The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLyrics of Earth

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLyrics of EarthThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Lyrics of EarthAuthor: Archibald LampmanRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12664]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Andrew Sly.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICS OF EARTH ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Lyrics of EarthAuthor: Archibald LampmanRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12664]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Andrew Sly.

Title: Lyrics of Earth

Author: Archibald Lampman

Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12664]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Andrew Sly.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICS OF EARTH ***

Printer's Colophon

BOSTON

COPELAND AND DAY

MDCCCXCV

Mother, to whose valiant will,Battling long ago,What the heaping years fulfil,Light and song, I owe;Send my little book a-field,Fronting praise or blameWith the shining flag and shieldOf your name.

It fell on a day I was happy,And the winds, the concave sky,The flowers and the beasts in the meadowSeemed happy even as I;And I stretched my hands to the meadow,To the bird, the beast, the tree:"Why are ye all so happy?"I cried, and they answered me.What sayest thou, Oh meadow,That stretches so wide, so far,That none can say how manyThy misty marguerites are?And what say ye, red roses,That o'er the sun-blanched wallFrom your high black-shadowed trellisLike flame or blood-drops fall?"We are born, we are reared, and we lingerA various space and die;We dream, and are bright and happy,But we cannot answer why."What sayest thou, Oh shadow,That from the dreaming hillAll down the broadening valleyLiest so sharp and still?And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet,Whereby in the noonday gleamThe loosestrife burns like ruby,And the branchèd asters dream?"We are born, we are reared, and we lingerA various space and die;We dream and are very happy,But we cannot answer why."And then of myself I questioned,That like a ghost the whileStood from me and calmly answered,With slow and curious smile:"Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt lingerThine own short space and die;Thou dream'st and art strangely happy,But thou canst not answer why."

What sayest thou, Oh meadow,That stretches so wide, so far,That none can say how manyThy misty marguerites are?And what say ye, red roses,That o'er the sun-blanched wallFrom your high black-shadowed trellisLike flame or blood-drops fall?"We are born, we are reared, and we lingerA various space and die;We dream, and are bright and happy,But we cannot answer why."

What sayest thou, Oh shadow,That from the dreaming hillAll down the broadening valleyLiest so sharp and still?And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet,Whereby in the noonday gleamThe loosestrife burns like ruby,And the branchèd asters dream?"We are born, we are reared, and we lingerA various space and die;We dream and are very happy,But we cannot answer why."

And then of myself I questioned,That like a ghost the whileStood from me and calmly answered,With slow and curious smile:"Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt lingerThine own short space and die;Thou dream'st and art strangely happy,But thou canst not answer why."

March is slain; the keen winds fly;Nothing more is thine to do;April kisses thee good-bye;Thou must haste and follow too;Silent friend that guarded wellWithered things to make us glad,Shyest friend that could not tellHalf the kindly thought he had.Haste thee, speed thee, O kind snow;Down the dripping valleys go,From the fields and gleaming meadows,Where the slaying hours behold thee,From the forests whose slim shadows,Brown and leafless cannot fold thee,Through the cedar lands aflameWith gold light that cleaves and quivers,Songs that winter may not tame,Drone of pines and laugh of rivers.May thy passing joyous beTo thy father, the great sea,For the sun is getting stronger;Earth hath need of thee no longer;Go, kind snow, God-speed to thee!

To-day the world is wide and fairWith sunny fields of lucid air,And waters dancing everywhere;The snow is almost gone;The noon is builded high with light,And over heaven's liquid height,In steady fleets serene and white,The happy clouds go on.The channels run, the bare earth steams,And every hollow rings and gleamsWith jetting falls and dashing streams;The rivers burst and fill;The fields are full of little lakes,And when the romping wind awakesThe water ruffles blue and shakes,And the pines roar on the hill.The crows go by, a noisy throng;About the meadows all day longThe shore-lark drops his brittle song;And up the leafless treeThe nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings;The bluebird dips with flashing wings,The robin flutes, the sparrow sings,And the swallows float and flee.I break the spirit's cloudy bands,A wanderer in enchanted lands,I feel the sun upon my hands;And far from care and strifeThe broad earth bids me forth. I riseWith lifted brow and upward eyes.I bathe my spirit in blue skies,And taste the springs of life.I feel the tumult of new birth;I waken with the wakening earth;I match the bluebird in her mirth;And wild with wind and sun,A treasurer of immortal days,I roam the glorious world with praise,The hillsides and the woodland ways,Till earth and I are one.

