With that, cold sweat ran down my faceI rose up straightway in my placeI lit my lamp, my Bible tookAnd sat to read the blessed Book.
With that, cold sweat ran down my faceI rose up straightway in my placeI lit my lamp, my Bible tookAnd sat to read the blessed Book.
With that, cold sweat ran down my faceI rose up straightway in my placeI lit my lamp, my Bible tookAnd sat to read the blessed Book.
I turned the pages to and froNot knowing where to read, and soSat very still with tightened breathTill I could catch that one word—“death”
I turned the pages to and froNot knowing where to read, and soSat very still with tightened breathTill I could catch that one word—“death”
I turned the pages to and froNot knowing where to read, and soSat very still with tightened breathTill I could catch that one word—“death”
“Cain”—the page blackened as I readThe awful name of him who ledGod’s curse like lightning down to earth,Blasting and scarring home and hearth.
“Cain”—the page blackened as I readThe awful name of him who ledGod’s curse like lightning down to earth,Blasting and scarring home and hearth.
“Cain”—the page blackened as I readThe awful name of him who ledGod’s curse like lightning down to earth,Blasting and scarring home and hearth.
I turned the page; I read the lineOf those old men, the half divine,Of whom no record is suppliedBut, “thus he lived, and then, he died—”
I turned the page; I read the lineOf those old men, the half divine,Of whom no record is suppliedBut, “thus he lived, and then, he died—”
I turned the page; I read the lineOf those old men, the half divine,Of whom no record is suppliedBut, “thus he lived, and then, he died—”
Not any comfort could I find,A sudden sickness seized my mind,I felt my heart beat slow and weakI tried to pray, I could not speak.
Not any comfort could I find,A sudden sickness seized my mind,I felt my heart beat slow and weakI tried to pray, I could not speak.
Not any comfort could I find,A sudden sickness seized my mind,I felt my heart beat slow and weakI tried to pray, I could not speak.
Oh! bitterness beyond compare.When our last refuge fades to air;Where shall the hopeless soul repose,For who is there thatsurely knows?
Oh! bitterness beyond compare.When our last refuge fades to air;Where shall the hopeless soul repose,For who is there thatsurely knows?
Oh! bitterness beyond compare.When our last refuge fades to air;Where shall the hopeless soul repose,For who is there thatsurely knows?
I read how Saul in wild En-dorQuestioned the witch, and what he saw.How Samuel’s ghost rose pale and grimOut of the grave and answered him.
I read how Saul in wild En-dorQuestioned the witch, and what he saw.How Samuel’s ghost rose pale and grimOut of the grave and answered him.
I read how Saul in wild En-dorQuestioned the witch, and what he saw.How Samuel’s ghost rose pale and grimOut of the grave and answered him.
I read the awful words he said—“Why am I thus disquieted?”“Disquieted”—what dreamless sleepWeighed on his eyelids calm and deep?
I read the awful words he said—“Why am I thus disquieted?”“Disquieted”—what dreamless sleepWeighed on his eyelids calm and deep?
I read the awful words he said—“Why am I thus disquieted?”“Disquieted”—what dreamless sleepWeighed on his eyelids calm and deep?
Thereat I shook from head to foot—I made no cry, my heart was mute;I could not call on God, nor pray,For all my faith had fled away.
Thereat I shook from head to foot—I made no cry, my heart was mute;I could not call on God, nor pray,For all my faith had fled away.
Thereat I shook from head to foot—I made no cry, my heart was mute;I could not call on God, nor pray,For all my faith had fled away.
As when a man, who in a dreamTo slide down some blank wall shall seem,Clutches at air, strikes out in vainHis helpless hands and shrieks with pain,
As when a man, who in a dreamTo slide down some blank wall shall seem,Clutches at air, strikes out in vainHis helpless hands and shrieks with pain,
As when a man, who in a dreamTo slide down some blank wall shall seem,Clutches at air, strikes out in vainHis helpless hands and shrieks with pain,
While all the air with mocking eyesIs full, foul shapes and soundless criesThat laugh to scorn his deadly fearWith laughter that he swoons to hear,
While all the air with mocking eyesIs full, foul shapes and soundless criesThat laugh to scorn his deadly fearWith laughter that he swoons to hear,
While all the air with mocking eyesIs full, foul shapes and soundless criesThat laugh to scorn his deadly fearWith laughter that he swoons to hear,
And swooning wakes: my helpless soulFelt the dim waves above her roll,The firm earth slide beneath her feet,And all her agony complete.
And swooning wakes: my helpless soulFelt the dim waves above her roll,The firm earth slide beneath her feet,And all her agony complete.
And swooning wakes: my helpless soulFelt the dim waves above her roll,The firm earth slide beneath her feet,And all her agony complete.
I read that Christ had conquered DeathBy giving up his holy breath;And calling Lazarus by his nameHad brought him back to life again.
I read that Christ had conquered DeathBy giving up his holy breath;And calling Lazarus by his nameHad brought him back to life again.
I read that Christ had conquered DeathBy giving up his holy breath;And calling Lazarus by his nameHad brought him back to life again.
What these things mean I cannot say;They do not drive my fear away,For where was Lazarus when he heardThe voice of Christ pronounce that word?
What these things mean I cannot say;They do not drive my fear away,For where was Lazarus when he heardThe voice of Christ pronounce that word?
What these things mean I cannot say;They do not drive my fear away,For where was Lazarus when he heardThe voice of Christ pronounce that word?
Was he within the voiceless tombBeside his sometime earthly home,Watching the slowly changing formYield to the touch of mole and worm?
Was he within the voiceless tombBeside his sometime earthly home,Watching the slowly changing formYield to the touch of mole and worm?
Was he within the voiceless tombBeside his sometime earthly home,Watching the slowly changing formYield to the touch of mole and worm?
Or was he in some blessed placeA saint, with glory in his face;And did he drop, a gliding starDown to the earth where mortals are?
Or was he in some blessed placeA saint, with glory in his face;And did he drop, a gliding starDown to the earth where mortals are?
Or was he in some blessed placeA saint, with glory in his face;And did he drop, a gliding starDown to the earth where mortals are?
And clothe himself in dust againTo share the bitter life of men,To live a few dark years belowAnd back again to glory go?
And clothe himself in dust againTo share the bitter life of men,To live a few dark years belowAnd back again to glory go?
And clothe himself in dust againTo share the bitter life of men,To live a few dark years belowAnd back again to glory go?
This thought raised up my fainting heartAnd somewhat eased the deadly smart,My lips began to move in prayer—My soul to breathe a freer air.
