All the long August afternoon,The little drowsy streamWhispers a melancholy tune,As if it dreamed of June,And whispered in its dream.The thistles show beyond the brookDust on their down and bloom,And out of many a weed-grown nookThe aster flowers lookWith eyes of tender gloom.The silent orchard aisles are sweetWith smell of ripening fruit.Through the sere grass, in shy retreatFlutter, at coming feet,The robins strange and mute.There is no wind to stir the leaves,The harsh leaves overhead;Only the querulous cricket grieves,And shrilling locust weavesA song of summer dead.William Dean Howells.
All the long August afternoon,The little drowsy streamWhispers a melancholy tune,As if it dreamed of June,And whispered in its dream.
The thistles show beyond the brookDust on their down and bloom,And out of many a weed-grown nookThe aster flowers lookWith eyes of tender gloom.
The silent orchard aisles are sweetWith smell of ripening fruit.Through the sere grass, in shy retreatFlutter, at coming feet,The robins strange and mute.
There is no wind to stir the leaves,The harsh leaves overhead;Only the querulous cricket grieves,And shrilling locust weavesA song of summer dead.William Dean Howells.
Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,As though he joyèd in his plenteous store,Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full gladThat he had banished hunger, which to-foreHad by the belly oft him pinchèd sore:Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'dWith ears of corn of every sort, he bore;And in his hand a sickle he did hold,To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold.Edmund Spenser.From "The Faerie Queene."
Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,As though he joyèd in his plenteous store,Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full gladThat he had banished hunger, which to-foreHad by the belly oft him pinchèd sore:Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'dWith ears of corn of every sort, he bore;And in his hand a sickle he did hold,To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold.
Edmund Spenser.
From "The Faerie Queene."
O sweet September! thy first breezes bringThe dry leafs rustle and the squirrel's laughter,The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring,And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.George Arnold.
O sweet September! thy first breezes bringThe dry leafs rustle and the squirrel's laughter,The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring,And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.
George Arnold.
Then step by step walks Autumn,With steady eyes that showNor grief nor fear, to the death of the year,While the equinoctials blow.Dinah Maria Mulock.
Then step by step walks Autumn,With steady eyes that showNor grief nor fear, to the death of the year,While the equinoctials blow.
Dinah Maria Mulock.
O suns and skies and clouds of June,And flowers of June together,Ye cannot rival for one hourOctober's bright blue weather;When loud the bumblebee makes haste,Belated, thriftless vagrant,And goldenrod is dying fast,And lanes with grapes are fragrant;When gentians roll their fringes tightTo save them for the morning,And chestnuts fall from satin burrsWithout a sound of warning;When on the ground red apples lieIn piles like jewels shining,And redder still on old stone wallsAre leaves of woodbine twining;When all the lovely wayside thingsTheir white-winged seeds are sowing,And in the fields, still green and fair,Late aftermaths are growing;When springs run low, and on the brooks,In idle golden freighting,Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hushOf woods, for winter waiting;When comrades seek sweet country haunts,By twos and twos together,And count like misers, hour by hour,October's bright blue weather.O sun and skies and flowers of June,Count all your boasts together,Love loveth best of all the yearOctober's bright blue weather.H. H.
O suns and skies and clouds of June,And flowers of June together,Ye cannot rival for one hourOctober's bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,Belated, thriftless vagrant,And goldenrod is dying fast,And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fringes tightTo save them for the morning,And chestnuts fall from satin burrsWithout a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lieIn piles like jewels shining,And redder still on old stone wallsAre leaves of woodbine twining;When all the lovely wayside thingsTheir white-winged seeds are sowing,And in the fields, still green and fair,Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,In idle golden freighting,Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hushOf woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,By twos and twos together,And count like misers, hour by hour,October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June,Count all your boasts together,Love loveth best of all the yearOctober's bright blue weather.
H. H.
October turned my maple's leaves to gold;The most are gone now; here and there one lingers:Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold,Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
October turned my maple's leaves to gold;The most are gone now; here and there one lingers:Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold,Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
November woods are bare and still,November days are clear and bright,Each noon burns up the morning's chill,The morning's snow is gone by night,Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,As through the woods I reverent creep,Watching all things "lie down to sleep."I never knew before what beds,Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,The forest sifts and shapes and spreads.I never knew before, how muchOf human sound there is, in suchLow tones as through the forest sweep,When all wild things "lie down to sleep."Each day I find new coverlidsTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight.Sometimes the viewless mother bidsHer ferns kneel down full in my sight,I hear their chorus of "good night,"And half I smile and half I weep,Listening while they "lie down to sleep."November woods are bare and still,November days are bright and good,Life's noon burns up life's morning chill,Life's night rests feet that long have stood,Some warm, soft bed in field or woodThe mother will not fail to keepWhere we can "lay us down to sleep."H. H.
