The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis 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: PoemsAuthor: Clarence CookRelease date: September 17, 2016 [eBook #53072]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

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: PoemsAuthor: Clarence CookRelease date: September 17, 2016 [eBook #53072]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

Title: Poems

Author: Clarence Cook

Release date: September 17, 2016 [eBook #53072]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

POEMS

CLARENCE COOK

Image unavailable: CLARENCE C. COOK AT THE AGE OF 36 FROM A PEN-AND-INK DRAWING MADE IN 1864 BY THOMAS C. FARRAR, PUPIL OF JOHN RUSKINCLARENCE C. COOKAT THE AGE OF 36FROM A PEN-AND-INK DRAWING MADE IN 1864BY THOMAS C. FARRAR, PUPIL OF JOHN RUSKIN

POEMSBYCLARENCE COOK[image of the colophon unavailable.]NEW YORK1902

BYCLARENCE COOK[image of the colophon unavailable.]NEW YORK1902

COPYRIGHT, 1902BY LOUISA W. COOKPRIVATELY PRINTEDAT THE GILLISS PRESS, NEW YORKFOR LOUISA W. COOKAND HER FRIENDS1902THIS LITTLE VOLUMEOF PUBLISHED AND UNPUBLISHED VERSESBY THE LATECLARENCE COOKIS DEDICATED TO HIS MANY FRIENDS AND LOVERSBY HIS WIFELOUISA W. COOK

September 8th, Clarence Chatham Cook born at Dorchester, Massachusetts.

Graduated at Harvard College.

Studied architecture for a season. Then became a tutor. Lectured on Art and gave readings from Shakespeare’s plays.

Married Tuesday, October 26th, to Louisa De Wint Whittemore, widow of Samuel Whittemore of New York City.

Began a series of articles published in theNew York Tribune, on “American Art and Artists.”

Editor ofThe New Path, a pre-Raphaelite journal published in New York.

Published “The Central Park.”

Paris correspondent ofThe New York Tribune. Went to Italy at the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war.

Returned to the United States and renewed his connection withThe New York Tribune.

Wrote the text of a heliotype reproduction of Dürer’s “Life of the Virgin.”

Completed “The House Beautiful” and edited, with notes, the translation of Lübke’s “History of Art.”

Editor and proprietor ofThe Studio, a monthly magazine of art published in New York.

Published an illustrated work in three large volumes entitled “Art and Artists of Our Time.”

Clarence Chatham Cook died at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson May 31, aged 72 years.

POEMSBYCLARENCE COOK

AN April sun with April showersHad burst the buds of lagging flowers;From their fresh leaves the violets’ eyesMirrored the deep blue of the skies;The daffodils, in clustering ranks,Fringed with their spears the garden banks,And with the blooms I love so wellTheir paper buds began to swell,While every bush and every treeBurgeoned with flowers of melody;From the quick robin with his rangeOf silver notes, a warbling change,Which he from sad to merry drewA sparkling shower of tuneful dew,To the brown sparrow in the wheatA plaintive whistle clear and sweet.Over my head the royal skySpread clear from cloud his canopy,The idle noon slept far and wideOn misty hill and river side,And far below me glittering layThe mirror of the azure bay.I stood beneath the maple tree;Its crimson blooms enchanted me,Its honey perfume haunted me,And drew me thither unaware,A nameless influence in the air.Its boughs were hung with murmuring beesWho robbed it of its sweetnesses—Their cheerful humming, loud and strong,Drowned with its bass the robin’s song,And filled the April noontide airWith Labor’s universal prayer.I paused to listen—soon I heardA sound of neither bee nor bird,A sullen murmur mixed with cheerThat rose and fell upon the earAs the wind might—yet far awayUnstirred the sleeping river lay,And even across the hillside wheatNo silvery ripples wandered fleet.It was the murmur of the town,No song of bird or bee could drown—The rattling wheels along the street,The pushing crowd with hasty feet,The schoolboy’s call, the gossip’s story,The lawyer’s purchased oratory,The glib-tongued shopman with his wares,The chattering schoolgirl with her airs,The moaning sick man on his bed,The coffin nailing for the dead,The new-born infant’s lusty wail,The bells that bade the bridal hail,The factory’s wheels that round and roundForever turn, and with their soundMake the young children deaf to allGod’s voices that about them call,Sweet sounds of bird and wind and wave;And Life no gladder than a grave.These myriad, mingled human voices,These intertwined and various noisesMade up the murmur that I heardThrough the sweet hymn of bee and bird.I said—“If all these sounds of lifeWith which the noontide air is rife,These busy murmurings of the beeRobbing the honied maple tree,These warblings of the song-birds’ voices,With which the blooming hedge rejoices,These harsher mortal chords that riseTo mar Earth’s anthem to the skies,If all these sounds fall on my earSo little varying—yet so near—How can I tell if God can knowA cry of human joy or woeFrom the loud humming of the bee,Or the blithe robin’s melody?”God sitteth somewhere in his heaven—About him sing the planets seven;With every thought a world is made,To grow in sun or droop in shade;He holds Creation like a flowerIn his right hand—an æon’s hour—It fades, it dies,—another’s bloomMakes the air sweet with fresh perfume.Or, did he listen on that dayTo what the rolling Earth might say?Or, did he mark, as, one by one,The gliding hours in light were spun?And if he heard the choral hymnThe Earth sent up to honor him,Which note rose sweetest to his ear?Which murmur did he gladliest hear?

