O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreamsTroubled of thy grave beauty shall be born;Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streamsShall speak to me for ever, from this morn;The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, liftingTheir misty waving woodland verdancy!The centuries that draw thee to the earthIn envy of thy desolated charm,The summers and the winters, the sky's girthOf sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.But would that I were Time, then only tenderTouch upon thee should fall as on I sped;Of every pillar would I be defender,Of every mossy window—of thy dead!Thy dead beneath obliterated stonesUpon the sod that is at last thy floor,Who list the Wye not as it lonely moansNor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where neverIs wanting mysteries that move the breast,I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever—Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!
O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreamsTroubled of thy grave beauty shall be born;Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streamsShall speak to me for ever, from this morn;The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, liftingTheir misty waving woodland verdancy!
The centuries that draw thee to the earthIn envy of thy desolated charm,The summers and the winters, the sky's girthOf sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.But would that I were Time, then only tenderTouch upon thee should fall as on I sped;Of every pillar would I be defender,Of every mossy window—of thy dead!
Thy dead beneath obliterated stonesUpon the sod that is at last thy floor,Who list the Wye not as it lonely moansNor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where neverIs wanting mysteries that move the breast,I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever—Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!
See, see!—the blows at his breast,Abyss at his back,The peril of dark that pressed,The doubts in a pack,That hunted to drag him downHave triumphed? and nowHe sinks who climbed for the crownTo the Summit's brow?No!—though at the foot he lies,Fallen and vain,With gaze to the peak whose skies,He could not attain,The victory is, with strength—No matter the past!—He'd dare it again, the dark length,And the fall at last!
See, see!—the blows at his breast,Abyss at his back,The peril of dark that pressed,The doubts in a pack,That hunted to drag him downHave triumphed? and nowHe sinks who climbed for the crownTo the Summit's brow?
No!—though at the foot he lies,Fallen and vain,With gaze to the peak whose skies,He could not attain,The victory is, with strength—No matter the past!—He'd dare it again, the dark length,And the fall at last!
When Autumn's melancholy robes the landWith silence and sad fadings mysticalOf other years move thro' the mellow fields,I turn unto this meadow of the deadStrewn with the leaves stormed from October trees,And wonder if my resting shall be dugHere by this cedar's moan or under the swayOf yonder cypress—lair of winds that roveAs Valkyries from Valhalla's courtIn search of worthy slain.And sundry times with questioning I teaseThe entombed of their estate—seeking to knowWhether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feelThe oblivion of Nature's flow, or hereWander as gleam and shadow flit her face.Whether the harvesting of pain and joyEnds with the ivied slab, or whether deathPours the warm chrism of ImmortalityInto each human heart whose glow is spent.Nor do my askings fall on the chill voidsOf unavailing silence. For a voiceOf sighing wind may answer, or it leaps,Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face.Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of goldThat ebb along the west revealings wingAnd tremor, like etherial swift tonguesUnskilled of human speech, about my heart—Till, youth, age, death ... even earth's all, it seems,Are but wild moments wakened in that Soul,To whom infinities are as a span,Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun,And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wildsInto the sea....Then twilight bells ring backMy wandered spirit from the wildernessOf Mystery, whence none may find a pathTo the Unknown, and like one who upborneHas steered the unmeasured summer skies untilTheir calm seems God, I turn transfigured home.
When Autumn's melancholy robes the landWith silence and sad fadings mysticalOf other years move thro' the mellow fields,I turn unto this meadow of the deadStrewn with the leaves stormed from October trees,And wonder if my resting shall be dugHere by this cedar's moan or under the swayOf yonder cypress—lair of winds that roveAs Valkyries from Valhalla's courtIn search of worthy slain.And sundry times with questioning I teaseThe entombed of their estate—seeking to knowWhether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feelThe oblivion of Nature's flow, or hereWander as gleam and shadow flit her face.Whether the harvesting of pain and joyEnds with the ivied slab, or whether deathPours the warm chrism of ImmortalityInto each human heart whose glow is spent.Nor do my askings fall on the chill voidsOf unavailing silence. For a voiceOf sighing wind may answer, or it leaps,Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face.Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of goldThat ebb along the west revealings wingAnd tremor, like etherial swift tonguesUnskilled of human speech, about my heart—Till, youth, age, death ... even earth's all, it seems,Are but wild moments wakened in that Soul,To whom infinities are as a span,Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun,And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wildsInto the sea....