This thought raised up my fainting heartAnd somewhat eased the deadly smart,My lips began to move in prayer—My soul to breathe a freer air.
This thought raised up my fainting heartAnd somewhat eased the deadly smart,My lips began to move in prayer—My soul to breathe a freer air.
I prayed for peace, I prayed for trust;I prayed to feel that God is just;I prayed that let what would befallI still might trust Him over all.
I prayed for peace, I prayed for trust;I prayed to feel that God is just;I prayed that let what would befallI still might trust Him over all.
I prayed for peace, I prayed for trust;I prayed to feel that God is just;I prayed that let what would befallI still might trust Him over all.
And whether sunk in deadly gloomThe soul must rest within the tomb;Or sit within God’s awful lightTo which the sun’s blaze is as night?
And whether sunk in deadly gloomThe soul must rest within the tomb;Or sit within God’s awful lightTo which the sun’s blaze is as night?
And whether sunk in deadly gloomThe soul must rest within the tomb;Or sit within God’s awful lightTo which the sun’s blaze is as night?
Or shape its course from life to lifeAnd waxing strong in endless strife,Through everlasting years pursueThe work that God shall give to do?
Or shape its course from life to lifeAnd waxing strong in endless strife,Through everlasting years pursueThe work that God shall give to do?
Or shape its course from life to lifeAnd waxing strong in endless strife,Through everlasting years pursueThe work that God shall give to do?
I might, without a fear, lay downWhen he shall call, my earthly crown,Trusting that he who gave me breathWill keep me in the day of death.
I might, without a fear, lay downWhen he shall call, my earthly crown,Trusting that he who gave me breathWill keep me in the day of death.
I might, without a fear, lay downWhen he shall call, my earthly crown,Trusting that he who gave me breathWill keep me in the day of death.
I looked again upon the earth.The day rejoicèd in its birth;And on the sullen rack afarTrembled the fading morning star!
I looked again upon the earth.The day rejoicèd in its birth;And on the sullen rack afarTrembled the fading morning star!
I looked again upon the earth.The day rejoicèd in its birth;And on the sullen rack afarTrembled the fading morning star!
Written 1849.
TOO late, I drew from scanty springsThe barren cheer that in them lies.Too late, I fettered eager wingsThat longed to bathe in bluer skies.Too late, I squandered golden hoursGod gave me for his praise to spend.Too late, I gathered idle flowersForgetful of my journey’s end.God needs my deed; however smallThe help I lend, to work his will,Not without grief he sees me fall.Or fail his purpose to fulfil.
TOO late, I drew from scanty springsThe barren cheer that in them lies.Too late, I fettered eager wingsThat longed to bathe in bluer skies.Too late, I squandered golden hoursGod gave me for his praise to spend.Too late, I gathered idle flowersForgetful of my journey’s end.God needs my deed; however smallThe help I lend, to work his will,Not without grief he sees me fall.Or fail his purpose to fulfil.
TOO late, I drew from scanty springsThe barren cheer that in them lies.Too late, I fettered eager wingsThat longed to bathe in bluer skies.
Too late, I squandered golden hoursGod gave me for his praise to spend.Too late, I gathered idle flowersForgetful of my journey’s end.
God needs my deed; however smallThe help I lend, to work his will,Not without grief he sees me fall.Or fail his purpose to fulfil.
New York, March 1, 1854.
IPICKED an apple from the ground,A perfect apple, red and round.Its spicy perfume shy and sweet,Stole from the ground beneath my feet,Borne on a wind that lightly flew,Through the deep dome of cloudless blue.A swarm of ants had found the prize,Before it met my wandering eyes,And careless in their busy pleasure,Ran o’er and o’er the fragrant treasure.I blew them off, nor cared to knowWhither the luckless things might go.So He who holdeth in his handThis perfect world on which we stand,Blows us, ah, whither? with His breath,Our friends who miss us call it “Death!”
IPICKED an apple from the ground,A perfect apple, red and round.Its spicy perfume shy and sweet,Stole from the ground beneath my feet,Borne on a wind that lightly flew,Through the deep dome of cloudless blue.A swarm of ants had found the prize,Before it met my wandering eyes,And careless in their busy pleasure,Ran o’er and o’er the fragrant treasure.I blew them off, nor cared to knowWhither the luckless things might go.So He who holdeth in his handThis perfect world on which we stand,Blows us, ah, whither? with His breath,Our friends who miss us call it “Death!”
IPICKED an apple from the ground,A perfect apple, red and round.Its spicy perfume shy and sweet,Stole from the ground beneath my feet,Borne on a wind that lightly flew,Through the deep dome of cloudless blue.A swarm of ants had found the prize,Before it met my wandering eyes,And careless in their busy pleasure,Ran o’er and o’er the fragrant treasure.I blew them off, nor cared to knowWhither the luckless things might go.So He who holdeth in his handThis perfect world on which we stand,Blows us, ah, whither? with His breath,Our friends who miss us call it “Death!”
THIS is the Easter!Day of rejoicing!Day of renewing!See how the roseate,Delicate, virginalFeet of the MorningHaste o’er the mountainsJoyful to meet her!
THIS is the Easter!Day of rejoicing!Day of renewing!See how the roseate,Delicate, virginalFeet of the MorningHaste o’er the mountainsJoyful to meet her!
THIS is the Easter!Day of rejoicing!Day of renewing!See how the roseate,Delicate, virginalFeet of the MorningHaste o’er the mountainsJoyful to meet her!
Welcome the Easter!Day of renewing!Day of rejoicing!The snow has departed,The rain is assuaged,The winter is gone!Lo! on Earth’s bosomThe rainbow of promise,The rainbow of springtime,The rainbow of flowers!
Welcome the Easter!Day of renewing!Day of rejoicing!The snow has departed,The rain is assuaged,The winter is gone!Lo! on Earth’s bosomThe rainbow of promise,The rainbow of springtime,The rainbow of flowers!
Welcome the Easter!Day of renewing!Day of rejoicing!The snow has departed,The rain is assuaged,The winter is gone!Lo! on Earth’s bosomThe rainbow of promise,The rainbow of springtime,The rainbow of flowers!
This is the Easter!Day of uprising!Day of renewing!Heart, take new courage!Look no more downward!See, the sun rising!Hark, the bird singing!See, the grass springing!The brook floweth free!Hand to the plough, man!Cut deep the furrow,Cast thy seed strongly!Think not of sorrow!Of death or of sin!To-day, let thy futureBurst from its cerements,—Roll back the Grave stone!To-day, Life immortal!Oh, mortal! begin!