I stood beneath the maple tree;Its crimson blooms enchanted me,Its honey perfume haunted me,And drew me thither unaware,A nameless influence in the air.Its boughs were hung with murmuring beesWho robbed it of its sweetnesses—Their cheerful humming, loud and strong,Drowned with its bass the robin’s song,And filled the April noontide airWith Labor’s universal prayer.I paused to listen—soon I heardA sound of neither bee nor bird,A sullen murmur mixed with cheerThat rose and fell upon the earAs the wind might—yet far awayUnstirred the sleeping river lay,And even across the hillside wheatNo silvery ripples wandered fleet.It was the murmur of the town,No song of bird or bee could drown—The rattling wheels along the street,The pushing crowd with hasty feet,The schoolboy’s call, the gossip’s story,The lawyer’s purchased oratory,The glib-tongued shopman with his wares,The chattering schoolgirl with her airs,The moaning sick man on his bed,The coffin nailing for the dead,The new-born infant’s lusty wail,The bells that bade the bridal hail,The factory’s wheels that round and roundForever turn, and with their soundMake the young children deaf to allGod’s voices that about them call,Sweet sounds of bird and wind and wave;And Life no gladder than a grave.

These myriad, mingled human voices,These intertwined and various noisesMade up the murmur that I heardThrough the sweet hymn of bee and bird.I said—“If all these sounds of lifeWith which the noontide air is rife,These busy murmurings of the beeRobbing the honied maple tree,These warblings of the song-birds’ voices,With which the blooming hedge rejoices,These harsher mortal chords that riseTo mar Earth’s anthem to the skies,If all these sounds fall on my earSo little varying—yet so near—How can I tell if God can knowA cry of human joy or woeFrom the loud humming of the bee,Or the blithe robin’s melody?”

God sitteth somewhere in his heaven—About him sing the planets seven;With every thought a world is made,To grow in sun or droop in shade;He holds Creation like a flowerIn his right hand—an æon’s hour—It fades, it dies,—another’s bloomMakes the air sweet with fresh perfume.Or, did he listen on that dayTo what the rolling Earth might say?Or, did he mark, as, one by one,The gliding hours in light were spun?And if he heard the choral hymnThe Earth sent up to honor him,Which note rose sweetest to his ear?Which murmur did he gladliest hear?

The Roses, April, 1853.