Then twilight bells ring backMy wandered spirit from the wildernessOf Mystery, whence none may find a pathTo the Unknown, and like one who upborneHas steered the unmeasured summer skies untilTheir calm seems God, I turn transfigured home.
And could I love it more—this simple sceneOf cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,That lie as if forgotten were all green,So bare, so dead?Or could my gaze more tenderly entwineEach pallid beech or silvery sycamore,Outreaching arms in patience to divineIf winter's o'er?Ah no, the wind has blown into my veinsThe blue infinity of sky, the senseOf meadows free to-day from icy pains—From wintry vents.And sunny peace more virgin than the glowFalling from eve's first star into the night,Brings hope believing what it ne'er can knowWith mortal sight.
And could I love it more—this simple sceneOf cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,That lie as if forgotten were all green,So bare, so dead?
Or could my gaze more tenderly entwineEach pallid beech or silvery sycamore,Outreaching arms in patience to divineIf winter's o'er?
Ah no, the wind has blown into my veinsThe blue infinity of sky, the senseOf meadows free to-day from icy pains—From wintry vents.
And sunny peace more virgin than the glowFalling from eve's first star into the night,Brings hope believing what it ne'er can knowWith mortal sight.
Ah, what a changeling!Yester you dashed from the west,Altho' it is Spring,And scattered the hail with maniac zestThro' the shivering corn—in scornFor the labour of God and man.And now from the plentiful South you haste,With lovingest fingers,To ruefully lift and wooingly fanThe lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:As if the chill wasteOf the earth's May-dreams,The flowers so full of her joy,Were not—as it seems—A wanton attempt to destroy.
Ah, what a changeling!Yester you dashed from the west,Altho' it is Spring,And scattered the hail with maniac zestThro' the shivering corn—in scornFor the labour of God and man.And now from the plentiful South you haste,With lovingest fingers,To ruefully lift and wooingly fanThe lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:As if the chill wasteOf the earth's May-dreams,The flowers so full of her joy,Were not—as it seems—A wanton attempt to destroy.
Down the roadWhich asters tangle,Thro' the gapWhere green-briar twines,By the pathWhere dry leaves dangleDown from the ivy vines,We go—By sedgy fallowsAnd alongThe stifled brook,Till it stopsIn lushy mallowsJust at the bridge's crook.Then, again,O'er fence, thro' thicket,To the mouthOf the rough ravine—Where the weirdLeaf-hidden cricketChirrs thro' the weirder green—There's a wayO'er rocks—but quickerIs the bestOf heart and foot,As the beamsAbove us flickerSun upon moss and root!And we leap—As wildness tinglesFrom the airInto our blood—With a cryThro' golden dinglesHid in the heart of the wood.Oh, the woodWith winds a-wrestle!With the nutAnd acorn strown!Oh, the woodWhere creepers trestle,Tree unto tree o'ergrown!With a climbThe ledging summitOf the hillIs reached in glee.For an hourWe gaze off from itInto the sky's blue sea.But a bellAnd sunset's crimsonSoon recallThe homeward path.And we turnAs the glory dims onThe hay-fields' mounded math.Thro' the softAnd silent twilightWe come,To the stile at last,As the clearUndying eyelightOf the stars tells day is past.
Down the roadWhich asters tangle,Thro' the gapWhere green-briar twines,By the pathWhere dry leaves dangleDown from the ivy vines,
We go—By sedgy fallowsAnd alongThe stifled brook,Till it stopsIn lushy mallowsJust at the bridge's crook.
Then, again,O'er fence, thro' thicket,To the mouthOf the rough ravine—Where the weirdLeaf-hidden cricketChirrs thro' the weirder green—
There's a wayO'er rocks—but quickerIs the bestOf heart and foot,As the beamsAbove us flickerSun upon moss and root!
And we leap—As wildness tinglesFrom the airInto our blood—With a cryThro' golden dinglesHid in the heart of the wood.
Oh, the woodWith winds a-wrestle!With the nutAnd acorn strown!Oh, the woodWhere creepers trestle,Tree unto tree o'ergrown!
With a climbThe ledging summitOf the hillIs reached in glee.For an hourWe gaze off from itInto the sky's blue sea.
But a bellAnd sunset's crimsonSoon recallThe homeward path.And we turnAs the glory dims onThe hay-fields' mounded math.