This is the Easter!Day of uprising!Day of renewing!Heart, take new courage!Look no more downward!See, the sun rising!Hark, the bird singing!See, the grass springing!The brook floweth free!Hand to the plough, man!Cut deep the furrow,Cast thy seed strongly!Think not of sorrow!Of death or of sin!To-day, let thy futureBurst from its cerements,—Roll back the Grave stone!To-day, Life immortal!Oh, mortal! begin!
This is the Easter!Day of uprising!Day of renewing!Heart, take new courage!Look no more downward!See, the sun rising!Hark, the bird singing!See, the grass springing!The brook floweth free!Hand to the plough, man!Cut deep the furrow,Cast thy seed strongly!
Think not of sorrow!Of death or of sin!To-day, let thy futureBurst from its cerements,—Roll back the Grave stone!To-day, Life immortal!Oh, mortal! begin!
New York, April 2, 1877.
WHY Death, what dost thou, here,This time o’ year?Peach-blow, and apple-blossom;Clouds, white as my love’s bosom;Warm wind o’ the WestCradling the robin’s nest;Young meadows, hasting their green laps to fillWith golden dandelion and daffodil;—These are fit sights for spring;But, oh, thou hateful thing,What dost thou here?Why, Death, what dost thou hereThis time o’ year?Fair, at the old oak’s knee,The young anemone;Fair, the plash places setWith dog-tooth violet;The first sloop-sail,The shad-flower pale;Sweet are all sights,Sweet are all sounds of Spring;But thou, thou ugly thing,What dost thou, here?Dark Death let fall a tear.Why am I here?Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never knowI am his friend, nor ever was his foe?Whose the sweet season, then, if it be not mine?Mine, not the bobolink’s, that song divineChasing the shadows o’er the flying wheat!’Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet.Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming roseBut his, whose passionate heart long since lay still?Whose wan hope pales this nun-like lily tall,Beside the garden wall,But hers, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill!All Hope, all MemoryHave their deep springs in me,And Love, that else might fade,By me immortal made,Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies,And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.
WHY Death, what dost thou, here,This time o’ year?Peach-blow, and apple-blossom;Clouds, white as my love’s bosom;Warm wind o’ the WestCradling the robin’s nest;Young meadows, hasting their green laps to fillWith golden dandelion and daffodil;—These are fit sights for spring;But, oh, thou hateful thing,What dost thou here?Why, Death, what dost thou hereThis time o’ year?Fair, at the old oak’s knee,The young anemone;Fair, the plash places setWith dog-tooth violet;The first sloop-sail,The shad-flower pale;Sweet are all sights,Sweet are all sounds of Spring;But thou, thou ugly thing,What dost thou, here?Dark Death let fall a tear.Why am I here?Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never knowI am his friend, nor ever was his foe?Whose the sweet season, then, if it be not mine?Mine, not the bobolink’s, that song divineChasing the shadows o’er the flying wheat!’Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet.Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming roseBut his, whose passionate heart long since lay still?Whose wan hope pales this nun-like lily tall,Beside the garden wall,But hers, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill!All Hope, all MemoryHave their deep springs in me,And Love, that else might fade,By me immortal made,Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies,And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.
WHY Death, what dost thou, here,This time o’ year?Peach-blow, and apple-blossom;Clouds, white as my love’s bosom;Warm wind o’ the WestCradling the robin’s nest;Young meadows, hasting their green laps to fillWith golden dandelion and daffodil;—These are fit sights for spring;But, oh, thou hateful thing,What dost thou here?
Why, Death, what dost thou hereThis time o’ year?Fair, at the old oak’s knee,The young anemone;Fair, the plash places setWith dog-tooth violet;The first sloop-sail,The shad-flower pale;Sweet are all sights,Sweet are all sounds of Spring;But thou, thou ugly thing,What dost thou, here?
Dark Death let fall a tear.Why am I here?Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never knowI am his friend, nor ever was his foe?Whose the sweet season, then, if it be not mine?Mine, not the bobolink’s, that song divineChasing the shadows o’er the flying wheat!’Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet.Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming roseBut his, whose passionate heart long since lay still?Whose wan hope pales this nun-like lily tall,Beside the garden wall,But hers, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill!All Hope, all MemoryHave their deep springs in me,And Love, that else might fade,By me immortal made,Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies,And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.
TAKE this small slip of sombre yewAnd lay it on thy breast;There, underneath thy downcast eyes,Let the sad emblem rest—Thy tears may fall upon it.I pulled it from a little treeThat just begins to grow—Once only has it seen the sunAnd only once the snow—Thy tears may rain upon it.The garden where it grew is sadBefore all other places,Death’s shadow up and down its walksForever darkly paces—Thy tears have fallen in it.These yew trees stand, a pallid ringUpon the sunlit lawn—He planted them the very yearThat we were left to mourn—Our tears fell freely for it.They stood like mourners round a graveWho look within, to seeWhere lie the ashes, while the fireSpires upward, clear and free.
TAKE this small slip of sombre yewAnd lay it on thy breast;There, underneath thy downcast eyes,Let the sad emblem rest—Thy tears may fall upon it.I pulled it from a little treeThat just begins to grow—Once only has it seen the sunAnd only once the snow—Thy tears may rain upon it.The garden where it grew is sadBefore all other places,Death’s shadow up and down its walksForever darkly paces—Thy tears have fallen in it.These yew trees stand, a pallid ringUpon the sunlit lawn—He planted them the very yearThat we were left to mourn—Our tears fell freely for it.They stood like mourners round a graveWho look within, to seeWhere lie the ashes, while the fireSpires upward, clear and free.
TAKE this small slip of sombre yewAnd lay it on thy breast;There, underneath thy downcast eyes,Let the sad emblem rest—Thy tears may fall upon it.
I pulled it from a little treeThat just begins to grow—Once only has it seen the sunAnd only once the snow—Thy tears may rain upon it.
The garden where it grew is sadBefore all other places,Death’s shadow up and down its walksForever darkly paces—Thy tears have fallen in it.
These yew trees stand, a pallid ringUpon the sunlit lawn—He planted them the very yearThat we were left to mourn—Our tears fell freely for it.
They stood like mourners round a graveWho look within, to seeWhere lie the ashes, while the fireSpires upward, clear and free.