The channels run, the bare earth steams,And every hollow rings and gleamsWith jetting falls and dashing streams;The rivers burst and fill;The fields are full of little lakes,And when the romping wind awakesThe water ruffles blue and shakes,And the pines roar on the hill.

The crows go by, a noisy throng;About the meadows all day longThe shore-lark drops his brittle song;And up the leafless treeThe nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings;The bluebird dips with flashing wings,The robin flutes, the sparrow sings,And the swallows float and flee.

I break the spirit's cloudy bands,A wanderer in enchanted lands,I feel the sun upon my hands;And far from care and strifeThe broad earth bids me forth. I riseWith lifted brow and upward eyes.I bathe my spirit in blue skies,And taste the springs of life.

I feel the tumult of new birth;I waken with the wakening earth;I match the bluebird in her mirth;And wild with wind and sun,A treasurer of immortal days,I roam the glorious world with praise,The hillsides and the woodland ways,Till earth and I are one.

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,In the heart of the listening solitudes,Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few,And all the notes of their throats are true.The thrush from the innermost ash takes onA tender dream of the treasured and gone;But the sparrow singeth with pride and cheerOf the might and light of the present and here.There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods,In the heart of the sensitive solitudes,The roseate bell and the lily are there,And every leaf of their sheaf is fair.Careless and bold, without dream of woe,The trilliums scatter their flags snow;But the pale wood-daffodil covers her face,Agloom with the doom of a sorrowful race.

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,In the heart of the listening solitudes,Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few,And all the notes of their throats are true.

The thrush from the innermost ash takes onA tender dream of the treasured and gone;But the sparrow singeth with pride and cheerOf the might and light of the present and here.

There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods,In the heart of the sensitive solitudes,The roseate bell and the lily are there,And every leaf of their sheaf is fair.

Careless and bold, without dream of woe,The trilliums scatter their flags snow;But the pale wood-daffodil covers her face,Agloom with the doom of a sorrowful race.

Again the warm bare earth, the noonThat hangs upon her healing scars,The midnight round, the great red moon,The mother with her brood of stars,The mist-rack and the wakening rainBlown soft in many a forest way,The yellowing elm-trees, and againThe blood-root in its sheath of gray.The vesper-sparrow's song, the stressOf yearning notes that gush and stream,The lyric joy, the tenderness,And once again the dream! the dream!A touch of far-off joy and power,A something it is life to learn,Comes back to earth, and one short hourThe glamours of the gods return.This life's old mood and cult of careFalls smitten by an older truth,And the gray world wins back to herThe rapture of her vanished youth.Dead thoughts revive, and he that heedsShall hear, as by a spirit led,A song among the golden reeds:"The gods are vanished but not dead!"For one short hour; unseen yet near,They haunt us, a forgotten mood,A glory upon mead and mere,A magic in the leafless wood.At morning we shall catch the glowOf Dian's quiver on the hill,And somewhere in the glades I knowThat Pan is at his piping still.

Again the warm bare earth, the noonThat hangs upon her healing scars,The midnight round, the great red moon,The mother with her brood of stars,

The mist-rack and the wakening rainBlown soft in many a forest way,The yellowing elm-trees, and againThe blood-root in its sheath of gray.

The vesper-sparrow's song, the stressOf yearning notes that gush and stream,The lyric joy, the tenderness,And once again the dream! the dream!

A touch of far-off joy and power,A something it is life to learn,Comes back to earth, and one short hourThe glamours of the gods return.

This life's old mood and cult of careFalls smitten by an older truth,And the gray world wins back to herThe rapture of her vanished youth.

Dead thoughts revive, and he that heedsShall hear, as by a spirit led,A song among the golden reeds:"The gods are vanished but not dead!"

For one short hour; unseen yet near,They haunt us, a forgotten mood,A glory upon mead and mere,A magic in the leafless wood.

At morning we shall catch the glowOf Dian's quiver on the hill,And somewhere in the glades I knowThat Pan is at his piping still.

