Some innocent girlish Kisses by a charmChanged to a flight of small pink Butterflies,To waver under June's delicious skiesAcross gold-sprinkled meads—the merry swarmA smiling powerful word did next transformTo little Roses mesh'd in green, alliesOf earth and air, and everything we prizeFor mirthful, gentle, delicate, and warm.William Allingham.
Some innocent girlish Kisses by a charmChanged to a flight of small pink Butterflies,To waver under June's delicious skiesAcross gold-sprinkled meads—the merry swarmA smiling powerful word did next transformTo little Roses mesh'd in green, alliesOf earth and air, and everything we prizeFor mirthful, gentle, delicate, and warm.
William Allingham.
I like not lady-slippers,Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,Nor yet the flaky roses,Red, or white as snow;I like the chaliced lilies,The heavy Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our garden grow!For they are tall and slender;Their mouths are dashed with carmine,And when the wind sweeps by them,On their emerald stalksThey bend so proud and graceful,—They are Circassian women,The favorites of the Sultan,Adown our garden walks!And when the rain is falling,I sit beside the windowAnd watch them glow and glisten,—How they burn and glow!O for the burning lilies,The tender Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our garden grow!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
I like not lady-slippers,Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,Nor yet the flaky roses,Red, or white as snow;I like the chaliced lilies,The heavy Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our garden grow!
For they are tall and slender;Their mouths are dashed with carmine,And when the wind sweeps by them,On their emerald stalksThey bend so proud and graceful,—They are Circassian women,The favorites of the Sultan,Adown our garden walks!
And when the rain is falling,I sit beside the windowAnd watch them glow and glisten,—How they burn and glow!O for the burning lilies,The tender Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our garden grow!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest, when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night;Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines in purple dressed,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,When woods are bare, and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged Year is near his end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.William Cullen Bryant.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest, when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night;
Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines in purple dressed,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,When woods are bare, and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged Year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
William Cullen Bryant.
[7]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
[7]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem;To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonnie gem!Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckl'd breast,When upward-springing, blithe, to greetThe purpling east.Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce rear'd above the parent earthThy tender form.The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies.Robert Burns.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem;To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonnie gem!
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckl'd breast,When upward-springing, blithe, to greetThe purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce rear'd above the parent earthThy tender form.The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies.
Robert Burns.
In the deep shadow of the porchA slender bind-weed springs,And climbs, like airy acrobat,The trellises, and swingsAnd dances in the golden sunIn fairy loops and rings.Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,Like pearly chalices,Hold cooling fountains, to refreshThe butterflies and bees;And humming-birds on vibrant wingsHover, to drink at ease.And up and down the garden-beds,Mid box and thyme and yew,And spikes of purple lavender,And spikes of larkspur blue,The bind-weed tendrils win their way,And find a passage through.With touches coaxing, delicate,And arts that never tire,They tie the rose-trees each to each,The lilac to the brier,Making for graceless things a grace,With steady, sweet desire.Till near and far the garden growths,The sweet, the frail, the rude,Draw close, as if with one consent,And find each other good,Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops,In a dear brotherhood.Like one fair sister, slender, arch,A flower in bloom and poise,Gentle and merry and beloved,Making no stir or noise,But swaying, linking, blessing allA family of boys.Susan Coolidge.
In the deep shadow of the porchA slender bind-weed springs,And climbs, like airy acrobat,The trellises, and swingsAnd dances in the golden sunIn fairy loops and rings.
Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,Like pearly chalices,Hold cooling fountains, to refreshThe butterflies and bees;And humming-birds on vibrant wingsHover, to drink at ease.
And up and down the garden-beds,Mid box and thyme and yew,And spikes of purple lavender,And spikes of larkspur blue,The bind-weed tendrils win their way,And find a passage through.
With touches coaxing, delicate,And arts that never tire,They tie the rose-trees each to each,The lilac to the brier,Making for graceless things a grace,With steady, sweet desire.
Till near and far the garden growths,The sweet, the frail, the rude,Draw close, as if with one consent,And find each other good,Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops,In a dear brotherhood.
Like one fair sister, slender, arch,A flower in bloom and poise,Gentle and merry and beloved,Making no stir or noise,But swaying, linking, blessing allA family of boys.