SOMEWHERE in silent starry lands,Forlorn with cold or faint with heat,He folds his ever active hands,And rest his never-resting feet.A windless light illumes his skies;A moonless night, a sunless day,Unheeded by his careless eyes,Arise, and fade, and pass away.All day his constant thoughts recallThe blissful past, forever fled;A golden light illumines allThe ghostly memories of the dead.Once more adown his garden walksHe moves serene from flower to flower:His wife beside him gaily talks,He listens gladly hour by hour.But when he turns to kiss the lips,Or when he thinks the form to pressOf her he loves—his hope’s eclipseRenews the former bitterness.In nightly dreams his tireless wingsConvey him far to where she liesFolded in slumber, while he singsLow in her ear his lullabies.He wakes—the happy dream is o’er,The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again,Within his soul forevermoreA long-enduring death of pain.With her the suns arise and set,The singing stars renew their light,Deep in her heart one wild regretMoans for his presence day and night.I well believe God loves thee still,To whatsoever planet borne;Breathing the bright auroral airsThat haunt some glad eternal morn.Walking with fair, unclouded eyesBeside the slow unfailing streams,Lulled in the memories of the Past,An ever gliding dance of dreams.The ills that fret our feeble hearts,The toils in which thy life had share,The slender joys that make us gladIn quiet moments snatched from care.These memories of a vanished life,Pass dim before thine altered mind,As visions of the earth and skyCome to a man whose eyes are blind.To whom the sun in cloudless lightForever shines; forever growThe flowers; the woods in beauty waveUnchanged; the constant planets glow.All night above thy peaceful head,The sky is bright with burning stars;To thee the opening morning bringsNo news of peace, nor sound of wars;Sole tenant of thy starry home;Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe;Down the slow tide of lapsing timeThy tranquil days in silence go.Waiting with calm, expectant eyesThe hour that makes her wholly thineSecure from all the blows of FateAnd all the mischiefs wrought by Time.
SOMEWHERE in silent starry lands,Forlorn with cold or faint with heat,He folds his ever active hands,And rest his never-resting feet.A windless light illumes his skies;A moonless night, a sunless day,Unheeded by his careless eyes,Arise, and fade, and pass away.All day his constant thoughts recallThe blissful past, forever fled;A golden light illumines allThe ghostly memories of the dead.Once more adown his garden walksHe moves serene from flower to flower:His wife beside him gaily talks,He listens gladly hour by hour.But when he turns to kiss the lips,Or when he thinks the form to pressOf her he loves—his hope’s eclipseRenews the former bitterness.In nightly dreams his tireless wingsConvey him far to where she liesFolded in slumber, while he singsLow in her ear his lullabies.He wakes—the happy dream is o’er,The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again,Within his soul forevermoreA long-enduring death of pain.With her the suns arise and set,The singing stars renew their light,Deep in her heart one wild regretMoans for his presence day and night.I well believe God loves thee still,To whatsoever planet borne;Breathing the bright auroral airsThat haunt some glad eternal morn.Walking with fair, unclouded eyesBeside the slow unfailing streams,Lulled in the memories of the Past,An ever gliding dance of dreams.The ills that fret our feeble hearts,The toils in which thy life had share,The slender joys that make us gladIn quiet moments snatched from care.These memories of a vanished life,Pass dim before thine altered mind,As visions of the earth and skyCome to a man whose eyes are blind.To whom the sun in cloudless lightForever shines; forever growThe flowers; the woods in beauty waveUnchanged; the constant planets glow.All night above thy peaceful head,The sky is bright with burning stars;To thee the opening morning bringsNo news of peace, nor sound of wars;Sole tenant of thy starry home;Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe;Down the slow tide of lapsing timeThy tranquil days in silence go.Waiting with calm, expectant eyesThe hour that makes her wholly thineSecure from all the blows of FateAnd all the mischiefs wrought by Time.
SOMEWHERE in silent starry lands,Forlorn with cold or faint with heat,He folds his ever active hands,And rest his never-resting feet.
A windless light illumes his skies;A moonless night, a sunless day,Unheeded by his careless eyes,Arise, and fade, and pass away.
All day his constant thoughts recallThe blissful past, forever fled;A golden light illumines allThe ghostly memories of the dead.
Once more adown his garden walksHe moves serene from flower to flower:His wife beside him gaily talks,He listens gladly hour by hour.
But when he turns to kiss the lips,Or when he thinks the form to pressOf her he loves—his hope’s eclipseRenews the former bitterness.
In nightly dreams his tireless wingsConvey him far to where she liesFolded in slumber, while he singsLow in her ear his lullabies.
He wakes—the happy dream is o’er,The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again,Within his soul forevermoreA long-enduring death of pain.
With her the suns arise and set,The singing stars renew their light,Deep in her heart one wild regretMoans for his presence day and night.
I well believe God loves thee still,To whatsoever planet borne;Breathing the bright auroral airsThat haunt some glad eternal morn.
Walking with fair, unclouded eyesBeside the slow unfailing streams,Lulled in the memories of the Past,An ever gliding dance of dreams.
The ills that fret our feeble hearts,The toils in which thy life had share,The slender joys that make us gladIn quiet moments snatched from care.
These memories of a vanished life,Pass dim before thine altered mind,As visions of the earth and skyCome to a man whose eyes are blind.
To whom the sun in cloudless lightForever shines; forever growThe flowers; the woods in beauty waveUnchanged; the constant planets glow.
All night above thy peaceful head,The sky is bright with burning stars;To thee the opening morning bringsNo news of peace, nor sound of wars;Sole tenant of thy starry home;Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe;Down the slow tide of lapsing timeThy tranquil days in silence go.
Waiting with calm, expectant eyesThe hour that makes her wholly thineSecure from all the blows of FateAnd all the mischiefs wrought by Time.
Mrs. Downing’s, April, 1853.
HERE is the stile on which I leaned;—This golden willow bending over;—Yonder’s the same blue sky that gleamedThe day that I murmured, “I am thy lover.”This is the stone on which she sat;See here the bright moss freshly springing,And look! overhead the same bluebirdsBack and forth from the old nest winging.Here is the briar whose flowers she pulledLeaf by leaf as she heard my pleading.Swayed by the same idle April windThat laughed as it flew, Love’s pang unheeding.Sky, trees, flowers—the same; butI?—Am I the same boy whose wild heart burningLeapt to one heart in the sweet wild world!Stilled on one bosom its passionate yearning?Silk-soft hair and hazel eyes,Limbs that lightly moved or stoodAnd a heart that beat with a loyal loveFor all things beautiful, true and good.Follies that flecked this fairest fruit,Sins that spotted this whitest page,Changed without, but the same within,Life’s rose untouched by the frost of age.Thou, too, beloved, art still the same,Deep heart, passionate, tender and true,The same clear spirit and glancing witPiercing the armor of folly through.Sad, olivaster, Spanish face,Sweet low brow under shadowy hair,Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire,Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer.Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty,Leave her spirit undimmed and free.Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers,But the rose’s perfume stays with me.