Thro' the softAnd silent twilightWe come,To the stile at last,As the clearUndying eyelightOf the stars tells day is past.
Ah, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence filled the air—I came last year to remember,And muse, hid away from care.It was here I came—the thistleWas trusting her seed to the wind;The quail in the croft gave whistleAs now—and the fields lay thinned.I know how the hay was steeping,Brown mows under mellow haze;How a frail cloud-flock was creepingAs now over lone sky-ways.Just there where the cat-bird's callingHer mock-hurt note by the shed,The use-worn wain was stallingIn the weedy brook's dry bed.And the cricket, lone little chimerOf day-long dreams in the vines,Chirred on like a doting rhymerO'er-vain of his firstling lines.He's near me now by the aster,Beneath whose shadowy sprayA sultry bee seeps fasterAs the sun slips down the day.And there are the tall primrosesLike maidens waiting to dance.They stood in the same shy posesLast year, as if to entranceThe stately mulleins to wakenFrom death and lead them around:And still they will stand untaken,Till drops their gold to the ground.Yes, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence round me yearned.Again I've come to remember,Again for musing returnedTo the searing fields assuaging,And the falling leaves' sad balm:Away from the world's keen waging—To harvest and hills and calm.
Ah, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence filled the air—I came last year to remember,And muse, hid away from care.It was here I came—the thistleWas trusting her seed to the wind;The quail in the croft gave whistleAs now—and the fields lay thinned.
I know how the hay was steeping,Brown mows under mellow haze;How a frail cloud-flock was creepingAs now over lone sky-ways.Just there where the cat-bird's callingHer mock-hurt note by the shed,The use-worn wain was stallingIn the weedy brook's dry bed.
And the cricket, lone little chimerOf day-long dreams in the vines,Chirred on like a doting rhymerO'er-vain of his firstling lines.He's near me now by the aster,Beneath whose shadowy sprayA sultry bee seeps fasterAs the sun slips down the day.
And there are the tall primrosesLike maidens waiting to dance.They stood in the same shy posesLast year, as if to entranceThe stately mulleins to wakenFrom death and lead them around:And still they will stand untaken,Till drops their gold to the ground.
Yes, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence round me yearned.Again I've come to remember,Again for musing returnedTo the searing fields assuaging,And the falling leaves' sad balm:Away from the world's keen waging—To harvest and hills and calm.
The eve of Golgotha had come,And Christ lay shrouded in the garden's tomb:Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!The hill grew dim—the pleading crossReached empty arms toward the closing gate.Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain!The murmurous multitude within the wallAlready had forgot His pain—To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!They knew not Rome before its sign,Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,Would sweep all lands from Nile to RhineIn servitude unto the Nazarene.Nor knew that millions would forsakeAncestral shrines great with the glow of time,And lifting up its token shakeAeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.With empty arms aloft it stood:Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!The cross emblotted with His bloodMounts, highest Hope of men against earth's hell!
The eve of Golgotha had come,And Christ lay shrouded in the garden's tomb:Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!
The hill grew dim—the pleading crossReached empty arms toward the closing gate.Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!
Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain!The murmurous multitude within the wallAlready had forgot His pain—To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!
They knew not Rome before its sign,Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,Would sweep all lands from Nile to RhineIn servitude unto the Nazarene.
Nor knew that millions would forsakeAncestral shrines great with the glow of time,And lifting up its token shakeAeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.
With empty arms aloft it stood:Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!The cross emblotted with His bloodMounts, highest Hope of men against earth's hell!
Upon how many a hill,Across how many a field,Beside how many a river's whispery flowing,They stand, with eyes a-thrill,And hearts of day-rue healed,Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!They have forgotten life,Forgotten sunless death;Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?No memory of strifeHave they, or pain-sick breath,No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.Silent the gold steals downThe west, and mysteryMoves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.'Tis faded—the day's crown;But strange and shadowyThey see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.Like priests whose altar firesAre spent, immovableThey stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,The starry deeps are full,Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.Ah, sunset-lovers, thoughTime were but pulsing pain,And death no more than its eternal ceasing,Would you not choose the throe,Hold the oblivion vain,To have beheld so many days releasing?
Upon how many a hill,Across how many a field,Beside how many a river's whispery flowing,They stand, with eyes a-thrill,And hearts of day-rue healed,Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!
They have forgotten life,Forgotten sunless death;Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?No memory of strifeHave they, or pain-sick breath,No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.