November woods are bare and still,November days are clear and bright,Each noon burns up the morning's chill,The morning's snow is gone by night,Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,As through the woods I reverent creep,Watching all things "lie down to sleep."
I never knew before what beds,Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,The forest sifts and shapes and spreads.I never knew before, how muchOf human sound there is, in suchLow tones as through the forest sweep,When all wild things "lie down to sleep."
Each day I find new coverlidsTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight.Sometimes the viewless mother bidsHer ferns kneel down full in my sight,I hear their chorus of "good night,"And half I smile and half I weep,Listening while they "lie down to sleep."
November woods are bare and still,November days are bright and good,Life's noon burns up life's morning chill,Life's night rests feet that long have stood,Some warm, soft bed in field or woodThe mother will not fail to keepWhere we can "lay us down to sleep."
H. H.
Lastly came Winter cloathèd all in frize,Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,And the dull drops that from his purple billAs from a limbeck did adown distill;In his right hand a tippèd staff he heldWith which his feeble steps he stayèd still,For he was faint with cold and weak with eld,That scarce his loosèd limbs he able was to weld.Edmund Spenser.
Lastly came Winter cloathèd all in frize,Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,And the dull drops that from his purple billAs from a limbeck did adown distill;In his right hand a tippèd staff he heldWith which his feeble steps he stayèd still,For he was faint with cold and weak with eld,That scarce his loosèd limbs he able was to weld.
Edmund Spenser.
When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.William Shakespeare.From "Love's Labor's Lost."
When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare.
From "Love's Labor's Lost."
There was never a leaf on bush or tree,The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;The river was dumb and could not speak,For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;A single crow on the tree-top bleakFrom his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,As if her veins were sapless and old,And she rose up decrepitlyFor a last dim look at earth and sea.James Russell Lowell.From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
There was never a leaf on bush or tree,The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;The river was dumb and could not speak,For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;A single crow on the tree-top bleakFrom his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,As if her veins were sapless and old,And she rose up decrepitlyFor a last dim look at earth and sea.
James Russell Lowell.
From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight; the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feetDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitAround the radiant fireplace, inclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.Come see the north-wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild workSo fanciful, so savage, naught cares heFor number or proportion. Mockingly,On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,A tapering turret overtops the work:And when his hours are numbered, and the worldIs all his own, retiring, as he were not,Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight; the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feetDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitAround the radiant fireplace, inclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north-wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild workSo fanciful, so savage, naught cares heFor number or proportion. Mockingly,On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,A tapering turret overtops the work:And when his hours are numbered, and the worldIs all his own, retiring, as he were not,Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Old Winter sad, in snow yclad,Is making a doleful din;But let him howl till he crack his jowl,We will not let him in.Ay, let him lift from the billowy driftHis hoary, hagged form,And scowling stand, with his wrinkled handOutstretching to the storm.And let his weird and sleety beardStream loose upon the blast,And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rimeFrom his bald head falling fast.Let his baleful breath shed blight and deathOn herb and flower and tree;And brooks and ponds in crystal bondsBind fast, but what care we?Let him push at the door,—in the chimney roar,And rattle the window pane;Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,But he shall not entrance gain.Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,On our roof-tiles, till he tire;But we care not a whit, as we jovial sitBefore our blazing fire.Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;Come, push the can about;—From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tideWe'll keep old Winter out.Thomas Noel.
Old Winter sad, in snow yclad,Is making a doleful din;But let him howl till he crack his jowl,We will not let him in.
Ay, let him lift from the billowy driftHis hoary, hagged form,And scowling stand, with his wrinkled handOutstretching to the storm.
And let his weird and sleety beardStream loose upon the blast,And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rimeFrom his bald head falling fast.
Let his baleful breath shed blight and deathOn herb and flower and tree;And brooks and ponds in crystal bondsBind fast, but what care we?
Let him push at the door,—in the chimney roar,And rattle the window pane;Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,But he shall not entrance gain.
Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,On our roof-tiles, till he tire;But we care not a whit, as we jovial sitBefore our blazing fire.
Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;Come, push the can about;—From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tideWe'll keep old Winter out.
Thomas Noel.
The speckled sky is dim with snow,The light flakes falter and fall slow;Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,Silently drops a silvery veil;And all the valley is shut inBy flickering curtains gray and thin.But cheerily the chickadeeSingeth to me on fence and tree;The snow sails round him as he sings,White as the down of angels' wings.I watch the slow flakes as they fallOn bank and brier and broken wall;Over the orchard, waste and brown,All noiselessly they settle down,Tipping the apple-boughs, and eachLight quivering twig of plum and peach.On turf and curb and bower-roofThe snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;It paves with pearl the garden-walk;And lovingly round tattered stalkAnd shivering stem its magic weavesA mantle fair as lily-leaves.The hooded beehive small and low,Stands like a maiden in the snow;And the old door-slab is half hidUnder an alabaster lid.All day it snows: the sheeted postGleams in the dimness like a ghost;All day the blasted oak has stoodA muffled wizard of the wood;Garland and airy cap adornThe sumach and the wayside thorn,And clustering spangles lodge and shineIn the dark tresses of the pine.The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;In surplice white the cedar stands,And blesses him with priestly hands.Still cheerily the chickadeeSingeth to me on fence and tree:But in my inmost ear is heardThe music of a holier bird;And heavenly thoughts as soft and whiteAs snow-flakes on my soul alight,Clothing with love my lonely heart,Healing with peace each bruised part,Till all my being seems to beTransfigured by their purity.John Townsend Trowbridge.
The speckled sky is dim with snow,The light flakes falter and fall slow;Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,Silently drops a silvery veil;And all the valley is shut inBy flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadeeSingeth to me on fence and tree;The snow sails round him as he sings,White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the slow flakes as they fallOn bank and brier and broken wall;Over the orchard, waste and brown,All noiselessly they settle down,Tipping the apple-boughs, and eachLight quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roofThe snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;It paves with pearl the garden-walk;And lovingly round tattered stalkAnd shivering stem its magic weavesA mantle fair as lily-leaves.
The hooded beehive small and low,Stands like a maiden in the snow;And the old door-slab is half hidUnder an alabaster lid.
All day it snows: the sheeted postGleams in the dimness like a ghost;All day the blasted oak has stoodA muffled wizard of the wood;Garland and airy cap adornThe sumach and the wayside thorn,And clustering spangles lodge and shineIn the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;In surplice white the cedar stands,And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadeeSingeth to me on fence and tree:But in my inmost ear is heardThe music of a holier bird;And heavenly thoughts as soft and whiteAs snow-flakes on my soul alight,Clothing with love my lonely heart,Healing with peace each bruised part,Till all my being seems to beTransfigured by their purity.
John Townsend Trowbridge.
"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead!Come and sigh, come and weep!""Merry Hours, smile instead,For the Year is but asleep;See, it smiles as it is sleeping,Mocking your untimely weeping."Percy Bysshe Shelley.
"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead!Come and sigh, come and weep!""Merry Hours, smile instead,For the Year is but asleep;See, it smiles as it is sleeping,Mocking your untimely weeping."
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
"Study Nature, not books," said that inspired teacher, Louis Agassiz.
The poets do not bring you the fruit of conscious study, perhaps, for they do not analyze or dissect Dame Nature's methods; with them genius begets a higher instinct, and it is by a sort of divination that they interpret for us the power and grandeur, romance and witchery, beauty and mystery of "God's great out-of-doors." The born poet, like the born naturalist, seems to have additional senses. Emerson says of his friend Thoreau that he saw as with microscope and heard as with ear-trumpet, while his memory was a photographic register of all he saw and heard; and Thoreau the naturalist might have said the same of Emerson the poet.
Glance at the succession of beautiful images in Shelley's "Cloud" or Aldrich's "Before the Rain", lend your ear to the tinkle of Tennyson's "Brook." Contrast them with the bracing lines of the "Northeast Wind," the rough metre of "Highland Cattle," the chill calm of "Snow Bound," the grand style of Milton's "Morning," the noble simplicity of Addison's "Hymn," and note how the great poet bends his language to the mood of Nature, grim or sunny, stormy or kind, strong or tender. There is a stanza in Pope's "Essay on Criticism" which conveys the idea perfectly:
"Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,The line too labors, and the words move slow:Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main."
"Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,The line too labors, and the words move slow:Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main."
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweetWith charm of earliest birds; pleasant the SunWhen first on this delightful land he spreadsHis orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile EarthAfter soft showers; and sweet the coming onOf grateful Evening mild; then silent NightWith this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon,And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train.John Milton.From "Paradise Lost."
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweetWith charm of earliest birds; pleasant the SunWhen first on this delightful land he spreadsHis orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile EarthAfter soft showers; and sweet the coming onOf grateful Evening mild; then silent NightWith this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon,And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train.
John Milton.
From "Paradise Lost."
It is the harvest moon! On gilded vanesAnd roofs of villages, on woodland crestsAnd their aerial neighborhoods of nestsDeserted, oh the curtained window-panesOf rooms where children sleep, on country lanesAnd harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!Gone are the birds that were our summer guests;With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
It is the harvest moon! On gilded vanesAnd roofs of villages, on woodland crestsAnd their aerial neighborhoods of nestsDeserted, oh the curtained window-panesOf rooms where children sleep, on country lanesAnd harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!Gone are the birds that were our summer guests;With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the blast.Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,Lightning my pilot sits;In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,The Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rackWhen the morning-star shines dead,As on the jag of a mountain crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneathIts ardors of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,By the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The stars peep behind her and peer;And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,Like a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each paved with the moon and these.I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I marchWith hurricane, fire, and snow,When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,Is the million-colored bow;The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,While the moist earth was laughing below.I am the daughter of earth and water,And the nursling of the sky:I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain when with never a stain,The pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,Build up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise and unbuild it again.Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the blast.Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,Lightning my pilot sits;In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,The Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rackWhen the morning-star shines dead,As on the jag of a mountain crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneathIts ardors of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,By the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The stars peep behind her and peer;And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,Like a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I marchWith hurricane, fire, and snow,When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,Is the million-colored bow;The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,While the moist earth was laughing below.I am the daughter of earth and water,And the nursling of the sky:I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain when with never a stain,The pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,Build up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise and unbuild it again.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
We knew it would rain, for all the morn,A spirit on slender ropes of mistWas lowering its golden buckets downInto the vapory amethystOf marshes and swamps and dismal fens—Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,Dipping the jewels out of the sea,To sprinkle them over the land in showers.We knew it would rain, for the poplars showedThe white of their leaves, the amber grainShrunk in the wind—and the lightning nowIs tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
We knew it would rain, for all the morn,A spirit on slender ropes of mistWas lowering its golden buckets downInto the vapory amethyst
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens—Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,Dipping the jewels out of the sea,To sprinkle them over the land in showers.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showedThe white of their leaves, the amber grainShrunk in the wind—and the lightning nowIs tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat,In the broad and fiery street,In the narrow lane,How beautiful is the rain!How it clatters along the roofsLike the tramp of hoofs!How it gushes and struggles outFrom the throat of the overflowing spout!Across the window-paneIt pours and pours;And swift and wide,With a muddy tide,Like a river down the gutter roarsThe rain, the welcome rain!The sick man from his chamber looksAt the twisted brooks;He can feel the coolBreath of each little pool;His fevered brainGrows calm again,And he breathes a blessing on the rain.From the neighboring schoolCome the boys,With more than their wonted noiseAnd commotion;And down the wet streetsSail their mimic fleets,Till the treacherous poolEngulfs them in its whirlingAnd turbulent ocean.In the country on every side,Where, far and wide,Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,Stretches the plain,To the dry grass and the drier grainHow welcome is the rain!In the furrowed landThe toilsome and patient oxen stand,Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,With their dilated nostrils spread,They silently inhaleThe clover-scented gale,And the vapors that ariseFrom the well-watered and smoking soil.For this rest in the furrow after toil,Their large and lustrous eyesSeem to thank the Lord,More than man's spoken word.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat,In the broad and fiery street,In the narrow lane,How beautiful is the rain!How it clatters along the roofsLike the tramp of hoofs!How it gushes and struggles outFrom the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-paneIt pours and pours;And swift and wide,With a muddy tide,Like a river down the gutter roarsThe rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looksAt the twisted brooks;He can feel the coolBreath of each little pool;His fevered brainGrows calm again,And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring schoolCome the boys,With more than their wonted noiseAnd commotion;And down the wet streetsSail their mimic fleets,Till the treacherous poolEngulfs them in its whirlingAnd turbulent ocean.