HERE is the stile on which I leaned;—This golden willow bending over;—Yonder’s the same blue sky that gleamedThe day that I murmured, “I am thy lover.”This is the stone on which she sat;See here the bright moss freshly springing,And look! overhead the same bluebirdsBack and forth from the old nest winging.Here is the briar whose flowers she pulledLeaf by leaf as she heard my pleading.Swayed by the same idle April windThat laughed as it flew, Love’s pang unheeding.Sky, trees, flowers—the same; butI?—Am I the same boy whose wild heart burningLeapt to one heart in the sweet wild world!Stilled on one bosom its passionate yearning?Silk-soft hair and hazel eyes,Limbs that lightly moved or stoodAnd a heart that beat with a loyal loveFor all things beautiful, true and good.Follies that flecked this fairest fruit,Sins that spotted this whitest page,Changed without, but the same within,Life’s rose untouched by the frost of age.Thou, too, beloved, art still the same,Deep heart, passionate, tender and true,The same clear spirit and glancing witPiercing the armor of folly through.Sad, olivaster, Spanish face,Sweet low brow under shadowy hair,Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire,Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer.Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty,Leave her spirit undimmed and free.Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers,But the rose’s perfume stays with me.
HERE is the stile on which I leaned;—This golden willow bending over;—Yonder’s the same blue sky that gleamedThe day that I murmured, “I am thy lover.”
This is the stone on which she sat;See here the bright moss freshly springing,And look! overhead the same bluebirdsBack and forth from the old nest winging.
Here is the briar whose flowers she pulledLeaf by leaf as she heard my pleading.Swayed by the same idle April windThat laughed as it flew, Love’s pang unheeding.
Sky, trees, flowers—the same; butI?—Am I the same boy whose wild heart burningLeapt to one heart in the sweet wild world!Stilled on one bosom its passionate yearning?
Silk-soft hair and hazel eyes,Limbs that lightly moved or stoodAnd a heart that beat with a loyal loveFor all things beautiful, true and good.
Follies that flecked this fairest fruit,Sins that spotted this whitest page,Changed without, but the same within,Life’s rose untouched by the frost of age.
Thou, too, beloved, art still the same,Deep heart, passionate, tender and true,The same clear spirit and glancing witPiercing the armor of folly through.
Sad, olivaster, Spanish face,Sweet low brow under shadowy hair,Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire,Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer.
Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty,Leave her spirit undimmed and free.Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers,But the rose’s perfume stays with me.
FAINT smell of boxIn the evening air,Faint bleat of flocksFrom fields afar;On the gray rocks,The lap and lapseOf the wan water.The sunset fieldsStretch fair and far.Mid the winrowed cloudsThe sickle moonHas clipt a star!Pale golden bloom!First flower of the night!It trembles downTo the sunset streak,Light lost in light!In the pleached bower,In the garden old,Hand closed in hand,We sit together.We do not speak.A wind from the pineWith fingers fine,Lays her warm hairAgainst my cheek.Sweet silent hour!As flower to flowerHeart speaks to heartAs star to star!Oh, hawthorn bowerOh, garden oldHow dear, how sadYour memories are!
FAINT smell of boxIn the evening air,Faint bleat of flocksFrom fields afar;On the gray rocks,The lap and lapseOf the wan water.The sunset fieldsStretch fair and far.Mid the winrowed cloudsThe sickle moonHas clipt a star!Pale golden bloom!First flower of the night!It trembles downTo the sunset streak,Light lost in light!In the pleached bower,In the garden old,Hand closed in hand,We sit together.We do not speak.A wind from the pineWith fingers fine,Lays her warm hairAgainst my cheek.Sweet silent hour!As flower to flowerHeart speaks to heartAs star to star!Oh, hawthorn bowerOh, garden oldHow dear, how sadYour memories are!
FAINT smell of boxIn the evening air,Faint bleat of flocksFrom fields afar;On the gray rocks,The lap and lapseOf the wan water.
The sunset fieldsStretch fair and far.Mid the winrowed cloudsThe sickle moonHas clipt a star!Pale golden bloom!First flower of the night!It trembles downTo the sunset streak,Light lost in light!
In the pleached bower,In the garden old,Hand closed in hand,We sit together.We do not speak.A wind from the pineWith fingers fine,Lays her warm hairAgainst my cheek.
Sweet silent hour!As flower to flowerHeart speaks to heartAs star to star!Oh, hawthorn bowerOh, garden oldHow dear, how sadYour memories are!
BRING me my lute, the sunlight fades;The evening breezes, soft and low,From the far South begin to blow.Here will I watch the dying day:Here will I watch the pallid skiesFlush with a myriad changing dyes.What joy to see the fairy moonCradled in folds of rosy light,The baby sovereign of the night.What joy to hear, from far away,The rolling mill-stream roaring goBetween his banks of ice and snow;Or from the distant mountain’s side,To hear the murmuring wind, that bringsPromise of Spring between its wings.Here at my window will I sit;Here, will I let the peaceful hourTry on my heart her aëry power.This happy season sings of Thee,Where’er I turn my careless eyesThine image will before them rise;Not as thou art in human form;I cannot shape thy phantom so,The fleeting shadows come and go.Thy face is fair with roseate bloom—I lift my eyes and lo! the sunReddens the cloud he looks upon—Thine eyes with deepening azure smile—Beyond the hills a line of blueRecalls the sunlit morning’s dew.On either side thy thoughtful browThy golden hair is floating free—Yon golden cloud is fair to see—As floating from the purple West,Its glory slowly gathers dunAnd fadeth with the fading sun.Ah! was it all an idle dream?A fleeting sunset fed my thought,And all this cloudy vision wrought?Or does the maiden somewhere bloomWhom Nature cannot paint arightHer beauty is so passing bright?