Silent the gold steals downThe west, and mysteryMoves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.'Tis faded—the day's crown;But strange and shadowyThey see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.
Like priests whose altar firesAre spent, immovableThey stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,The starry deeps are full,Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.
Ah, sunset-lovers, thoughTime were but pulsing pain,And death no more than its eternal ceasing,Would you not choose the throe,Hold the oblivion vain,To have beheld so many days releasing?
(In a Hospital)
Why do I love thee?—Not because thy wak'ning lipsWere wooed to bloom by minstrel windOf Araby or Ind.Not because thy fragrance slipsInto my soul—as if thou mustBe sprung of a mother's dust.Not becauseshegave her breastTo thee for one long night—she whosePure heart I ne'er shall lose.But when I lay in sick unrestAfar from those who are my own,Thou camest from hands unknown:Therefore I love thee!
Why do I love thee?—Not because thy wak'ning lipsWere wooed to bloom by minstrel windOf Araby or Ind.
Not because thy fragrance slipsInto my soul—as if thou mustBe sprung of a mother's dust.
Not becauseshegave her breastTo thee for one long night—she whosePure heart I ne'er shall lose.
But when I lay in sick unrestAfar from those who are my own,Thou camest from hands unknown:Therefore I love thee!
Not pain nor the sunny wineOf gladness steepeth my still spirit asI lift my gaze across the winter meadsEngarmented in stubble robes of brown.For, as those solitary trees afarHave reached unbudding boughsTo the dim warmth of the February sun,And melted on the infinite calm of space,So I have reached—and am no more distraughtWith the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,Of rests that riseAs tides of sleep,And care borne on the plumesOf swan-swift clouds away to the sullen shadesOf quelled snow-storms low-lying in the west,Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude.And now ... down sinks the sun,Until, half-arched above the marge of earth,It hangs, a golden door,Through which effulgent Paradise beyondBurns seeming forth along the path of thoseWho, crowned by Death with Life, pass to its portal.How soon 'tis closed—how soon! The trumpetingsOf seraphs whose gold blasts of light break o'erPurplescent passing battlements of cloud,Sound clear ... then comes the dusk!
Not pain nor the sunny wineOf gladness steepeth my still spirit asI lift my gaze across the winter meadsEngarmented in stubble robes of brown.For, as those solitary trees afarHave reached unbudding boughsTo the dim warmth of the February sun,And melted on the infinite calm of space,So I have reached—and am no more distraughtWith the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,Of rests that riseAs tides of sleep,And care borne on the plumesOf swan-swift clouds away to the sullen shadesOf quelled snow-storms low-lying in the west,Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude.And now ... down sinks the sun,Until, half-arched above the marge of earth,It hangs, a golden door,Through which effulgent Paradise beyondBurns seeming forth along the path of thoseWho, crowned by Death with Life, pass to its portal.How soon 'tis closed—how soon! The trumpetingsOf seraphs whose gold blasts of light break o'erPurplescent passing battlements of cloud,Sound clear ... then comes the dusk!
Dimming in sunniness, aerily distant,Valley and hillside float;Up to me wavering, softly insistent,Wanders the wood-brook's note.Anchored beyond in azure unendingCloud-sails await wind-tide.Oh, for the skylands where soon they'll be wending—And, unabiding, bide.Where Time aflow thro' infinite spacesStays for no throttle of pain!Where the stars go at eve to their places;Where silence never shall wane!Where there's no sense but of beauty's wild sweetness,Thought but of sweetening beauty!Where wanting's stilled in unwanting's completeness—Where peace is duty!
Dimming in sunniness, aerily distant,Valley and hillside float;Up to me wavering, softly insistent,Wanders the wood-brook's note.
Anchored beyond in azure unendingCloud-sails await wind-tide.Oh, for the skylands where soon they'll be wending—And, unabiding, bide.
Where Time aflow thro' infinite spacesStays for no throttle of pain!Where the stars go at eve to their places;Where silence never shall wane!
Where there's no sense but of beauty's wild sweetness,Thought but of sweetening beauty!Where wanting's stilled in unwanting's completeness—Where peace is duty!
I knew she would come!Sarcastic NovemberLaughed cold and glumOn the last red emberOf forest leaves.He was laughing, the scorner,At me forlornerThan any that grieves—Because I asked him if June would come!But I knew she would come!When snow-hearted winterGripped river and loam,And the wind sped flinterOn icy heel,I was chafing my sorrowAnd yearning to borrowA hope that would stealAcross the hours—till June should come.And now she is here.—The wanton!—I followHer steps, ever near,To the shade of the hollowWhere violets blow:And chide her for leaving,Tho' half, still, believingShe taunted me so,To make her abided return more dear.