Susan Coolidge.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook:The purple petals, fallen in the poolMade the black waters with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then beauty is its own excuse for being.Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask; I never knew,But in my simple ignorance supposeThe selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook:The purple petals, fallen in the poolMade the black waters with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then beauty is its own excuse for being.Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask; I never knew,But in my simple ignorance supposeThe selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
I wonder what the Clover thinks,—Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links,Lover of Daisies slim and white,Waltzer with Buttercups at night;Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees,Serving to them wine-dregs and lees,Left by the Royal Humming Birds,Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;Fellow with all the lowliest,Peer of the gayest and the best;Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one;Prophet of Good-Luck mysteryBy sign of four which few may see;Symbol of Nature's magic zone,One out of three, and three in one;Emblem of comfort in the speechWhich poor men's babies early reach;Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills,Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,—Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;—Sweet in its every living breath,Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!"Saxe Holm."
I wonder what the Clover thinks,—Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links,Lover of Daisies slim and white,Waltzer with Buttercups at night;Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees,Serving to them wine-dregs and lees,Left by the Royal Humming Birds,Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;Fellow with all the lowliest,Peer of the gayest and the best;Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one;Prophet of Good-Luck mysteryBy sign of four which few may see;Symbol of Nature's magic zone,One out of three, and three in one;Emblem of comfort in the speechWhich poor men's babies early reach;Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills,Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,—Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;—Sweet in its every living breath,Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!
"Saxe Holm."
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,First pledge of blithesome May,Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold,High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that theyAn Eldorado in the grass have found,Which not the rich earth's ample roundMay match in wealth, thou art more dear to meThan all the prouder summer-blooms may be.James Russell Lowell.
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,First pledge of blithesome May,Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold,High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that theyAn Eldorado in the grass have found,Which not the rich earth's ample roundMay match in wealth, thou art more dear to meThan all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
James Russell Lowell.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attained his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hastening dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having prayed together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you, or anything.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.Robert Herrick.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attained his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hastening dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having prayed together, weWill go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you, or anything.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Robert Herrick.
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,—A host, of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee;A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company.I gazed, and gazed, but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.William Wordsworth.
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,—A host, of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee;A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company.I gazed, and gazed, but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth.
'Tis the white anemone, fashioned soLike to the stars of the winter snow,First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubtI shall seem but the snow that stayed too long,So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout,"And wide she wanders the woods among.Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places,Smile meek moonlight-colored facesOf pale primroses puritan,In maiden sisterhood demure;Each virgin floweret faint and wanWith the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.* * * *Owen Meredith.(Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.)
'Tis the white anemone, fashioned soLike to the stars of the winter snow,First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubtI shall seem but the snow that stayed too long,So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout,"And wide she wanders the woods among.Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places,Smile meek moonlight-colored facesOf pale primroses puritan,In maiden sisterhood demure;Each virgin floweret faint and wanWith the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.
* * * *
Owen Meredith.
(Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.)
The grass so little has to do,—A sphere of simple green,With only butterflies to brood,And bees to entertain,And stir all day to pretty tunesThe breezes fetch along,And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything;And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself so fine,—A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing.And even when it dies, to passIn odors so divine,As lowly spices gone to sleep,Or amulets of pine.And then to dwell in sovereign barns,And dream the days away,—The grass so little has to do,I wish I were the hay!Emily Dickinson.
The grass so little has to do,—A sphere of simple green,With only butterflies to brood,And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunesThe breezes fetch along,And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself so fine,—A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to passIn odors so divine,As lowly spices gone to sleep,Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,And dream the days away,—The grass so little has to do,I wish I were the hay!
Emily Dickinson.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our ploughs their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now with autumn's moonlit eves,Its harvest-time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.There richer than the fabled giftApollo showered of old,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!Then shame on all the proud and vain,Whose folly laughs to scornThe blessing of our hardy grain,Our wealth of golden corn!Let earth withhold her goodly root,Let mildew blight the rye,Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,The wheat field to the fly:But let the good old crop adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us for his golden corn,Send up our thanks to God!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our ploughs their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.
And now with autumn's moonlit eves,Its harvest-time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.
There richer than the fabled giftApollo showered of old,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!