ABRAM and Zimri owned a field together,A level field, hid in a happy vale;They ploughed it with one plough, and in the springSowed, walking side by side, the fruitful grain;Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves,And stored them, with much labor, in his barns.Now Abram had a wife and seven sons,But Zimri dwelt alone within his house.One night, before the sheaves were gathered in,As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed,And counted in his mind his little gains,He thought upon his brother Abram’s lot,And said, “I dwell alone within my house,But Abram hath a wife and seven sons;And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike:He surely needeth more for life than I:I will arise and gird myself, and goDown to the field, and add to his from mine.”So he arose and girded up his loins,And went out softly to the level field.The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds,The trees stood black against the cold blue sky,The branches waved and whispered in the wind.So Zimri, guided by the shifting light,Went down the mountain path, and found the field;Took from his store of sheave a generous third,And bore them gladly to his brother’s heap,And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.Now that same night, as Abram lay in bed,Thinking upon his blissful state in life,He thought upon his brother Zimri’s lot,And said, “He dwells within his house alone,He goeth forth to toil with few to help,He goeth home at night to a cold house,And hath few other friends but me and mine(For these two tilled the happy vale alone),While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed,Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,Who aid me in my toil, and make it light;And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike;This, surely, is not pleasing unto God.I will arise and gird myself, and goOut to the field, and borrow from my store,And add unto my brother Zimri’s pile.”So he arose and girded up his loins,And went down softly to the level field.The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,The trees stood black against the starry sky,The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze;So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,Passed down the mountain path, and found the field,Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,And added them unto his brother’s heap;Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.So the next morning, with the early sun,The brothers rose and went out to their toil;And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,Though he had given a third, was still the same.Now the next night went Zimri to the field,Took from his store of sheaves a generous shareAnd placed them on his brother Abram’s heap;And then lay down behind his pile to watch.The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,The cedars stood up black against the sky,The olive branches whispered in the wind.Then Abram came down softly from his home,And, looking to the left and right, went on,Took from his ample store a generous third,And laid it on his brother Zimri’s pile.Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms,And wept upon his neck and kissed his cheek,And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak,Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.

Now that same night, as Abram lay in bed,Thinking upon his blissful state in life,He thought upon his brother Zimri’s lot,And said, “He dwells within his house alone,He goeth forth to toil with few to help,He goeth home at night to a cold house,And hath few other friends but me and mine(For these two tilled the happy vale alone),While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed,Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,Who aid me in my toil, and make it light;And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike;This, surely, is not pleasing unto God.I will arise and gird myself, and goOut to the field, and borrow from my store,And add unto my brother Zimri’s pile.”

So he arose and girded up his loins,And went down softly to the level field.The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,The trees stood black against the starry sky,The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze;So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,Passed down the mountain path, and found the field,Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,And added them unto his brother’s heap;Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.

So the next morning, with the early sun,The brothers rose and went out to their toil;And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,Though he had given a third, was still the same.

Now the next night went Zimri to the field,Took from his store of sheaves a generous shareAnd placed them on his brother Abram’s heap;And then lay down behind his pile to watch.The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,The cedars stood up black against the sky,The olive branches whispered in the wind.Then Abram came down softly from his home,And, looking to the left and right, went on,Took from his ample store a generous third,And laid it on his brother Zimri’s pile.Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms,And wept upon his neck and kissed his cheek,And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak,Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.

PALE flower, that by this stoneSweetenest the air alone,While round thee falls the snowAnd the rude wind doth blow.What thought doth make thee pinePale Flower, can I divine?Say, does this trouble theeThat all things fickle be?The wind that buffets soWas kind an hour ago.The sun, a cloud doth hide,Cheered thee at morning tide.The busy pleasuring beeSought thee for company.The little sparrows nearSang thee their ballads clear.The maples on thy headTheir spicy blossoms shed.Because the storm made dumbThe wild bees booming hum;Because for shiveringThe sparrows cannot sing;Is this the reason whyThou look’st so woefully?To-morrow’s laughing sunWill cheer thee, pallid one;To-morrow will bring backThe gay bee on his track,Bursting thy cloister dimWith his wild roistering.Canst thou not wait the morrow,That rids thee of thy sorrow?Art thou too desolateTo smile at any fate?Then there is naught for theeBut Death’s delivery.

PALE flower, that by this stoneSweetenest the air alone,While round thee falls the snowAnd the rude wind doth blow.What thought doth make thee pinePale Flower, can I divine?