I knew she would come!Sarcastic NovemberLaughed cold and glumOn the last red emberOf forest leaves.He was laughing, the scorner,At me forlornerThan any that grieves—Because I asked him if June would come!
But I knew she would come!When snow-hearted winterGripped river and loam,And the wind sped flinterOn icy heel,I was chafing my sorrowAnd yearning to borrowA hope that would stealAcross the hours—till June should come.
And now she is here.—The wanton!—I followHer steps, ever near,To the shade of the hollowWhere violets blow:And chide her for leaving,Tho' half, still, believingShe taunted me so,To make her abided return more dear.
Brown dropping of leaves,Soft rush of the wind,Slow searing of sheavesOn the hill;Green plunging of frogs,Cool lisp of the brook,Far barking of dogsAt the mill;Hot hanging of clouds,High poise of the hawk,Flush laughter of crowdsFrom the Ridge;Nut-falling, quail-calling,Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Brown dropping of leaves,Soft rush of the wind,Slow searing of sheavesOn the hill;Green plunging of frogs,Cool lisp of the brook,Far barking of dogsAt the mill;Hot hanging of clouds,High poise of the hawk,Flush laughter of crowdsFrom the Ridge;Nut-falling, quail-calling,Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Her voice is vibrant beauty diptIn dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis sliptAnd lo, words spring that breathe immortal might.
Her voice is vibrant beauty diptIn dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis sliptAnd lo, words spring that breathe immortal might.
Out of the night of lovelessness I callThee, as, in a chill chamber where no rayOf unbelievable light and freedom fall,Might cry one manacled! And tho' the wayThou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's soreWith emptiness when morning's silent grayWakes me to long aloneness; yet I knowThou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt goBeside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
Out of the night of lovelessness I callThee, as, in a chill chamber where no rayOf unbelievable light and freedom fall,Might cry one manacled! And tho' the wayThou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's soreWith emptiness when morning's silent grayWakes me to long aloneness; yet I knowThou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt goBeside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
So in the garden of my heart each dayI plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,And now the lily, faith—or now a sprayOf the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er ceaseAround the still unblossoming rose of loveTo bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runsWith brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
So in the garden of my heart each dayI plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,And now the lily, faith—or now a sprayOf the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er ceaseAround the still unblossoming rose of loveTo bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runsWith brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
But where now art thou? Watching with love's eyeThe eve-star wander? Listening through dim treesSome thrilled muezzin of the forest cryFrom his leafy minaret? Or by the sea'sBlue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangsLike the faery isle of Avalon, do theseMy yearnings speak to thee of days thy feetHave never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, sealing sweet,My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
But where now art thou? Watching with love's eyeThe eve-star wander? Listening through dim treesSome thrilled muezzin of the forest cryFrom his leafy minaret? Or by the sea'sBlue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangsLike the faery isle of Avalon, do theseMy yearnings speak to thee of days thy feetHave never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, sealing sweet,My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
And will be soon! For last night near to day,Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphereOf heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and layThine ear unto my Heart—there thou shall hearThe secrets of this world where evils war."Such things I heard as must rend mortal clayTo tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee singOut of thy window to the morning star!
And will be soon! For last night near to day,Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphereOf heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and layThine ear unto my Heart—there thou shall hearThe secrets of this world where evils war."Such things I heard as must rend mortal clayTo tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee singOut of thy window to the morning star!
Though thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delightUpon these airs, bird of the poet's love,Yet must I sing thy singing! for the NightHas poured her jewels o'er the lap of heavenAs they who've heard thee say thou dost aboveThe wood such ecstasies as were not givenBy nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.Oft I have watched the moon orb her fair gold,Still clung to by the tattered mists of dayAnd look for thee. Then has my hope grown boldTill almost I could see how the near laurelsWould tremble with thy trembling: but the swayOf bards who've wreathed thee with unfading choralsHas held my longing lips from this poor lay.None but the sky-hid lark whose spirit isToo high for earth may vie for praise with theeIn aery rhapsody. And since 'tis hisTo sing of day and joy as thou of sorrowAnd night o'erhovering singest, thou'lt e'er beMore dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrowFrom grief the healing for life's mystery.Then loose thy song! Though no grave ear may listIts lyric trouble, still 'tis soothing sweetTo know that songs unheard and graces missedBy every eye melt on the skies that nourishUs with immortal blue; and, changed, repeatTheir protean loveliness in all we cherish.For beauty cannot die, howe'er 'tmay fleet.