Then shame on all the proud and vain,Whose folly laughs to scornThe blessing of our hardy grain,Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,Let mildew blight the rye,Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,The wheat field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us for his golden corn,Send up our thanks to God!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Blazon Columbia's emblemThe bounteous, golden Corn!Eons ago, of the great sun's glowAnd the joy of the earth, 'twas born.From Superior's shore to Chili,From the ocean of dawn to the west,With its banners of green and silken sheenIt sprang at the sun's behest;And by dew and shower, from its natal hour,With honey and wine 'twas fed,Till on slope and plain the gods were fainTo share the feast outspread:For the rarest boon to the land they lovedWas the Corn so rich and fair,Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seasCould find its like elsewhere.In their holiest temples the IncasOffered the heaven-sent Maize—Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold,For the sun's enraptured gaze;And its harvest came to the wandering tribesAs the gods' own gift and seal,And Montezuma's festal breadWas made of its sacred meal.Narrow their cherished fields; but oursAre broad as the continent's breast.And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheavesBring plenty and joy and rest;For they strew the plains and crowd the wainsWhen the reapers meet at morn,Till blithe cheers ring and west winds singA song for the garnered Corn.The rose may bloom for England,The lily for France unfold;Ireland may honor the shamrock,Scotland her thistle bold;But the shield of the great Republic,The glory of the West,Shall bear a stalk of the tasseled Corn—The sun's supreme bequest!The arbutus and the golden rodThe heart of the North may cheer,And the mountain laurel for MarylandIts royal clusters rear,And jasmine and magnoliaThe crest of the South adorn;But the wide Republic's emblemIs the bounteous, golden Corn!Edna Dean Proctor.
Blazon Columbia's emblemThe bounteous, golden Corn!Eons ago, of the great sun's glowAnd the joy of the earth, 'twas born.From Superior's shore to Chili,From the ocean of dawn to the west,With its banners of green and silken sheenIt sprang at the sun's behest;And by dew and shower, from its natal hour,With honey and wine 'twas fed,Till on slope and plain the gods were fainTo share the feast outspread:For the rarest boon to the land they lovedWas the Corn so rich and fair,Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seasCould find its like elsewhere.
In their holiest temples the IncasOffered the heaven-sent Maize—Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold,For the sun's enraptured gaze;And its harvest came to the wandering tribesAs the gods' own gift and seal,And Montezuma's festal breadWas made of its sacred meal.Narrow their cherished fields; but oursAre broad as the continent's breast.And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheavesBring plenty and joy and rest;For they strew the plains and crowd the wainsWhen the reapers meet at morn,Till blithe cheers ring and west winds singA song for the garnered Corn.
The rose may bloom for England,The lily for France unfold;Ireland may honor the shamrock,Scotland her thistle bold;But the shield of the great Republic,The glory of the West,Shall bear a stalk of the tasseled Corn—The sun's supreme bequest!The arbutus and the golden rodThe heart of the North may cheer,And the mountain laurel for MarylandIts royal clusters rear,And jasmine and magnoliaThe crest of the South adorn;But the wide Republic's emblemIs the bounteous, golden Corn!
Edna Dean Proctor.
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,What is the word methinks ye know,Endless over-word that the ScytheSings to the blades of the grass below?Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,Something, still, they say as they pass;What is the word that, over and over,Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,Hush, they sing to the clover deep!Hush—'tis the lullaby Time is singing—Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,Hush, ah hush!and the Scythes are swingingOver the clover, over the grass!Andrew Lang.
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,What is the word methinks ye know,Endless over-word that the ScytheSings to the blades of the grass below?Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,Something, still, they say as they pass;What is the word that, over and over,Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,Hush, they sing to the clover deep!Hush—'tis the lullaby Time is singing—Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,Hush, ah hush!and the Scythes are swingingOver the clover, over the grass!
Andrew Lang.
[8]By courtesy of Longmans, Green & Co.
[8]By courtesy of Longmans, Green & Co.
They know the time to go!The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hourIn field and woodland, and each punctual flowerBows at the signal an obedient headAnd hastes to bed.The pale AnemoneGlides on her way with scarcely a good-night;The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,In blithesome lines,Drop their last courtesies,Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vestAnd hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;Fair and serene,Her sister Lily floatsOn the blue pond, and raises golden eyesTo court the golden splendor of the skies,—The sudden signal comes, and down she goesTo find reposeIn the cool depths below.A little later, and the Asters blueDepart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,Turns him away,Furls his bright parasol,And, like a little hero, meets his fate.The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set'Neath coverlet,Downy and soft and warm.No little seedling voice is heard to grieveOr make complaints the folding woods beneath;No lingerer dares to stay, for well they knowThe time to go.Teach us your patience, brave,Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,With smiles, not sorrow.Susan Coolidge.
They know the time to go!The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hourIn field and woodland, and each punctual flowerBows at the signal an obedient headAnd hastes to bed.
The pale AnemoneGlides on her way with scarcely a good-night;The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,In blithesome lines,
Drop their last courtesies,Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vestAnd hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;Fair and serene,
Her sister Lily floatsOn the blue pond, and raises golden eyesTo court the golden splendor of the skies,—The sudden signal comes, and down she goesTo find repose
In the cool depths below.A little later, and the Asters blueDepart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,Turns him away,
Furls his bright parasol,And, like a little hero, meets his fate.The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set'Neath coverlet,Downy and soft and warm.No little seedling voice is heard to grieveOr make complaints the folding woods beneath;No lingerer dares to stay, for well they knowThe time to go.