In the country on every side,Where, far and wide,Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,Stretches the plain,To the dry grass and the drier grainHow welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed landThe toilsome and patient oxen stand,Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,With their dilated nostrils spread,They silently inhaleThe clover-scented gale,And the vapors that ariseFrom the well-watered and smoking soil.For this rest in the furrow after toil,Their large and lustrous eyesSeem to thank the Lord,More than man's spoken word.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
O gentle, gentle summer rain,Let not the silver lily pine,The drooping lily pine in vainTo feel that dewy touch of thine—To drink thy freshness once again,O gentle, gentle summer rain!In heat the landscape quivering lies;The cattle pant beneath the tree;Through parching air and purple skiesThe earth looks up, in vain, for thee;For thee—for thee, it looks in vain,O gentle, gentle summer rain!Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams,And soften all the hills with mist,O falling dew! from burning dreamsBy thee shall herb and flower be kissed;And Earth shall bless thee yet again,O gentle, gentle summer rain!William C. Bennett.
O gentle, gentle summer rain,Let not the silver lily pine,The drooping lily pine in vainTo feel that dewy touch of thine—To drink thy freshness once again,O gentle, gentle summer rain!
In heat the landscape quivering lies;The cattle pant beneath the tree;Through parching air and purple skiesThe earth looks up, in vain, for thee;For thee—for thee, it looks in vain,O gentle, gentle summer rain!
Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams,And soften all the hills with mist,O falling dew! from burning dreamsBy thee shall herb and flower be kissed;And Earth shall bless thee yet again,O gentle, gentle summer rain!
William C. Bennett.
The latter rain,—it falls in anxious hasteUpon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,Loosening with searching drops the rigid wasteAs if it would each root's lost strength repair;But not a blade grows green as in the spring;No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;The robins only 'mid the harvests sing,Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;The rain falls still,—the fruit all ripened drops,It pierces chestnut-bur and walnut-shell;The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops;Each bursting pod of talents used can tell;And all that once received the early rainDeclare to man it was not sent in vain.Jones Very.
The latter rain,—it falls in anxious hasteUpon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,Loosening with searching drops the rigid wasteAs if it would each root's lost strength repair;But not a blade grows green as in the spring;No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;The robins only 'mid the harvests sing,Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;The rain falls still,—the fruit all ripened drops,It pierces chestnut-bur and walnut-shell;The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops;Each bursting pod of talents used can tell;And all that once received the early rainDeclare to man it was not sent in vain.
Jones Very.
I saw you toss the kites on highAnd blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,Like ladies' skirts across the grass—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!I saw the different things you did,But always you yourself you hid,I felt you push, I heard you call,I could not see yourself at all—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!O you that are so strong and cold,O blower, are you young or old?Are you a beast of field and treeOr just a stronger child than me?O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!Robert Louis Stevenson.
I saw you toss the kites on highAnd blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,Like ladies' skirts across the grass—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,But always you yourself you hid,I felt you push, I heard you call,I could not see yourself at all—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,O blower, are you young or old?Are you a beast of field and treeOr just a stronger child than me?O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
Robert Louis Stevenson.
[4]From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons.
[4]From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons.
Welcome, wild Northeaster!Shame it is to seeOdes to every zephyr;Ne'er a verse to thee.Welcome, black Northeaster!O'er the German foam;O'er the Danish moorlands,From thy frozen home.Tired we are of summer,Tired of gaudy glare,Showers soft and steaming,Hot and breathless air.Tired of listless dreaming,Through the lazy day;Jovial wind of winterTurn us out to play!Sweep the golden reed-beds;Crisp the lazy dyke;Hunger into madnessEvery plunging pike.Fill the lake with wild-fowl;Fill the marsh with snipe;While on dreary moorlandsLonely curlew pipe.Through the black fir forestThunder harsh and dry,Shattering down the snowflakesOff the curdled sky.Hark! the brave Northeaster!Breast-high lies the scent,On by holt and headland,Over heath and bent.Chime, ye dappled darlings,Through the sleet and snow,Who can override you?Let the horses go!Chime, ye dappled darlings,Down the roaring blast;You shall see a fox dieEre an hour be past.Go! and rest to-morrow,Hunting in your dreams,While our skates are ringingO'er the frozen streams.Let the luscious South-windBreathe in lovers' sighs,While the lazy gallantsBask in ladies' eyes.What does he but softenHeart alike and pen?'Tis the hard gray weatherBreeds hard English men.What's the soft Southwester?'Tis the ladies' breeze,Bringing home their true lovesOut of all the seas;But the black Northeaster,Through the snowstorm hurled,Drives our English hearts of oak,Seaward round the world!Come! as came our fathers,Heralded by thee,Conquering from the eastward,Lords by land and sea.Come! and strong within usStir the Vikings' blood;Bracing brain and sinew;Blow, thou wind of God!Charles Kingsley.