Though thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delightUpon these airs, bird of the poet's love,Yet must I sing thy singing! for the NightHas poured her jewels o'er the lap of heavenAs they who've heard thee say thou dost aboveThe wood such ecstasies as were not givenBy nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.
Oft I have watched the moon orb her fair gold,Still clung to by the tattered mists of dayAnd look for thee. Then has my hope grown boldTill almost I could see how the near laurelsWould tremble with thy trembling: but the swayOf bards who've wreathed thee with unfading choralsHas held my longing lips from this poor lay.
None but the sky-hid lark whose spirit isToo high for earth may vie for praise with theeIn aery rhapsody. And since 'tis hisTo sing of day and joy as thou of sorrowAnd night o'erhovering singest, thou'lt e'er beMore dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrowFrom grief the healing for life's mystery.
Then loose thy song! Though no grave ear may listIts lyric trouble, still 'tis soothing sweetTo know that songs unheard and graces missedBy every eye melt on the skies that nourishUs with immortal blue; and, changed, repeatTheir protean loveliness in all we cherish.For beauty cannot die, howe'er 'tmay fleet.
Dusking amber dimly creepsOver the vale,Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,Sad with his wail.Eastward swing the silent cloudsInto the night.Burdens of day they seem—in crowdsHurled from earth's sight.Tilting gulls whip whitely farOver the lake,Tirelessly on o'er buoy and sparTill they o'ertakeShadow and mingled mist—and thenVanish to wingStill the bewildering night-fen,Where the waves ring.Dusking amber dimly diesOut of the vale.Dead from the dunes the winds arise—Ghosts of the gale.
Dusking amber dimly creepsOver the vale,Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,Sad with his wail.
Eastward swing the silent cloudsInto the night.Burdens of day they seem—in crowdsHurled from earth's sight.
Tilting gulls whip whitely farOver the lake,Tirelessly on o'er buoy and sparTill they o'ertake
Shadow and mingled mist—and thenVanish to wingStill the bewildering night-fen,Where the waves ring.
Dusking amber dimly diesOut of the vale.Dead from the dunes the winds arise—Ghosts of the gale.
A host of bloody centuries lie proneUpon the fields of Time—but still the wakeOf Progress loud is haunted with the groanOf myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slakeHis scarlet thirst, has War, fierce PolyphemeOf fate, insatiately drunk Life's stream.We bid the courier lightning leap alongIts metal path with spaceless speed—commandStars lost in night-eternity to throngBefore the magnet eye of Science—standOn Glory's peak and triumphingly cryOut mastery of earth and sea and air.But unto War's necessity we bareOur piteous breasts—and impotently die.
A host of bloody centuries lie proneUpon the fields of Time—but still the wakeOf Progress loud is haunted with the groanOf myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slakeHis scarlet thirst, has War, fierce PolyphemeOf fate, insatiately drunk Life's stream.We bid the courier lightning leap alongIts metal path with spaceless speed—commandStars lost in night-eternity to throngBefore the magnet eye of Science—standOn Glory's peak and triumphingly cryOut mastery of earth and sea and air.But unto War's necessity we bareOur piteous breasts—and impotently die.
Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn,When sleep's oblivion is torn awayFrom love that died with dying yesterdayBut still unburied in the heart lies on!Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees,The sense of human waking o'er the earth!The quivering memories of love's fair birthNow strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness,Striving for sovranty within the soul!Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole,And immortality but make it less!
Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn,When sleep's oblivion is torn awayFrom love that died with dying yesterdayBut still unburied in the heart lies on!
Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees,The sense of human waking o'er the earth!The quivering memories of love's fair birthNow strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!
Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness,Striving for sovranty within the soul!Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole,And immortality but make it less!
Oh, who is he will follow meWith a singing,Down sunny roads where windy odesOf the woods are ringing?Where leaves are tossed from branches lostIn a tangleOf vines that vie to clamber high—But to vault and dangle!Oh, who is he?—His eye must beAs a lover'sTo leap and woo the chicory's hueIn the hazel-hovers!His hope must dance like radianceO'er the shadowsOf clouds that fling their threateningOn the stubbly meadows!And he must see that Autumn's gleeAnd her laughterFrom his lips and heart will quell all smart—Of before and after!
