FIFTH GRADETHE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long;His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat;He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn to night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.And children, coming home from school,Look in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more—How in the grave she lies;And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees its close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of life,Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!—Longfellow.LOVE OF COUNTRYBreathes there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,From wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concenter’d all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.—Scott.THE DAFFODILS.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 gay,In 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.—Wordsworth.A CHILD’S THOUGHT OF GOD.They say that God lives very high:But if you look above the pinesYou cannot see God. And why?And if you dig down in the minesYou never see him in the gold,Though, from him, all that’s glory shines.God is so good, he wears a foldOf heaven and earth across his face—Like secrets kept for love untold.But still I feel that his embraceSlides down by thrills, through all things made,Through sight and sound of every place:As if my tender mother laidOn my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,Half waking me at night; and said,“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”—Mrs. Browning.FROM MY ARM-CHAIR.13Am I a king that I should call my ownThis splendid ebon throne?Or by what reason or what right divine,Can I proclaim it mine?Only, perhaps, by right divine of songIt may to me belong:Only because the spreading chestnut treeOf old was sung by me.Well I remember it in all its prime,When in the summer timeThe affluent foliage of its branches madeA cavern of cool shade.There by the blacksmith’s forge, beside the street,Its blossoms white and sweetEnticed the bees, until it seemed alive,And murmured like a hive.And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,Tossed its great arms about,The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,Dropped to the ground beneath.And now some fragments of its branches bare,Shaped as a stately chair,Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last,And whisper of the past.The Danish king could not in all his prideRepel the ocean tide.But, seated in this chair,I can in rhymeRoll back the tide of time.I see again, as one in vision sees,The blossoms and the bees,And hear the children’s voices call,And the brown chestnuts fall.I see the smithy with its fires aglow,I hear the bellows blow,And the shrill hammers on the anvil beatThe iron white with heat.And thus, dear children, have ye made for meThis day a jubilee,And to my more than three-score years and tenBrought back my youth again.The heart hath its own memory, like the mindAnd in it are enshrinedThe precious keepsakes, into which is wroughtThe giver’s loving thought.Only your love and your remembrance couldGive life to this dead wood,And make these branches, leafless now so long,Blossom again in song.—Longfellow.A SONG OF EASTER.14Sing, children, sing,And the lily censers swing;Sing that life and joy are waking and thatDeath no more is king.Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright’ning Spring;Sing, little children, sing,Sing, children, sing,Winter wild has taken wing.Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;And the golden catkins, swingIn the warm air of the Spring—Sing, little children, sing.Sing, children, sing,The lilies white you bringIn the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,So may we cast our fetters off in God’s eternal Spring;So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,Soon may we find our childhood’s calm, delicious dawn again.Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future’s face.Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tellThat death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well.That bitter day shall ceaseIn warmth and light and peace,That winter yields to Spring—Sing, little children, sing.—Celia Thaxter.THE JOY OF THE HILLS.15I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;I have found my life and am satisfied.Onward I ride in the blowing oats,Checking the field lark’s rippling notes—Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;O’er my head through branches highCome glimpses of deep blue sky;The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks:Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;A bee booms out of the scented grass;A jay laughs with me as I pass.I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forgetLife’s hoard of regret—All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.I am lifted elate—the skies expand;Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;I ride with the voices of waterfalls.I swing on as one in a dream—I swing.Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.The world is gone like an empty word;My body’s a bough in the wind,—my heart a bird.—Edwin Markham.IN BLOSSOM TIME.Its O my heart, my heart,To be out in the sun and sing,To sing and shout in the fields about,In the balm and blossoming.Sing loud, O bird in the tree;O bird, sing loud in the sky,And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds;There are none of you as glad as I.The leaves laugh low in the wind,Laugh low with the wind at play;And the odorous call of the flowers allEntices my soul away.For oh, but the world is fair, is fair,And oh, but the world is sweet;I will out in the old of the blossoming mould,And sit at the Master’s feet.And the love my heart would speak,I will fold in the lily’s rim,That the lips of the blossom more pure and meekMay offer it up to Him.Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,O skylark, sing in the blue;Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,And my soul shall sing with you.—Ina Coolbrith.THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS.16Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers so blue and goldenStars that in earth’s firmament do shine.Stars they are wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars that they beheld.Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of His love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of oursMaking evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the selfsame universal Being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining;Buds that open only to decay;Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light;Large desires with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes blossoming at night.These in flowers and men are more than seeming,Workings are they of the selfsame powers,Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars to tell us Spring is born:Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,And in summer’s green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,In the center of his blazoned shield.Not alone in meadows and green alleysOn the mountaintop and by the brinkOf sequestered pool in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of birds or beasts alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings;Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with childlike, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.—LongfellowMEADOW-LARKS.Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am!(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest!Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and callSweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!—Ina Coolbrith.THE ARROW AND THE SONG.I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song?Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend.—Longfellow.THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.17It was fifty years ago,In the pleasant month of May,In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,A child in its cradle lay.And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: “Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee.”“Come, wander with me,” she said,“Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.”And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvelous tale.So she keeps him still a child,And will not let him go,Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old,And the rush of mountain streamsFrom glaciers clear and cold;And the mother at home says, “Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark,And my boy does not return!”—Longfellow.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long;His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat;He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn to night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.And children, coming home from school,Look in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more—How in the grave she lies;And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees its close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of life,Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!—Longfellow.
Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat;He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,Look in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.
And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more—How in the grave she lies;And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more—
How in the grave she lies;
And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees its close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of life,Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
—Longfellow.
LOVE OF COUNTRYBreathes there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,From wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concenter’d all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.—Scott.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,From wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concenter’d all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concenter’d all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
—Scott.
THE DAFFODILS.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 gay,In 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.—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.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That 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.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along 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 gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What 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.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
—Wordsworth.
A CHILD’S THOUGHT OF GOD.They say that God lives very high:But if you look above the pinesYou cannot see God. And why?And if you dig down in the minesYou never see him in the gold,Though, from him, all that’s glory shines.God is so good, he wears a foldOf heaven and earth across his face—Like secrets kept for love untold.But still I feel that his embraceSlides down by thrills, through all things made,Through sight and sound of every place:As if my tender mother laidOn my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,Half waking me at night; and said,“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”—Mrs. Browning.
They say that God lives very high:But if you look above the pinesYou cannot see God. And why?
They say that God lives very high:
But if you look above the pines
You cannot see God. And why?
And if you dig down in the minesYou never see him in the gold,Though, from him, all that’s glory shines.
And if you dig down in the mines
You never see him in the gold,
Though, from him, all that’s glory shines.
God is so good, he wears a foldOf heaven and earth across his face—Like secrets kept for love untold.
God is so good, he wears a fold
Of heaven and earth across his face—
Like secrets kept for love untold.
But still I feel that his embraceSlides down by thrills, through all things made,Through sight and sound of every place:
But still I feel that his embrace
Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place:
As if my tender mother laidOn my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,Half waking me at night; and said,“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”
As if my tender mother laid
On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night; and said,
“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”
—Mrs. Browning.
FROM MY ARM-CHAIR.13Am I a king that I should call my ownThis splendid ebon throne?Or by what reason or what right divine,Can I proclaim it mine?Only, perhaps, by right divine of songIt may to me belong:Only because the spreading chestnut treeOf old was sung by me.Well I remember it in all its prime,When in the summer timeThe affluent foliage of its branches madeA cavern of cool shade.There by the blacksmith’s forge, beside the street,Its blossoms white and sweetEnticed the bees, until it seemed alive,And murmured like a hive.And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,Tossed its great arms about,The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,Dropped to the ground beneath.And now some fragments of its branches bare,Shaped as a stately chair,Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last,And whisper of the past.The Danish king could not in all his prideRepel the ocean tide.But, seated in this chair,I can in rhymeRoll back the tide of time.I see again, as one in vision sees,The blossoms and the bees,And hear the children’s voices call,And the brown chestnuts fall.I see the smithy with its fires aglow,I hear the bellows blow,And the shrill hammers on the anvil beatThe iron white with heat.And thus, dear children, have ye made for meThis day a jubilee,And to my more than three-score years and tenBrought back my youth again.The heart hath its own memory, like the mindAnd in it are enshrinedThe precious keepsakes, into which is wroughtThe giver’s loving thought.Only your love and your remembrance couldGive life to this dead wood,And make these branches, leafless now so long,Blossom again in song.—Longfellow.
Am I a king that I should call my ownThis splendid ebon throne?Or by what reason or what right divine,Can I proclaim it mine?
Am I a king that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?
Only, perhaps, by right divine of songIt may to me belong:Only because the spreading chestnut treeOf old was sung by me.
Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong:
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me.
Well I remember it in all its prime,When in the summer timeThe affluent foliage of its branches madeA cavern of cool shade.
Well I remember it in all its prime,
When in the summer time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.
There by the blacksmith’s forge, beside the street,Its blossoms white and sweetEnticed the bees, until it seemed alive,And murmured like a hive.
There by the blacksmith’s forge, beside the street,
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,Tossed its great arms about,The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,Dropped to the ground beneath.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath.
And now some fragments of its branches bare,Shaped as a stately chair,Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last,And whisper of the past.