BRING me my lute, the sunlight fades;The evening breezes, soft and low,From the far South begin to blow.Here will I watch the dying day:Here will I watch the pallid skiesFlush with a myriad changing dyes.What joy to see the fairy moonCradled in folds of rosy light,The baby sovereign of the night.What joy to hear, from far away,The rolling mill-stream roaring goBetween his banks of ice and snow;Or from the distant mountain’s side,To hear the murmuring wind, that bringsPromise of Spring between its wings.Here at my window will I sit;Here, will I let the peaceful hourTry on my heart her aëry power.This happy season sings of Thee,Where’er I turn my careless eyesThine image will before them rise;Not as thou art in human form;I cannot shape thy phantom so,The fleeting shadows come and go.Thy face is fair with roseate bloom—I lift my eyes and lo! the sunReddens the cloud he looks upon—Thine eyes with deepening azure smile—Beyond the hills a line of blueRecalls the sunlit morning’s dew.On either side thy thoughtful browThy golden hair is floating free—Yon golden cloud is fair to see—As floating from the purple West,Its glory slowly gathers dunAnd fadeth with the fading sun.Ah! was it all an idle dream?A fleeting sunset fed my thought,And all this cloudy vision wrought?Or does the maiden somewhere bloomWhom Nature cannot paint arightHer beauty is so passing bright?
BRING me my lute, the sunlight fades;The evening breezes, soft and low,From the far South begin to blow.
Here will I watch the dying day:Here will I watch the pallid skiesFlush with a myriad changing dyes.
What joy to see the fairy moonCradled in folds of rosy light,The baby sovereign of the night.
What joy to hear, from far away,The rolling mill-stream roaring goBetween his banks of ice and snow;
Or from the distant mountain’s side,To hear the murmuring wind, that bringsPromise of Spring between its wings.
Here at my window will I sit;Here, will I let the peaceful hourTry on my heart her aëry power.
This happy season sings of Thee,Where’er I turn my careless eyesThine image will before them rise;
Not as thou art in human form;I cannot shape thy phantom so,The fleeting shadows come and go.
Thy face is fair with roseate bloom—I lift my eyes and lo! the sunReddens the cloud he looks upon—
Thine eyes with deepening azure smile—Beyond the hills a line of blueRecalls the sunlit morning’s dew.
On either side thy thoughtful browThy golden hair is floating free—Yon golden cloud is fair to see—
As floating from the purple West,Its glory slowly gathers dunAnd fadeth with the fading sun.
Ah! was it all an idle dream?A fleeting sunset fed my thought,And all this cloudy vision wrought?
Or does the maiden somewhere bloomWhom Nature cannot paint arightHer beauty is so passing bright?
HOW dreary are the crowded streetsWith not a soul abroad!How sunless is the sunny sky!No fire on hearth, no mirth at board!How long the nights, how slow the day!My love’s away! My love’s away!How gay the crowded city streets!How cheerily shines the sun!Dances the fire, and round the boardFrom lip to lip the greetings run!No longer in the dumps I roam—My love’s come home! My love’s come home!
HOW dreary are the crowded streetsWith not a soul abroad!How sunless is the sunny sky!No fire on hearth, no mirth at board!How long the nights, how slow the day!My love’s away! My love’s away!How gay the crowded city streets!How cheerily shines the sun!Dances the fire, and round the boardFrom lip to lip the greetings run!No longer in the dumps I roam—My love’s come home! My love’s come home!
HOW dreary are the crowded streetsWith not a soul abroad!How sunless is the sunny sky!No fire on hearth, no mirth at board!How long the nights, how slow the day!My love’s away! My love’s away!
How gay the crowded city streets!How cheerily shines the sun!Dances the fire, and round the boardFrom lip to lip the greetings run!No longer in the dumps I roam—My love’s come home! My love’s come home!
OH ye maids, with deep and rosy bosoms!Oh ye maids, with darkly flowing locks!Wherefore is it that with songs ye woo meSitting in the shadows of the rocks?Well hath she, the enchantress Circe told me,All the evil that shall on me fall;If I follow where your white feet lead meOr give answer when your voices call.Oh my comrades, bind me to the mainmast,Stop my ears with wax and bind my hands,Close my eyes that so no sight nor murmurOf the singer or the song steal to me from the sands.In the west the blood-red sun is sinking.And the angry billows redly glow,With the dying breeze the song is dying.Ply the oars, my comrades, let us go!
OH ye maids, with deep and rosy bosoms!Oh ye maids, with darkly flowing locks!Wherefore is it that with songs ye woo meSitting in the shadows of the rocks?Well hath she, the enchantress Circe told me,All the evil that shall on me fall;If I follow where your white feet lead meOr give answer when your voices call.Oh my comrades, bind me to the mainmast,Stop my ears with wax and bind my hands,Close my eyes that so no sight nor murmurOf the singer or the song steal to me from the sands.In the west the blood-red sun is sinking.And the angry billows redly glow,With the dying breeze the song is dying.Ply the oars, my comrades, let us go!
OH ye maids, with deep and rosy bosoms!Oh ye maids, with darkly flowing locks!Wherefore is it that with songs ye woo meSitting in the shadows of the rocks?
Well hath she, the enchantress Circe told me,All the evil that shall on me fall;If I follow where your white feet lead meOr give answer when your voices call.
Oh my comrades, bind me to the mainmast,Stop my ears with wax and bind my hands,Close my eyes that so no sight nor murmurOf the singer or the song steal to me from the sands.
In the west the blood-red sun is sinking.And the angry billows redly glow,With the dying breeze the song is dying.Ply the oars, my comrades, let us go!
Tarrytown, 1844.
ALOW, sad brow with folded hair;From whose deep night one pallid roseWhite moonlight through the darkness throws.A head, whose lordly, only crownOf Pride, Olympian Juno mightHave worn for the great God’s delight.Deep eyes immixed of Night and Fire,In whose large motion you might seeHer royal soul lived royally.Unstained by any earthly soil,And only caring to walk straightThe road ordained to her by Fate.Her jewelled hands across the keysFlashed through the twilight of the room,A double light of gem and tune.Still while she played you saw that handGlide ghostly white, and fearless waveDead faces up from Memory’s grave.The firelight flickered on the wall;Sweet tears came to the heart’s relief;She sat and sang us into grief.Yet now, she played some liquid song,A happy lover would have sung,If once he could have found a tongue—And now the sparkling octaves ranThrough the quick dance, where tangled braidNow caught the sunlight, now the shade.And now the boatman’s evening song,As, rowing homeward down the stream,He sees his maiden’s garments gleamBeside the trees, the trysting-place;While the sad singer whippoorwill,Cries from the willow by the mill.Yet, howsoe’er her music ran,A sigh was in it, and a senseOf some dead voice that called us hence;A voice that even now I hear,Although the hand that touched those keysRests on her heart, that sleeps in peace.
