweet, receding murmurs rhymeThe burden of the April time;And throbbing like a glad refrain,Now far, now full, now far again,The freshened breezeBlows gaily, bringing pure and clearThe fitful, tinkling cadences.But listen! faint, from out the sheerDeep borders of the morning sky,Slips down the distance-softened cryOf shy wild geese that northward fly;It vibrates nearer, and more near,—And see!There! wheeling into sight,Far as the vision may descry.A level-winged advancing “V,”They keep their swift, unswerving flight.North, north, beyond that scudding fleeceOf tiny clouds, like wilder geese,That join their ranks, and journey, too,On,—on,—into the farthest blue.Then, from the boundless space above,I drop my dazzled eyes to viewThe soft field-grass and meadow-rue,The restful, brown earth, that I love.A trick of blinding sun, maybe,That halo on the hills may prove—And yet, they are so dear to me,The golden glory that they wearIs like none other anywhere,And, in my heart, I hold it true.Though, surely, what least loving eyeCould wander up the river there,And see aught otherwise than I?Or could denyThat yonder little glimpse is fair?The slender point of jutting landWhere, faintly burgeoning anewWith rounds of downy buds, there standA score of water-willow treesIn clustered tufts, and twinkling through,Across the stream, beside of these,A line of shining yellow light;And half in sight,And hidden half, upon the right,By wild red-sumac shrubberies,A windmill, rising tall and white,Slow turning in the breeze.And then beyond—but how express,What word in any tongue conveysThe depth of dreamy tendernessThat laps, and wraps, and overlaysThe far blue hills,And spills and fillsThe valleys with pale purple haze?O, what sweet syllables confessThe glad heart-happiness that playsThrough all my pulses as I gaze,And drink the beauty, past all praise—The old, immortal blessednessOf April days!
I leanupon the bridge’s rail,In idle joy, and gazing down,So watch the frothy bubbles sail,And bits of tangled grasses trailAlong the current’s tawny brown.
I leanupon the bridge’s rail,
In idle joy, and gazing down,
So watch the frothy bubbles sail,
And bits of tangled grasses trail
Along the current’s tawny brown.
The river flows at full to-day;And though within the tide it poursThere grow no mocking sycamores,Nor any crystal hints betrayThe spicewood thickets, nor the paleSoft willow wands of pearly gray,Whose interwoven mazes veilThe fretted banks, yet here and there,Adown some swirling eddy, whereA delving sunbeam shines,What minesOf gleaming, streaming, liquid goldThe waters hold!
The river flows at full to-day;
And though within the tide it pours
There grow no mocking sycamores,
Nor any crystal hints betray
The spicewood thickets, nor the pale
Soft willow wands of pearly gray,
Whose interwoven mazes veil
The fretted banks, yet here and there,
Adown some swirling eddy, where
A delving sunbeam shines,
What mines
Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold
The waters hold!
And so, by rapid currents rolledIn billowy swells that break and chimeIn riotous tumult uncontrolled,The March flood plashes past the pier;But through its sweeping tones, I hearThe sweet, receding murmurs rhymeThe burden of the April time;And throbbing like a glad refrain,Now far, now full, now far again,The freshened breezeBlows gaily, bringing pure and clearThe fitful, tinkling cadences.
And so, by rapid currents rolled
In billowy swells that break and chime
In riotous tumult uncontrolled,
The March flood plashes past the pier;
But through its sweeping tones, I hear
The sweet, receding murmurs rhyme
The burden of the April time;
And throbbing like a glad refrain,
Now far, now full, now far again,
The freshened breeze
Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear
The fitful, tinkling cadences.
But listen! faint, from out the sheerDeep borders of the morning sky,Slips down the distance-softened cryOf shy wild geese that northward fly;It vibrates nearer, and more near,—And see!There! wheeling into sight,Far as the vision may descry.A level-winged advancing “V,”They keep their swift, unswerving flight.North, north, beyond that scudding fleeceOf tiny clouds, like wilder geese,That join their ranks, and journey, too,On,—on,—into the farthest blue.
But listen! faint, from out the sheer
Deep borders of the morning sky,
Slips down the distance-softened cry
Of shy wild geese that northward fly;
It vibrates nearer, and more near,
—And see!
There! wheeling into sight,
Far as the vision may descry.
A level-winged advancing “V,”
They keep their swift, unswerving flight.
North, north, beyond that scudding fleece
Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese,
That join their ranks, and journey, too,
On,—on,—into the farthest blue.
Then, from the boundless space above,I drop my dazzled eyes to viewThe soft field-grass and meadow-rue,The restful, brown earth, that I love.A trick of blinding sun, maybe,That halo on the hills may prove—And yet, they are so dear to me,The golden glory that they wearIs like none other anywhere,And, in my heart, I hold it true.
Then, from the boundless space above,
I drop my dazzled eyes to view
The soft field-grass and meadow-rue,
The restful, brown earth, that I love.
A trick of blinding sun, maybe,
That halo on the hills may prove—
And yet, they are so dear to me,
The golden glory that they wear
Is like none other anywhere,
And, in my heart, I hold it true.
Though, surely, what least loving eyeCould wander up the river there,And see aught otherwise than I?Or could denyThat yonder little glimpse is fair?The slender point of jutting landWhere, faintly burgeoning anewWith rounds of downy buds, there standA score of water-willow treesIn clustered tufts, and twinkling through,Across the stream, beside of these,A line of shining yellow light;And half in sight,And hidden half, upon the right,By wild red-sumac shrubberies,A windmill, rising tall and white,Slow turning in the breeze.
Though, surely, what least loving eye
Could wander up the river there,
And see aught otherwise than I?
Or could deny
That yonder little glimpse is fair?
The slender point of jutting land
Where, faintly burgeoning anew
With rounds of downy buds, there stand
A score of water-willow trees
In clustered tufts, and twinkling through,
Across the stream, beside of these,
A line of shining yellow light;
And half in sight,
And hidden half, upon the right,
By wild red-sumac shrubberies,
A windmill, rising tall and white,
Slow turning in the breeze.
And then beyond—but how express,What word in any tongue conveysThe depth of dreamy tendernessThat laps, and wraps, and overlaysThe far blue hills,And spills and fillsThe valleys with pale purple haze?O, what sweet syllables confessThe glad heart-happiness that playsThrough all my pulses as I gaze,And drink the beauty, past all praise—The old, immortal blessednessOf April days!
And then beyond—but how express,
What word in any tongue conveys
The depth of dreamy tenderness
That laps, and wraps, and overlays
The far blue hills,
And spills and fills
The valleys with pale purple haze?
O, what sweet syllables confess
The glad heart-happiness that plays
Through all my pulses as I gaze,
And drink the beauty, past all praise—
The old, immortal blessedness
Of April days!