And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,
Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.
The Danish king could not in all his prideRepel the ocean tide.But, seated in this chair,I can in rhymeRoll back the tide of time.
The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide.
But, seated in this chair,
I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of time.
I see again, as one in vision sees,The blossoms and the bees,And hear the children’s voices call,And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children’s voices call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow,I hear the bellows blow,And the shrill hammers on the anvil beatThe iron white with heat.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat.
And thus, dear children, have ye made for meThis day a jubilee,And to my more than three-score years and tenBrought back my youth again.
And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
Brought back my youth again.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mindAnd in it are enshrinedThe precious keepsakes, into which is wroughtThe giver’s loving thought.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mind
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver’s loving thought.
Only your love and your remembrance couldGive life to this dead wood,And make these branches, leafless now so long,Blossom again in song.
Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.
—Longfellow.
A SONG OF EASTER.14Sing, children, sing,And the lily censers swing;Sing that life and joy are waking and thatDeath no more is king.Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright’ning Spring;Sing, little children, sing,Sing, children, sing,Winter wild has taken wing.Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;And the golden catkins, swingIn the warm air of the Spring—Sing, little children, sing.Sing, children, sing,The lilies white you bringIn the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,So may we cast our fetters off in God’s eternal Spring;So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,Soon may we find our childhood’s calm, delicious dawn again.Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future’s face.Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tellThat death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well.That bitter day shall ceaseIn warmth and light and peace,That winter yields to Spring—Sing, little children, sing.—Celia Thaxter.
Sing, children, sing,And the lily censers swing;Sing that life and joy are waking and thatDeath no more is king.Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright’ning Spring;Sing, little children, sing,Sing, children, sing,Winter wild has taken wing.
Sing, children, sing,
And the lily censers swing;
Sing that life and joy are waking and that
Death no more is king.
Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright’ning Spring;
Sing, little children, sing,
Sing, children, sing,
Winter wild has taken wing.
Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;And the golden catkins, swingIn the warm air of the Spring—Sing, little children, sing.
Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.
Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;
And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;
And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;
And the golden catkins, swing
In the warm air of the Spring—
Sing, little children, sing.
Sing, children, sing,The lilies white you bringIn the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,So may we cast our fetters off in God’s eternal Spring;So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,Soon may we find our childhood’s calm, delicious dawn again.Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future’s face.
Sing, children, sing,
The lilies white you bring
In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,
And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,
So may we cast our fetters off in God’s eternal Spring;
So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,
Soon may we find our childhood’s calm, delicious dawn again.
Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,
Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future’s face.
Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tellThat death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well.That bitter day shall ceaseIn warmth and light and peace,That winter yields to Spring—Sing, little children, sing.
Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tell
That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well.
That bitter day shall cease
In warmth and light and peace,
That winter yields to Spring—
Sing, little children, sing.
—Celia Thaxter.
THE JOY OF THE HILLS.15I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;I have found my life and am satisfied.Onward I ride in the blowing oats,Checking the field lark’s rippling notes—Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;O’er my head through branches highCome glimpses of deep blue sky;The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks:Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;A bee booms out of the scented grass;A jay laughs with me as I pass.I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forgetLife’s hoard of regret—All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.I am lifted elate—the skies expand;Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;I ride with the voices of waterfalls.I swing on as one in a dream—I swing.Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.The world is gone like an empty word;My body’s a bough in the wind,—my heart a bird.—Edwin Markham.
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;I have found my life and am satisfied.Onward I ride in the blowing oats,Checking the field lark’s rippling notes—Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;O’er my head through branches highCome glimpses of deep blue sky;The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks:Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;A bee booms out of the scented grass;A jay laughs with me as I pass.
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
Onward I ride in the blowing oats,
Checking the field lark’s rippling notes—
Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;
O’er my head through branches high
Come glimpses of deep blue sky;
The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks:
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;
A bee booms out of the scented grass;
A jay laughs with me as I pass.
I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forgetLife’s hoard of regret—All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.I am lifted elate—the skies expand;Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;I ride with the voices of waterfalls.I swing on as one in a dream—I swing.Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.The world is gone like an empty word;My body’s a bough in the wind,—my heart a bird.
I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life’s hoard of regret—
All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.
Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate—the skies expand;
Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;
I ride with the voices of waterfalls.
I swing on as one in a dream—I swing.
Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.
The world is gone like an empty word;
My body’s a bough in the wind,—my heart a bird.
—Edwin Markham.