Welcome, wild Northeaster!Shame it is to seeOdes to every zephyr;Ne'er a verse to thee.Welcome, black Northeaster!O'er the German foam;O'er the Danish moorlands,From thy frozen home.Tired we are of summer,Tired of gaudy glare,Showers soft and steaming,Hot and breathless air.Tired of listless dreaming,Through the lazy day;Jovial wind of winterTurn us out to play!Sweep the golden reed-beds;Crisp the lazy dyke;Hunger into madnessEvery plunging pike.Fill the lake with wild-fowl;Fill the marsh with snipe;While on dreary moorlandsLonely curlew pipe.Through the black fir forestThunder harsh and dry,Shattering down the snowflakesOff the curdled sky.Hark! the brave Northeaster!Breast-high lies the scent,On by holt and headland,Over heath and bent.Chime, ye dappled darlings,Through the sleet and snow,Who can override you?Let the horses go!Chime, ye dappled darlings,Down the roaring blast;You shall see a fox dieEre an hour be past.Go! and rest to-morrow,Hunting in your dreams,While our skates are ringingO'er the frozen streams.Let the luscious South-windBreathe in lovers' sighs,While the lazy gallantsBask in ladies' eyes.What does he but softenHeart alike and pen?'Tis the hard gray weatherBreeds hard English men.What's the soft Southwester?'Tis the ladies' breeze,Bringing home their true lovesOut of all the seas;But the black Northeaster,Through the snowstorm hurled,Drives our English hearts of oak,Seaward round the world!Come! as came our fathers,Heralded by thee,Conquering from the eastward,Lords by land and sea.Come! and strong within usStir the Vikings' blood;Bracing brain and sinew;Blow, thou wind of God!
Charles Kingsley.
Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the midnight tempests howl!With a dreary voice, like the dismal tuneOf wolves that bay at the desert moon;—Or whistle and shriekThrough limbs that creak,"Tu-who! tu-whit!"They cry and flit,"Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!Alow and aloof,Over the roof,Sweep the moaning winds amain,And wildly dashThe elm and ash,Clattering on the window-sash,With a clatter and patter,Like hail and rainThat well nigh shatterThe dusky pane!Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the tempests swell and roar!Though no foot is astir,Though the cat and the curLie dozing along the kitchen floor,There are feet of airOn every stair!Through every hall—Through each gusty door,There's a jostle and bustle,With a silken rustle,Like the meeting of guests at a festival!Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the stormy tempests swell!And make the vaneOn the spire complain—They heave at the steeple with might and mainAnd burst and sweepInto the belfry, on the bell!They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!Thomas Buchanan Read.
Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the midnight tempests howl!With a dreary voice, like the dismal tuneOf wolves that bay at the desert moon;—Or whistle and shriekThrough limbs that creak,"Tu-who! tu-whit!"They cry and flit,"Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!
Alow and aloof,Over the roof,Sweep the moaning winds amain,And wildly dashThe elm and ash,Clattering on the window-sash,With a clatter and patter,Like hail and rainThat well nigh shatterThe dusky pane!
Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the tempests swell and roar!Though no foot is astir,Though the cat and the curLie dozing along the kitchen floor,There are feet of airOn every stair!Through every hall—Through each gusty door,There's a jostle and bustle,With a silken rustle,Like the meeting of guests at a festival!
Alow and aloof,Over the roof,How the stormy tempests swell!And make the vaneOn the spire complain—They heave at the steeple with might and mainAnd burst and sweepInto the belfry, on the bell!They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!
Thomas Buchanan Read.
[5]By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.
[5]By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges;By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.* * * *I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fret,By many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.* * * *I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses.And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges;By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
* * * *
I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret,By many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.
* * * *
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.