Once, long ago, before the godsHad left this earth, by stream and forest glade,Where the first plough upturned the clinging sods,Or the lost shepherd strayed,Often to the tired listener's earThere came at noonday or beneath the starsA sound, he knew not whence, so sweet and clear,That all his aches and scarsAnd every brooded bitterness,Fallen asunder from his soul took flight,Like mist or darkness yielding to the pressOf an unnamed delight,—A sudden brightness of the heart,A magic fire drawn down from Paradise,That rent the cloud with golden gleam apart,—And far before his eyesThe loveliness and calm of earthLay like a limitless dream remote and strange,The joy, the strife, the triumph and the mirth,And the enchanted change;And so he followed the sweet sound,Till faith had traversed her appointed span,And murmured as he pressed the sacred ground:"It is the note of Pan!"Now though no more by marsh or streamOr dewy forest sounds the secret reed—For Pan is gone—Ah yet, the infinite dreamStill lives for them that heed.In April, when the turning yearRegains its pensive youth, and a soft breathAnd amorous influence over marsh and mereDissolves the grasp of death,To them that are in love with life,Wandering like children with untroubled eyes,Far from the noise of cities and the strife,Strange flute-like voices riseAt noon and in the quiet of the nightFrom every watery waste; and in that hourThe same strange spell, the same unnamed delight,Enfolds them in its power.An old-world joyousness supreme,The warmth and glow of an immortal balm,The mood-touch of the gods, the endless dream,The high lethean calm.They see, wide on the eternal way,The services of earth, the life of man;And, listening to the magic cry they say:"It is the note of Pan!"For, long ago, when the new strainsOf hostile hymns and conquering faiths grew keen,And the old gods from their deserted fanes,Fled silent and unseen,So, too, the goat-foot Pan, not lessSadly obedient to the mightier hand,Cut him new reeds, and in a sore distressPassed out from land to land;And lingering by each haunt he knew,Of fount or sinuous stream or grassy marge,He set the syrinx to his lips, and blewA note divinely large;And all around him on the wetCool earth the frogs came up, and with a smileHe took them in his hairy hands, and setHis mouth to theirs awhile,And blew into their velvet throats;And ever from that hour the frogs repeatThe murmur of Pan's pipes, the notes,And answers strange and sweet;And they that hear them are renewedBy knowledge in some god-like touch conveyed,Entering again into the eternal mood,Wherein the world was made.

Once, long ago, before the godsHad left this earth, by stream and forest glade,Where the first plough upturned the clinging sods,Or the lost shepherd strayed,

Often to the tired listener's earThere came at noonday or beneath the starsA sound, he knew not whence, so sweet and clear,That all his aches and scars

And every brooded bitterness,Fallen asunder from his soul took flight,Like mist or darkness yielding to the pressOf an unnamed delight,—

A sudden brightness of the heart,A magic fire drawn down from Paradise,That rent the cloud with golden gleam apart,—And far before his eyes

The loveliness and calm of earthLay like a limitless dream remote and strange,The joy, the strife, the triumph and the mirth,And the enchanted change;

And so he followed the sweet sound,Till faith had traversed her appointed span,And murmured as he pressed the sacred ground:"It is the note of Pan!"

Now though no more by marsh or streamOr dewy forest sounds the secret reed—For Pan is gone—Ah yet, the infinite dreamStill lives for them that heed.

In April, when the turning yearRegains its pensive youth, and a soft breathAnd amorous influence over marsh and mereDissolves the grasp of death,

To them that are in love with life,Wandering like children with untroubled eyes,Far from the noise of cities and the strife,Strange flute-like voices rise

At noon and in the quiet of the nightFrom every watery waste; and in that hourThe same strange spell, the same unnamed delight,Enfolds them in its power.

An old-world joyousness supreme,The warmth and glow of an immortal balm,The mood-touch of the gods, the endless dream,The high lethean calm.

They see, wide on the eternal way,The services of earth, the life of man;And, listening to the magic cry they say:"It is the note of Pan!"