ALOW, sad brow with folded hair;From whose deep night one pallid roseWhite moonlight through the darkness throws.A head, whose lordly, only crownOf Pride, Olympian Juno mightHave worn for the great God’s delight.Deep eyes immixed of Night and Fire,In whose large motion you might seeHer royal soul lived royally.Unstained by any earthly soil,And only caring to walk straightThe road ordained to her by Fate.Her jewelled hands across the keysFlashed through the twilight of the room,A double light of gem and tune.Still while she played you saw that handGlide ghostly white, and fearless waveDead faces up from Memory’s grave.The firelight flickered on the wall;Sweet tears came to the heart’s relief;She sat and sang us into grief.Yet now, she played some liquid song,A happy lover would have sung,If once he could have found a tongue—And now the sparkling octaves ranThrough the quick dance, where tangled braidNow caught the sunlight, now the shade.And now the boatman’s evening song,As, rowing homeward down the stream,He sees his maiden’s garments gleamBeside the trees, the trysting-place;While the sad singer whippoorwill,Cries from the willow by the mill.Yet, howsoe’er her music ran,A sigh was in it, and a senseOf some dead voice that called us hence;A voice that even now I hear,Although the hand that touched those keysRests on her heart, that sleeps in peace.
ALOW, sad brow with folded hair;From whose deep night one pallid roseWhite moonlight through the darkness throws.
A head, whose lordly, only crownOf Pride, Olympian Juno mightHave worn for the great God’s delight.
Deep eyes immixed of Night and Fire,In whose large motion you might seeHer royal soul lived royally.
Unstained by any earthly soil,And only caring to walk straightThe road ordained to her by Fate.
Her jewelled hands across the keysFlashed through the twilight of the room,A double light of gem and tune.
Still while she played you saw that handGlide ghostly white, and fearless waveDead faces up from Memory’s grave.
The firelight flickered on the wall;Sweet tears came to the heart’s relief;She sat and sang us into grief.
Yet now, she played some liquid song,A happy lover would have sung,If once he could have found a tongue—
And now the sparkling octaves ranThrough the quick dance, where tangled braidNow caught the sunlight, now the shade.
And now the boatman’s evening song,As, rowing homeward down the stream,He sees his maiden’s garments gleam
Beside the trees, the trysting-place;While the sad singer whippoorwill,Cries from the willow by the mill.
Yet, howsoe’er her music ran,A sigh was in it, and a senseOf some dead voice that called us hence;
A voice that even now I hear,Although the hand that touched those keysRests on her heart, that sleeps in peace.
Newburgh, January 16, 1854.
IKNOW not wherein lay the charmShe had in those remembered days.The Olympian gait, the welcoming hand,The frank soul looking from her face,The manly manners all her own—Nor yet coquette, nor cold, nor free:She puzzled, being each in turn;Or dazzled, mingling all the three.Out of those gowns, so quaintly rich—They grew, unshaped by Milan’s shears!—Rose, like a tower, the ivory throatRinged with the rings the Clytie wears.But, when you sought the Roman faceThat on such columns grew—and grows!You found this wonder in its stead—The sea-shell’s curves, the sea-shell’s rose!Her eyes, the succory’s way-side blue;Her lips, the wilding way-side rose:But, Beauty dreamed a prouder dream,Throned on her forehead’s moonlit snows.And, over all, the wreathéd hairThat caught the sunset’s streaming gold,Where, now, a crocus bud was set,Or violet, hid in the braided fold!But, she, so deep her conscious pride,So sure her knowledge she was fair—What gowns she wore, or silk, or serge,She seemed to neither know, nor care.She smiled on cat, or frowned on friend,Or gave her horse the hand denied.To-day, bewitched you with her wit,To-morrow, snubbed you from her side.Loyal to truth, yet wed to whim,She held in fee her constant mind.Whatever tempests drove her bark,You felt her soul’s deep anchor bind.In that dark day when, fever-driven,Her wits went wandering up and down,And seeming-cruel, friendly shearsClosed on her girl-head’s glorious crown,Another woman might have weptTo see such gold so idly spilled.She only smiled, as curl and coilFell, till the shearer’s lap was filled;Then softly said: “Hair-sunsets fadeAs when night clips day’s locks of gold!Dear Death, thy priestly hands I bless,And, nun-like, seek thy convent-fold!”Then slept, nor woke. O miser Death,What gold thou hidest in thy dust!What ripest beauty there decays,What sharpest wits there go to rust!Hide not this jewel with the rest—Base gems whose color fled thy breath—But, worn on thine imperial hand,Make all the world in love with Death!
IKNOW not wherein lay the charmShe had in those remembered days.The Olympian gait, the welcoming hand,The frank soul looking from her face,The manly manners all her own—Nor yet coquette, nor cold, nor free:She puzzled, being each in turn;Or dazzled, mingling all the three.Out of those gowns, so quaintly rich—They grew, unshaped by Milan’s shears!—Rose, like a tower, the ivory throatRinged with the rings the Clytie wears.But, when you sought the Roman faceThat on such columns grew—and grows!You found this wonder in its stead—The sea-shell’s curves, the sea-shell’s rose!Her eyes, the succory’s way-side blue;Her lips, the wilding way-side rose:But, Beauty dreamed a prouder dream,Throned on her forehead’s moonlit snows.And, over all, the wreathéd hairThat caught the sunset’s streaming gold,Where, now, a crocus bud was set,Or violet, hid in the braided fold!But, she, so deep her conscious pride,So sure her knowledge she was fair—What gowns she wore, or silk, or serge,She seemed to neither know, nor care.She smiled on cat, or frowned on friend,Or gave her horse the hand denied.To-day, bewitched you with her wit,To-morrow, snubbed you from her side.Loyal to truth, yet wed to whim,She held in fee her constant mind.Whatever tempests drove her bark,You felt her soul’s deep anchor bind.In that dark day when, fever-driven,Her wits went wandering up and down,And seeming-cruel, friendly shearsClosed on her girl-head’s glorious crown,Another woman might have weptTo see such gold so idly spilled.She only smiled, as curl and coilFell, till the shearer’s lap was filled;Then softly said: “Hair-sunsets fadeAs when night clips day’s locks of gold!Dear Death, thy priestly hands I bless,And, nun-like, seek thy convent-fold!”Then slept, nor woke. O miser Death,What gold thou hidest in thy dust!What ripest beauty there decays,What sharpest wits there go to rust!Hide not this jewel with the rest—Base gems whose color fled thy breath—But, worn on thine imperial hand,Make all the world in love with Death!
IKNOW not wherein lay the charmShe had in those remembered days.The Olympian gait, the welcoming hand,The frank soul looking from her face,
The manly manners all her own—Nor yet coquette, nor cold, nor free:She puzzled, being each in turn;Or dazzled, mingling all the three.