Oh, who is he will follow meWith a singing,Down sunny roads where windy odesOf the woods are ringing?
Where leaves are tossed from branches lostIn a tangleOf vines that vie to clamber high—But to vault and dangle!
Oh, who is he?—His eye must beAs a lover'sTo leap and woo the chicory's hueIn the hazel-hovers!
His hope must dance like radianceO'er the shadowsOf clouds that fling their threateningOn the stubbly meadows!
And he must see that Autumn's gleeAnd her laughterFrom his lips and heart will quell all smart—Of before and after!
I lingered still when you were gone,When tryst and trust were o'er,While memory like a wounded swanIn sorrow sung love's lore.I lingered till the whippoorwillHad cried delicious painOver the wild-wood—in its thrillI heard your voice again.I lingered and the mellow breezeBlew to me sweetly dewed—Its touch awoke the sorceriesYour last caresses brewed.But when the night with silent startHad sown her starry seed,The harvest which sprang in my heartWas loneliness and need.
I lingered still when you were gone,When tryst and trust were o'er,While memory like a wounded swanIn sorrow sung love's lore.
I lingered till the whippoorwillHad cried delicious painOver the wild-wood—in its thrillI heard your voice again.
I lingered and the mellow breezeBlew to me sweetly dewed—Its touch awoke the sorceriesYour last caresses brewed.
But when the night with silent startHad sown her starry seed,The harvest which sprang in my heartWas loneliness and need.
Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,Beaten abaft by the rain,The swallows high in the sodden skyCircle oft and again.They rise and sink and drift and swing,Twitterless in the chill;A-haste, for stark is the coming darkOver the wet of the hill.Wildly, swiftly, at last they streamInto their chimney home.A livid gash in the west, a crash—Then silence, sadness, gloam.
Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,Beaten abaft by the rain,The swallows high in the sodden skyCircle oft and again.
They rise and sink and drift and swing,Twitterless in the chill;A-haste, for stark is the coming darkOver the wet of the hill.
Wildly, swiftly, at last they streamInto their chimney home.A livid gash in the west, a crash—Then silence, sadness, gloam.
To drift with the drifting clouds,And blow with the blow of breezes,To ripple with waves and murmur with caves,To soar, as the sea-mew pleases!To dip with the dipping sails,And burn with the burning heaven—My life! my soul! for the infinite rollOf a day to wildness given!
To drift with the drifting clouds,And blow with the blow of breezes,To ripple with waves and murmur with caves,To soar, as the sea-mew pleases!
To dip with the dipping sails,And burn with the burning heaven—My life! my soul! for the infinite rollOf a day to wildness given!
Summer's last moon has waned—WanedAs amber firesOf an Aztec shrine.The invisible breath of coming death has stainedThe withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—Autumn's near.Winds in the woodland moan—MoanAs memoriesOf a chilling yore.Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strewnFrom crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—Autumn's near.Solitude slowly steals,StealsHer silent wayBy the songless brook.At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,The musing joy of sadness in her look—Autumn's near.Yes, with her golden days—DaysWhen hope and toilAre at peace and rest—Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praiseLies down with leaf and blossom on her breast—Autumn's near.
Summer's last moon has waned—WanedAs amber firesOf an Aztec shrine.The invisible breath of coming death has stainedThe withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—Autumn's near.
Winds in the woodland moan—MoanAs memoriesOf a chilling yore.Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strewnFrom crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—Autumn's near.
Solitude slowly steals,StealsHer silent wayBy the songless brook.At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,The musing joy of sadness in her look—Autumn's near.
Yes, with her golden days—DaysWhen hope and toilAre at peace and rest—Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praiseLies down with leaf and blossom on her breast—Autumn's near.
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,The cut and searing fields stretch from me one by oneAlong the creek.The corn-stooks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—Life's flow is weak.Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause—Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose cawsSeem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awesOf forest-deeps.Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of GodWho never sleeps.And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,The while she reaps.
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,The cut and searing fields stretch from me one by oneAlong the creek.
The corn-stooks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—Life's flow is weak.
Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause—Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose cawsSeem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awesOf forest-deeps.
Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of GodWho never sleeps.
And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,The while she reaps.