For, long ago, when the new strainsOf hostile hymns and conquering faiths grew keen,And the old gods from their deserted fanes,Fled silent and unseen,

So, too, the goat-foot Pan, not lessSadly obedient to the mightier hand,Cut him new reeds, and in a sore distressPassed out from land to land;

And lingering by each haunt he knew,Of fount or sinuous stream or grassy marge,He set the syrinx to his lips, and blewA note divinely large;

And all around him on the wetCool earth the frogs came up, and with a smileHe took them in his hairy hands, and setHis mouth to theirs awhile,

And blew into their velvet throats;And ever from that hour the frogs repeatThe murmur of Pan's pipes, the notes,And answers strange and sweet;

And they that hear them are renewedBy knowledge in some god-like touch conveyed,Entering again into the eternal mood,Wherein the world was made.

Here when the cloudless April days begin,And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day,Filling the forests with a pleasant din,And the soiled snow creeps secretly away,Comes the small busy sparrow, primed with glee,First preacher in the naked wilderness,Piping an end to all the long distressFrom every fence and every leafless tree.Now with soft slight and viewless artificeWinter's iron work is wondrously undone;In all the little hollows cored with iceThe clear brown pools stand simmering in the sun,Frail lucid worlds, upon whose tremulous floorsAll day the wandering water-bugs at will,Shy mariners whose oars are never still,Voyage and dream about the heightening shores.The bluebird, peeping from the gnarlèd thorn,Prattles upon his frolic flute, or flings,In bounding flight across the golden morn,An azure gleam from off his splendid wings.Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and passDown to the far-off river; the black crowWith wise and wary visage to and froSettles and stalks about the withered grass.Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone,The watchful lark before my feet takes flight,And wheeling to some lonelier field far on,Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night,When the first star precedes the great red moon,The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field,Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed,His little creakling and continuous tune.Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old,Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolongFrom every quarter of these fields the bold,Blithe phrases of their never-finished song.The white-throat's distant descant with slow stressNote after note upon the noonday falls,Filling the leisured air at intervalsWith his own mood of piercing pensiveness.How often from this windy upland perch,Mine eyes have seen the forest break in bloom,The rose-red maple and the golden birch,The dusty yellow of the elms, the gloomOf the tall poplar hung with tasseled black;Ah, I have watched, till eye and ear and brainGrew full of dreams as they, the moted plain,The sun-steeped wood, the marsh-land at its back,The valley where the river wheels and fills,Yon city glimmering in its smoky shroud,And out at the last misty rim the hillsBlue and far off and mounded like a cloud,And here the noisy rutted road that goesDown the slope yonder, flanked on either sideWith the smooth-furrowed fields flung black and wide,Patched with pale water sleeping in the rows.So as I watched the crowded leaves expand,The bloom break sheath, the summer's strength uprear,In earth's great mother's heart already plannedThe heaped and burgeoned plenty of the year,Even as she from out her wintry cellMy spirit also sprang to life anew,And day by day as the spring's bounty grew,Its conquering joy possessed me like a spell.In reverie by day and midnight dreamI sought these upland fields and walked apart,Musing on Nature, till my thought did seemTo read the very secrets of her heart;In mooded moments earnest and sublimeI stored the themes of many a future song,Whose substance should be Nature's, clear and strong,Bound in a casket of majestic rhyme.Brave bud-like plans that never reached the fruit,Like hers our mother's who with every hour,Easily replenished from the sleepless root,Covers her bosom with fresh bud and flower;Yet I was happy as young lovers be,Who in the season of their passion's birthDeem that they have their utmost worship's worth,If love be near them, just to hear and see.

Now with soft slight and viewless artificeWinter's iron work is wondrously undone;In all the little hollows cored with iceThe clear brown pools stand simmering in the sun,Frail lucid worlds, upon whose tremulous floorsAll day the wandering water-bugs at will,Shy mariners whose oars are never still,Voyage and dream about the heightening shores.

The bluebird, peeping from the gnarlèd thorn,Prattles upon his frolic flute, or flings,In bounding flight across the golden morn,An azure gleam from off his splendid wings.Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and passDown to the far-off river; the black crowWith wise and wary visage to and froSettles and stalks about the withered grass.

Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone,The watchful lark before my feet takes flight,And wheeling to some lonelier field far on,Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night,When the first star precedes the great red moon,The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field,Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed,His little creakling and continuous tune.

Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old,Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolongFrom every quarter of these fields the bold,Blithe phrases of their never-finished song.The white-throat's distant descant with slow stressNote after note upon the noonday falls,Filling the leisured air at intervalsWith his own mood of piercing pensiveness.