IN BLOSSOM TIME.Its O my heart, my heart,To be out in the sun and sing,To sing and shout in the fields about,In the balm and blossoming.Sing loud, O bird in the tree;O bird, sing loud in the sky,And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds;There are none of you as glad as I.The leaves laugh low in the wind,Laugh low with the wind at play;And the odorous call of the flowers allEntices my soul away.For oh, but the world is fair, is fair,And oh, but the world is sweet;I will out in the old of the blossoming mould,And sit at the Master’s feet.And the love my heart would speak,I will fold in the lily’s rim,That the lips of the blossom more pure and meekMay offer it up to Him.Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,O skylark, sing in the blue;Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,And my soul shall sing with you.—Ina Coolbrith.
Its O my heart, my heart,To be out in the sun and sing,To sing and shout in the fields about,In the balm and blossoming.
Its O my heart, my heart,
To be out in the sun and sing,
To sing and shout in the fields about,
In the balm and blossoming.
Sing loud, O bird in the tree;O bird, sing loud in the sky,And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds;There are none of you as glad as I.
Sing loud, O bird in the tree;
O bird, sing loud in the sky,
And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds;
There are none of you as glad as I.
The leaves laugh low in the wind,Laugh low with the wind at play;And the odorous call of the flowers allEntices my soul away.
The leaves laugh low in the wind,
Laugh low with the wind at play;
And the odorous call of the flowers all
Entices my soul away.
For oh, but the world is fair, is fair,And oh, but the world is sweet;I will out in the old of the blossoming mould,And sit at the Master’s feet.
For oh, but the world is fair, is fair,
And oh, but the world is sweet;
I will out in the old of the blossoming mould,
And sit at the Master’s feet.
And the love my heart would speak,I will fold in the lily’s rim,That the lips of the blossom more pure and meekMay offer it up to Him.
And the love my heart would speak,
I will fold in the lily’s rim,
That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek
May offer it up to Him.
Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,O skylark, sing in the blue;Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,And my soul shall sing with you.
Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,
O skylark, sing in the blue;
Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,
And my soul shall sing with you.
—Ina Coolbrith.
THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS.16Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers so blue and goldenStars that in earth’s firmament do shine.Stars they are wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars that they beheld.Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of His love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of oursMaking evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the selfsame universal Being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining;Buds that open only to decay;Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light;Large desires with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes blossoming at night.These in flowers and men are more than seeming,Workings are they of the selfsame powers,Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars to tell us Spring is born:Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,And in summer’s green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,In the center of his blazoned shield.Not alone in meadows and green alleysOn the mountaintop and by the brinkOf sequestered pool in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of birds or beasts alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings;Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with childlike, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.—Longfellow
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers so blue and goldenStars that in earth’s firmament do shine.
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers so blue and golden
Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine.
Stars they are wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars that they beheld.
Stars they are wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars that they beheld.
Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of His love.
Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of His love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of oursMaking evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this great world of ours
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.
And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the selfsame universal Being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the selfsame universal Being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining;Buds that open only to decay;
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining;
Buds that open only to decay;
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light;Large desires with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes blossoming at night.
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Large desires with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes blossoming at night.
These in flowers and men are more than seeming,Workings are they of the selfsame powers,Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the selfsame powers,
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars to tell us Spring is born:Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars to tell us Spring is born:
Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,And in summer’s green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,In the center of his blazoned shield.
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,
And in summer’s green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,
In the center of his blazoned shield.
Not alone in meadows and green alleysOn the mountaintop and by the brinkOf sequestered pool in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in meadows and green alleys
On the mountaintop and by the brink
Of sequestered pool in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of birds or beasts alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of birds or beasts alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.
In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings;Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.
In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings;
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with childlike, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.
And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.
—Longfellow
MEADOW-LARKS.Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am!(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest!Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and callSweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!—Ina Coolbrith.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am!(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest!Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,
That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?
The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and callSweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
—Ina Coolbrith.
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song?Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend.—Longfellow.
I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song?
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend.
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
—Longfellow.
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.17It was fifty years ago,In the pleasant month of May,In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,A child in its cradle lay.And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: “Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee.”“Come, wander with me,” she said,“Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.”And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvelous tale.So she keeps him still a child,And will not let him go,Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old,And the rush of mountain streamsFrom glaciers clear and cold;And the mother at home says, “Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark,And my boy does not return!”—Longfellow.
It was fifty years ago,In the pleasant month of May,In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,A child in its cradle lay.
It was fifty years ago,
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: “Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee.”
And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying: “Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee.”
“Come, wander with me,” she said,“Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.”
“Come, wander with me,” she said,
“Into regions yet untrod;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.”
And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvelous tale.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvelous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,And will not let him go,Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old,And the rush of mountain streamsFrom glaciers clear and cold;
Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,
And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, “Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark,And my boy does not return!”
And the mother at home says, “Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!”
—Longfellow.