Out of those gowns, so quaintly rich—They grew, unshaped by Milan’s shears!—Rose, like a tower, the ivory throatRinged with the rings the Clytie wears.
But, when you sought the Roman faceThat on such columns grew—and grows!You found this wonder in its stead—The sea-shell’s curves, the sea-shell’s rose!
Her eyes, the succory’s way-side blue;Her lips, the wilding way-side rose:But, Beauty dreamed a prouder dream,Throned on her forehead’s moonlit snows.
And, over all, the wreathéd hairThat caught the sunset’s streaming gold,Where, now, a crocus bud was set,Or violet, hid in the braided fold!
But, she, so deep her conscious pride,So sure her knowledge she was fair—What gowns she wore, or silk, or serge,She seemed to neither know, nor care.
She smiled on cat, or frowned on friend,Or gave her horse the hand denied.To-day, bewitched you with her wit,To-morrow, snubbed you from her side.
Loyal to truth, yet wed to whim,She held in fee her constant mind.Whatever tempests drove her bark,You felt her soul’s deep anchor bind.
In that dark day when, fever-driven,Her wits went wandering up and down,And seeming-cruel, friendly shearsClosed on her girl-head’s glorious crown,
Another woman might have weptTo see such gold so idly spilled.She only smiled, as curl and coilFell, till the shearer’s lap was filled;
Then softly said: “Hair-sunsets fadeAs when night clips day’s locks of gold!Dear Death, thy priestly hands I bless,And, nun-like, seek thy convent-fold!”
Then slept, nor woke. O miser Death,What gold thou hidest in thy dust!What ripest beauty there decays,What sharpest wits there go to rust!
Hide not this jewel with the rest—Base gems whose color fled thy breath—But, worn on thine imperial hand,Make all the world in love with Death!
OFT had I heard thy beauty praised, dear flower,And often searched for thee through field and wood,Yet could I never find the secret bowerWhere thou dost lead in maiden solitudeA cloistered life; but on one happy dayWandering in idle thought, with a dear friend,Through dying woods, listening the robin’s lay,I saw thy fairy flowers whose azure gemmedThe fading grass beneath a cedar’s boughs.Oh never yet so glad a sight has metThese eyes of mine! Depart, before the snowsOf hastening winter thy fringed garments wet.Thine azure flowers should never fade nor die,But bloom, exhale, and gain their native sky.
OFT had I heard thy beauty praised, dear flower,And often searched for thee through field and wood,Yet could I never find the secret bowerWhere thou dost lead in maiden solitudeA cloistered life; but on one happy dayWandering in idle thought, with a dear friend,Through dying woods, listening the robin’s lay,I saw thy fairy flowers whose azure gemmedThe fading grass beneath a cedar’s boughs.Oh never yet so glad a sight has metThese eyes of mine! Depart, before the snowsOf hastening winter thy fringed garments wet.Thine azure flowers should never fade nor die,But bloom, exhale, and gain their native sky.
OFT had I heard thy beauty praised, dear flower,And often searched for thee through field and wood,Yet could I never find the secret bowerWhere thou dost lead in maiden solitudeA cloistered life; but on one happy dayWandering in idle thought, with a dear friend,Through dying woods, listening the robin’s lay,I saw thy fairy flowers whose azure gemmedThe fading grass beneath a cedar’s boughs.Oh never yet so glad a sight has metThese eyes of mine! Depart, before the snowsOf hastening winter thy fringed garments wet.Thine azure flowers should never fade nor die,But bloom, exhale, and gain their native sky.
November, 1849.
SING me the song again, and yet againWaken the music as it dies away;Make twilight sadder with it, nor refrainWhile yet these sighing winds bemoan the day.Still let that wavering voiceMake my young heart rejoice,Even tho’ one truant tear adown my cheek may stray.Cease not thy singing, dearest, for mine eyesFeed on thy beauty, and I hear the songAs one who, looking on the sunset skies,Hears over flowery meads the south winds blow,And down the purple hills the flashing waters flow.An idle song; I cannot tell the meaning,Yet, sing I o’er and o’er, for in its wingsIt bringeth heavenly things:Dear memories of melodious hours,When all earth’s weeds were flowers;Dear memories of the loved ones far awayWhom yet we hope to greet some happy day;Dear memories of the travellers from Life’s shore,Whom we shall greet again, ah! nevermore.Cease, lady! Sing some song that brings againThe golden past, meet for this sunset hour;Some breath of melody not fraught with pain,Some gayly-tinted flower!Let thy fair hand float o’er the willing keys,And all my sorrows ease.
SING me the song again, and yet againWaken the music as it dies away;Make twilight sadder with it, nor refrainWhile yet these sighing winds bemoan the day.Still let that wavering voiceMake my young heart rejoice,Even tho’ one truant tear adown my cheek may stray.Cease not thy singing, dearest, for mine eyesFeed on thy beauty, and I hear the songAs one who, looking on the sunset skies,Hears over flowery meads the south winds blow,And down the purple hills the flashing waters flow.An idle song; I cannot tell the meaning,Yet, sing I o’er and o’er, for in its wingsIt bringeth heavenly things:Dear memories of melodious hours,When all earth’s weeds were flowers;Dear memories of the loved ones far awayWhom yet we hope to greet some happy day;Dear memories of the travellers from Life’s shore,Whom we shall greet again, ah! nevermore.Cease, lady! Sing some song that brings againThe golden past, meet for this sunset hour;Some breath of melody not fraught with pain,Some gayly-tinted flower!Let thy fair hand float o’er the willing keys,And all my sorrows ease.
SING me the song again, and yet againWaken the music as it dies away;Make twilight sadder with it, nor refrainWhile yet these sighing winds bemoan the day.Still let that wavering voiceMake my young heart rejoice,Even tho’ one truant tear adown my cheek may stray.
Cease not thy singing, dearest, for mine eyesFeed on thy beauty, and I hear the songAs one who, looking on the sunset skies,Hears over flowery meads the south winds blow,And down the purple hills the flashing waters flow.
An idle song; I cannot tell the meaning,Yet, sing I o’er and o’er, for in its wingsIt bringeth heavenly things:Dear memories of melodious hours,When all earth’s weeds were flowers;Dear memories of the loved ones far awayWhom yet we hope to greet some happy day;Dear memories of the travellers from Life’s shore,Whom we shall greet again, ah! nevermore.
Cease, lady! Sing some song that brings againThe golden past, meet for this sunset hour;Some breath of melody not fraught with pain,Some gayly-tinted flower!Let thy fair hand float o’er the willing keys,And all my sorrows ease.
Home Journal, 1852.