How often from this windy upland perch,Mine eyes have seen the forest break in bloom,The rose-red maple and the golden birch,The dusty yellow of the elms, the gloomOf the tall poplar hung with tasseled black;Ah, I have watched, till eye and ear and brainGrew full of dreams as they, the moted plain,The sun-steeped wood, the marsh-land at its back,

The valley where the river wheels and fills,Yon city glimmering in its smoky shroud,And out at the last misty rim the hillsBlue and far off and mounded like a cloud,And here the noisy rutted road that goesDown the slope yonder, flanked on either sideWith the smooth-furrowed fields flung black and wide,Patched with pale water sleeping in the rows.

So as I watched the crowded leaves expand,The bloom break sheath, the summer's strength uprear,In earth's great mother's heart already plannedThe heaped and burgeoned plenty of the year,Even as she from out her wintry cellMy spirit also sprang to life anew,And day by day as the spring's bounty grew,Its conquering joy possessed me like a spell.

In reverie by day and midnight dreamI sought these upland fields and walked apart,Musing on Nature, till my thought did seemTo read the very secrets of her heart;In mooded moments earnest and sublimeI stored the themes of many a future song,Whose substance should be Nature's, clear and strong,Bound in a casket of majestic rhyme.

Brave bud-like plans that never reached the fruit,Like hers our mother's who with every hour,Easily replenished from the sleepless root,Covers her bosom with fresh bud and flower;Yet I was happy as young lovers be,Who in the season of their passion's birthDeem that they have their utmost worship's worth,If love be near them, just to hear and see.

Grief was my master yesternight;To-morrow I may grieve again;But now along the windy plainThe clouds have taken flight.The sowers in the furrows go;The lusty river brimmeth on;The curtains from the hills are gone;The leaves are out; and lo,The silvery distance of the day,The light horizons, and betweenThe glory of the perfect green,The tumult of the May.The bobolinks at noonday singMore softly than the softest flute,And lightlier than the lightest luteTheir fairy tambours ring.The roads far off are towered with dust;The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned;In yonder swaying elms the windIs charging gust on gust.But here there is no stir at all;The ministers of sun and shadowHorde all the perfumes of the meadowBehind a grassy wall.An infant rivulet wind-freeAdown the guarded hollow sets,Over whose brink the violetsAre nodding peacefully.From pool to pool it prattles by;The flashing swallows dip and pass,Above the tufted marish grass,And here at rest am I.I care not for the old distress,Nor if to-morrow bid me moan;To-day is mine, and I have knownAn hour of blessedness.

Grief was my master yesternight;To-morrow I may grieve again;But now along the windy plainThe clouds have taken flight.

The sowers in the furrows go;The lusty river brimmeth on;The curtains from the hills are gone;The leaves are out; and lo,

The silvery distance of the day,The light horizons, and betweenThe glory of the perfect green,The tumult of the May.

The bobolinks at noonday singMore softly than the softest flute,And lightlier than the lightest luteTheir fairy tambours ring.

The roads far off are towered with dust;The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned;In yonder swaying elms the windIs charging gust on gust.

But here there is no stir at all;The ministers of sun and shadowHorde all the perfumes of the meadowBehind a grassy wall.

An infant rivulet wind-freeAdown the guarded hollow sets,Over whose brink the violetsAre nodding peacefully.

From pool to pool it prattles by;The flashing swallows dip and pass,Above the tufted marish grass,And here at rest am I.

I care not for the old distress,Nor if to-morrow bid me moan;To-day is mine, and I have knownAn hour of blessedness.

I passed through the gates of the city,The streets were strange and still,Through the doors of the open churchesThe organs were moaning shrill.Through the doors and the great high windowsI heard the murmur of prayer,And the sound of their solemn singingStreamed out on the sunlit air;A sound of some great burdenThat lay on the world's dark breast,Of the old, and the sick, and the lonely,And the weary that cried for rest.I strayed through the midst of the cityLike one distracted or mad."Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,And the very word seemed sad.I passed through the gates of the city,And I heard the small birds sing,I laid me down in the meadowsAfar from the bell-ringing.In the depth and the bloom of the meadowsI lay on the earth's quiet breast,The poplar fanned me with shadows,And the veery sang me to rest.Blue, blue was the heaven above me,And the earth green at my feet;"Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,And the very word seemed sweet.