Say, does this trouble theeThat all things fickle be?The wind that buffets soWas kind an hour ago.The sun, a cloud doth hide,Cheered thee at morning tide.

The busy pleasuring beeSought thee for company.The little sparrows nearSang thee their ballads clear.The maples on thy headTheir spicy blossoms shed.

Because the storm made dumbThe wild bees booming hum;Because for shiveringThe sparrows cannot sing;Is this the reason whyThou look’st so woefully?

To-morrow’s laughing sunWill cheer thee, pallid one;To-morrow will bring backThe gay bee on his track,Bursting thy cloister dimWith his wild roistering.

Canst thou not wait the morrow,That rids thee of thy sorrow?Art thou too desolateTo smile at any fate?Then there is naught for theeBut Death’s delivery.

The Roses, May 4, 1853.

LOOK out, sad heart, through wintry eyesTo see thy summer go:How pallid are thy bluest skiesBehind this veiling snow.Look out upon thy purple hills,That all the summer long,Laughed with an hundred laughing rills,And sang their summer song.You only see the sheeted snowThat covers grass and tree;The frozen streamlets cannot flow,No bird dares sing to thee.Look out upon Life’s summer daysThat fade like summer flowers;What golden fruitage for thy praise,From all those bounteous hours?Sings any bird, or any windAmid thy falling leaves?Why is it, if thou look’st behind,Thy heart forever grieves?

LOOK out, sad heart, through wintry eyesTo see thy summer go:How pallid are thy bluest skiesBehind this veiling snow.

Look out upon thy purple hills,That all the summer long,Laughed with an hundred laughing rills,And sang their summer song.

You only see the sheeted snowThat covers grass and tree;The frozen streamlets cannot flow,No bird dares sing to thee.

Look out upon Life’s summer daysThat fade like summer flowers;What golden fruitage for thy praise,From all those bounteous hours?

Sings any bird, or any windAmid thy falling leaves?Why is it, if thou look’st behind,Thy heart forever grieves?

Newburgh, January 4, 1854.

OH April grass, so trulyMy wish for spring divining,Oh April sun, so gailyIn at my window shining,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?Oh thoughts of Summer daysBorn of the violet’s blue.Oh wooing western wind,That maketh all things new—What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?Oh mountains brown and sere,Mantled in morning light,Oh golden sunset seaWrecked on the shores of night,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?Oh longings evermoreFor some ungiven good,Oh yearnings to make clearThe dimly understood,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?Cover thy weary eyesWith hands too weak for prayer,Think on the happy past,From other thoughts forbearWhich can no cheer impartUnto a hopeless heart.

OH April grass, so trulyMy wish for spring divining,Oh April sun, so gailyIn at my window shining,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?

Oh thoughts of Summer daysBorn of the violet’s blue.Oh wooing western wind,That maketh all things new—What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?

Oh mountains brown and sere,Mantled in morning light,Oh golden sunset seaWrecked on the shores of night,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?

Oh longings evermoreFor some ungiven good,Oh yearnings to make clearThe dimly understood,What cheer can ye impartUnto a faded heart?

Cover thy weary eyesWith hands too weak for prayer,Think on the happy past,From other thoughts forbearWhich can no cheer impartUnto a hopeless heart.

The Roses, April 20, 1853.

THOU sea, whose tireless wavesForever seek the shore,Striving to clamber higher,Yet failing evermore;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?Thou sun, whose constant feetMount ever to thy noon,Thou canst not there remain,Night quenches thee so soon;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?Rose, in my garden growing,Unharmed by winter’s snows,Another winter comethEre all thy buds unclose;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?Mortal, with feeble handsStriving some work to do,Fate, with her cruel shears,Doth all thy steps pursue;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?

THOU sea, whose tireless wavesForever seek the shore,Striving to clamber higher,Yet failing evermore;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?

Thou sun, whose constant feetMount ever to thy noon,Thou canst not there remain,Night quenches thee so soon;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?

Rose, in my garden growing,Unharmed by winter’s snows,Another winter comethEre all thy buds unclose;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?

Mortal, with feeble handsStriving some work to do,Fate, with her cruel shears,Doth all thy steps pursue;Why wilt thou still aspireThough losing thy desire?