Teach us your patience, brave,Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,With smiles, not sorrow.
Susan Coolidge.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold, November rain,Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.William Cullen Bryant.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold, November rain,Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
William Cullen Bryant.
[9]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
[9]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,For, watch the rain among the leaves;With silver fingers dimly seenIt makes each leaf a tambourine,And swings and leaps with elfin mirthTo kiss the brow of mother earth;Or, laughing 'mid the trembling grass,It nods a greeting as you pass.Oh! hear the rain amid the leaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,For, list the wind among the sheaves;Far sweeter than the breath of May,Or storied scents of old Cathay,It blends the perfumes rare and goodOf spicy pine and hickory woodAnd with a voice in gayest chime,It prates of rifled mint and thyme.Oh! scent the wind among the sheaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,Behold the wondrous web she weaves!By viewless hands her thread is spunOf evening vapors shyly won.Across the grass from side to sideA myriad unseen shuttles glideThroughout the night, till on the heightAurora leads the laggard light.Behold the wondrous web she weaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!Samuel Minturn Peck.
'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,For, watch the rain among the leaves;With silver fingers dimly seenIt makes each leaf a tambourine,And swings and leaps with elfin mirthTo kiss the brow of mother earth;Or, laughing 'mid the trembling grass,It nods a greeting as you pass.Oh! hear the rain amid the leaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!
'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,For, list the wind among the sheaves;Far sweeter than the breath of May,Or storied scents of old Cathay,It blends the perfumes rare and goodOf spicy pine and hickory woodAnd with a voice in gayest chime,It prates of rifled mint and thyme.Oh! scent the wind among the sheaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!
'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves,Behold the wondrous web she weaves!By viewless hands her thread is spunOf evening vapors shyly won.Across the grass from side to sideA myriad unseen shuttles glideThroughout the night, till on the heightAurora leads the laggard light.Behold the wondrous web she weaves,'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves!
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Our "little brothers of the air," have you named them all without a gun, as Emerson asks in "Forbearance"? Shy, glancing eyes peer from nests half-hidden in leaves; the forest is vocal with melody, the air is tremulous with the whirr of tiny wings.
Poet-singers have written undying lines about their brother minstrels of the wood, and the "blithe lark," especially, has a proud place in poetry, apostrophized as he is by Shakespeare, Shelley, Frederick Tennyson, Wordsworth, and The Ettrick Shepherd.
As the skylark's note dies away we hear the saucy chatter of Cranch's Bobolink, the twitter of Keats's Goldfinches, the mournful cry of Celia Thaxter's Sandpiper, and the revolving wheel of Emily Dickinson's Humming-bird, with its resonance of emerald, its rush of cochineal. The feathered warblers, Robin, Bluebird, Swallow, speed their southern flight, but there are other songs of summer, voices of sweet and tiny cousins, heard at the lazy noontide; chirpings, rustlings of the green little vaulters in the sunny grass. And if the wee grasshoppers and those warm little housekeepers the crickets, have served as themes for Keats and Leigh Hunt, so has the humble bee provoked his tribute from the poets:
"His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast a single onyxWith chrysophrase inlaid."
"His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast a single onyxWith chrysophrase inlaid."
Come within earshot of his drowsy hum, his breezy bass,—Father Tabb's publican bee,
"Collecting the taxOn honey and wax,"
"Collecting the taxOn honey and wax,"
or Emerson's yellow-breeched philosopher,
"Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet."
"Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet."
I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me.I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peerWith their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near;I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was goodTo leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing;He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing.He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay.Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness;It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!William Motherwell.
I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me.I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peerWith their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near;I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was goodTo leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.
And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing;He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing.He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay.Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness;It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!
William Motherwell.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert—That from heaven or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden light'ningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are bright'ning,Thou dost float and run,Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:Like a rose embow'redBy its own green leaves,By warm winds deflow'red,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awak'ned flowers,—All that ever was,Joyous and clear and fresh,—thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chant,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet, if we could scornHate and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know;Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then as I am listening now.Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert—That from heaven or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden light'ningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are bright'ning,Thou dost float and run,Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embow'redBy its own green leaves,By warm winds deflow'red,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awak'ned flowers,—All that ever was,Joyous and clear and fresh,—thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chant,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scornHate and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know;Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then as I am listening now.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.