I passed through the gates of the city,The streets were strange and still,Through the doors of the open churchesThe organs were moaning shrill.

Through the doors and the great high windowsI heard the murmur of prayer,And the sound of their solemn singingStreamed out on the sunlit air;

A sound of some great burdenThat lay on the world's dark breast,Of the old, and the sick, and the lonely,And the weary that cried for rest.

I strayed through the midst of the cityLike one distracted or mad."Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,And the very word seemed sad.

I passed through the gates of the city,And I heard the small birds sing,I laid me down in the meadowsAfar from the bell-ringing.

In the depth and the bloom of the meadowsI lay on the earth's quiet breast,The poplar fanned me with shadows,And the veery sang me to rest.

Blue, blue was the heaven above me,And the earth green at my feet;"Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,And the very word seemed sweet.

O doubts, dull passions, and base fears,That harassed and oppressed the day,Ye poor remorses and vain tears,That shook this house of clay:All heaven to the western barsIs glittering with the darker dawn;Here with the earth, the night, the stars,Ye have no place: begone!

O doubts, dull passions, and base fears,That harassed and oppressed the day,Ye poor remorses and vain tears,That shook this house of clay:

All heaven to the western barsIs glittering with the darker dawn;Here with the earth, the night, the stars,Ye have no place: begone!

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer mornThat pale-browed April passed with pensive treadThrough the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bedWoke the arbutus with her silver horn;And now May, too, is fled,The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gayWith tulips and the scented violet.Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongueAnd the sad drooping bellwort, and no moreThe snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor;The purpling grasses are no longer young,And summer's wide-set doorO'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earthLets in the torrent of the later bloom,Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.All day in garden alleys moist and dim,The humid air is burdened with the rose;In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows;And now the vesper-sparrows' pealing hymnFrom every orchard closeAt eve comes flooding rich and silvery;The daisies in great meadows swing and shine;And with the wind a sound as of the seaRoars in the maples and the topmost pine.High in the hills the solitary thrushTunes magically his music of fine dreams,In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams;And wide and far on nebulous fields aflushThe mellow morning gleams.The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there,The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue,And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.So with thronged voices and unhasting flightThe fervid hours with long return go by;The far-heard hylas piping shrill and highTell the slow moments of the solemn nightWith unremitting cry;Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouthThe planets gleam; the baleful ScorpionTrails his dim fires along the droused south;The silent world-incrusted round moves on.And all the dim night long the moon's white beamsNestle deep down in every brooding tree,And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee,Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams,And carol brokenly.Dim surging motions and uneasy dreadsScare the light slumber from men's busy eyes,And parted lovers on their restless bedsToss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee,As dreamers of old time were wont to feign,In living form of flesh, and striven in vain;Yet when some sudden old-world mysteryOf passion fired my brain,Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,Or by the hollow of some reeded streamSitting waist-deep in white anemones;And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,Yet in thy place for subtle thought's employThe golden magic clung, a light that shoneAnd filled me with thy joy.Before me like a mist that streamed and fellAll names and shapes of antique beauty passedIn garlanded procession with the swellOf flutes between the beechen stems; and last,I saw the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,And through the cool green glades, awake once more,Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,Fleet-footed as of yore,The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heelsThe hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongueAnd the sad drooping bellwort, and no moreThe snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor;The purpling grasses are no longer young,And summer's wide-set doorO'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earthLets in the torrent of the later bloom,Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.

All day in garden alleys moist and dim,The humid air is burdened with the rose;In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows;And now the vesper-sparrows' pealing hymnFrom every orchard closeAt eve comes flooding rich and silvery;The daisies in great meadows swing and shine;And with the wind a sound as of the seaRoars in the maples and the topmost pine.

High in the hills the solitary thrushTunes magically his music of fine dreams,In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams;And wide and far on nebulous fields aflushThe mellow morning gleams.The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there,The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue,And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.

So with thronged voices and unhasting flightThe fervid hours with long return go by;The far-heard hylas piping shrill and highTell the slow moments of the solemn nightWith unremitting cry;Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouthThe planets gleam; the baleful ScorpionTrails his dim fires along the droused south;The silent world-incrusted round moves on.