The Roses, Newburgh,April 21, 1853.

DEAR friend, in whom my soul abides,Who rulest all its wayward tides,Accept the feeble song I sing,And read aright my stammering.

As on my bed at night I lay,My soul, who all the weary dayHad fought with thoughts of death and life,Began again the bitter strife.

This question would she ask, untilMy tired eyes with tears would fill,And overrun and fill again;So that I cried out in my pain—

“When thou art made a heap of earth,And all thy gain is nothing worth,Where shall I go? Shall I too dieAnd fade in utter entity?

“Shall my fine essence be the sportOf idle chance and fade to nought;The morning dew upon the flowerDried by the sunlight in an hour?

“Doth God with careless eyes look downOn peopled slope and crowded town,And, though he mark the sparrow’s death,Think nothingmoreof human breath?

“Or if I shall not die, but live—What other dwelling will he giveIn which to lead another lifeAnd wage anew the ended strife?

“Turn up to heaven thy streaming face,And glance athwart the starry space;What planet, burning in the blue,Shall hold thy life begun anew?”

I looked out on the still midnight,A thousand stars were flashing bright;Unclouded shone the sailing moonAnd filled with pallor all the room.

The earth was hid with silver snow,I heard the river’s steady flow,I saw the moonlight softly fallOn running stream and mountain wall.

I found no peace in gazing here;The earth seemed cold and very drear;River and mountain bathed in light,Were grim and ghastly in my sight.

The mountain wall—a hand divineDrew on the sky its perfect line—Said to my soul, “Of this be sure,Thy race shall die, but I endure.

“And while I take the morning’s kissOn my brows bathed in crimson blissOr listen to the eternal songThe seven great spheres in heaven prolong.

“While on my sides the cedar growsThrough summer’s suns and winter’s snows,Or while I rock my piny crown,Whose high tops draw the lightning down,

“So long as I in might endureI watch man fading, swift and sure;I smile, and whisper to my flowers,Man dieth and the earth is ours—”

A scalding tear rolled down my cheek,Through thickening sobs I strove to speak;“Are those the hills I saw to-nightMantled in pomp of purple light?”

All day the earth on every sideLay robed in vesture of a bride,While lit on snow-wreathed bush and treeThe winter birds sang joyfully.

The river sparkled cold and keenWith burnished tracts of wintry gleam;Above, the sky’s unclouded blueThe smile of God on all things threw.

O’er hill and field elate I walked,With all things fair by turns I talked;I felt the God within me moveAnd nothing seemed too mean for Love.

The flower of day that bloomed so fairClosed on the perfumed evening air;A holy calm o’er Nature stoleAnd bathed in prayer my happy soul.

A golden glory caught the world;—High up the crimson clouds were curled,A purple splendor hid the sunA moment—and the day was done.

I gazed at will; my thankful eyesWere bathed in dews of Paradise;My heart ran out my God to meet,And clasped his knees and kissed his feet.

He led me like a little childWhereso he would; the darkness smiledWhereso we walked; such glory of lightEnshrined him, making very bright

Whatever darkness veiled my mind;I looked on all the grief behindAs on a fevered dream. To-nightThe peace is gone and gone the light

I prayed for sleep, an earnest prayerI thought that God would surely hear;Yet, though my tears fell fast and free,He kept his boon of sleep from me.

Again my soul her quest began—“Must I too fall beneath the ban?And, if I die not in thy death,Where shall I live who am but breath?

“When the frame stiffens into stone,And death and it are left alone,And round about it in the graveThe rat shall gnaw and winds shall rave,

“Shall I within the dwelling stayTo watch above the heap of clay,And while the dreary ages rollLie housed in earth, a prisoned soul?”

If this be Hell, to sit and hearThe hum of life from year to year,Yet have no part nor lot in allThat men do on this earthly ball,

But sit and watch from hour to hourThe slow decay of beauty and power,And when the last faint trace is goneTo sit there still and still watch on,

While other men shall share my doomAnd other souls within the tombShall sit beside me dumb and paleForever in that fearful vale—

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