And all the dim night long the moon's white beamsNestle deep down in every brooding tree,And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee,Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams,And carol brokenly.Dim surging motions and uneasy dreadsScare the light slumber from men's busy eyes,And parted lovers on their restless bedsToss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.

Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee,As dreamers of old time were wont to feign,In living form of flesh, and striven in vain;Yet when some sudden old-world mysteryOf passion fired my brain,Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,Or by the hollow of some reeded streamSitting waist-deep in white anemones;

And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,Yet in thy place for subtle thought's employThe golden magic clung, a light that shoneAnd filled me with thy joy.Before me like a mist that streamed and fellAll names and shapes of antique beauty passedIn garlanded procession with the swellOf flutes between the beechen stems; and last,

I saw the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,And through the cool green glades, awake once more,Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,Fleet-footed as of yore,The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heelsThe hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

To the distance! Ah, the distance!Blue and broad and dim!Peace is not in burgh or meadow,But beyond the rim.Aye, beyond it, far beyond it;Follow still my soul,Till this earth is lost in heaven,And thou feel'st the whole.

To the distance! Ah, the distance!Blue and broad and dim!Peace is not in burgh or meadow,But beyond the rim.

Aye, beyond it, far beyond it;Follow still my soul,Till this earth is lost in heaven,And thou feel'st the whole.

The sun looks over a little hillAnd floods the valley with gold—A torrent of gold;And the hither field is green and still;Beyond it a cloud outrolled,Is glowing molten and bright;And soon the hill, and the valley and all,With a quiet fall,Shall be gathered into the night.And yet a moment more,Out of the silent wood,As if from the closing doorOf another world and another lovelier mood,Hear'st thou the hermit pour—So sweet! so magical!—His golden music, ghostly beautiful.

For three whole days across the sky,In sullen packs that loomed and broke,With flying fringes dim as smoke,The columns of the rain went by;At every hour the wind awoke;The darkness passed upon the plain;The great drops rattled at the pane.Now piped the wind, or far aloofFell to a sough remote and dull;And all night long with rush and lullThe rain kept drumming on the roof:I heard till ear and sense were fullThe clash or silence of the leaves,The gurgle in the creaking eaves.But when the fourth day came—at noon,The darkness and the rain were by;The sunward roofs were steaming dry;And all the world was flecked and strewnWith shadows from a fleecy sky.The haymakers were forth and gone,And every rillet laughed and shone.Then, too, on me that loved so wellThe world, despairing in her blight,Uplifted with her least delight,On me, as on the earth, there fellNew happiness of mirth and might;I strode the valleys pied and still;I climbed upon the breezy hill.I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop,Sole shadow on the shining world;I saw the mountains clothed and curled,With forest ruffling to the top;I saw the river's length unfurled,Pale silver down the fruited plain,Grown great and stately with the rain.Through miles of shadow and soft heat,Where field and fallow, fence and tree,Were all one world of greenery,I heard the robin ringing sweet,The sparrow piping silverly,The thrushes at the forest's hem;And as I went I sang with them.

Now piped the wind, or far aloofFell to a sough remote and dull;And all night long with rush and lullThe rain kept drumming on the roof:I heard till ear and sense were fullThe clash or silence of the leaves,The gurgle in the creaking eaves.

But when the fourth day came—at noon,The darkness and the rain were by;The sunward roofs were steaming dry;And all the world was flecked and strewnWith shadows from a fleecy sky.The haymakers were forth and gone,And every rillet laughed and shone.

Then, too, on me that loved so wellThe world, despairing in her blight,Uplifted with her least delight,On me, as on the earth, there fellNew happiness of mirth and might;I strode the valleys pied and still;I climbed upon the breezy hill.

I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop,Sole shadow on the shining world;I saw the mountains clothed and curled,With forest ruffling to the top;I saw the river's length unfurled,Pale silver down the fruited plain,Grown great and stately with the rain.

Through miles of shadow and soft heat,Where field and fallow, fence and tree,Were all one world of greenery,I heard the robin ringing sweet,The sparrow piping silverly,The thrushes at the forest's hem;And as I went I sang with them.

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