Letsuch pure hate still underpropOur love, that we may beEach other’s conscience,And have our sympathyMainly from thence.We’ll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we haveIn virtue and in truth, bestowOn either, and suspicion leaveTo gods below.Two solitary stars—Unmeasured systems farBetween us roll;But by our conscious light we areDetermined to one pole.What need confound the sphere?—Love can afford to wait;For it no hour’s too lateThat witnesseth one duty’s end,Or to another doth beginning lend.It will subserve no use,More than the tints of flowers;Only the independent guestFrequents its bowers,Inherits its bequest.No speech, though kind, has it;But kinder silence dolesUnto its mates;By night consoles,By day congratulates.What saith the tongue to tongue?What heareth ear of ear?By the decrees of fateFrom year to year,Does it communicate.Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns;No trivial bridge of words,Or arch of boldest span,Can leap the moat that girdsThe sincere man.No show of bolts and barsCan keep the foeman out,Or ’scape his secret mine,Who entered with the doubtThat drew the line.No warder at the gateCan let the friendly in;But, like the sun, o’er allHe will the castle win,And shine along the wall.There’s nothing in the world I knowThat can escape from love,For every depth it goes below,And every height above.It waits, as waits the skyUntil the clouds go by,Yet shines serenely onWith an eternal day,Alike when they are gone,And when they stay.Implacable is Love,—Foes may be bought or teasedFrom their hostile intent,But he goes unappeasedWho is on kindness bent.
Letsuch pure hate still underpropOur love, that we may beEach other’s conscience,And have our sympathyMainly from thence.We’ll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we haveIn virtue and in truth, bestowOn either, and suspicion leaveTo gods below.Two solitary stars—Unmeasured systems farBetween us roll;But by our conscious light we areDetermined to one pole.What need confound the sphere?—Love can afford to wait;For it no hour’s too lateThat witnesseth one duty’s end,Or to another doth beginning lend.It will subserve no use,More than the tints of flowers;Only the independent guestFrequents its bowers,Inherits its bequest.No speech, though kind, has it;But kinder silence dolesUnto its mates;By night consoles,By day congratulates.What saith the tongue to tongue?What heareth ear of ear?By the decrees of fateFrom year to year,Does it communicate.Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns;No trivial bridge of words,Or arch of boldest span,Can leap the moat that girdsThe sincere man.No show of bolts and barsCan keep the foeman out,Or ’scape his secret mine,Who entered with the doubtThat drew the line.No warder at the gateCan let the friendly in;But, like the sun, o’er allHe will the castle win,And shine along the wall.There’s nothing in the world I knowThat can escape from love,For every depth it goes below,And every height above.It waits, as waits the skyUntil the clouds go by,Yet shines serenely onWith an eternal day,Alike when they are gone,And when they stay.Implacable is Love,—Foes may be bought or teasedFrom their hostile intent,But he goes unappeasedWho is on kindness bent.
Letsuch pure hate still underpropOur love, that we may beEach other’s conscience,And have our sympathyMainly from thence.
We’ll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we haveIn virtue and in truth, bestowOn either, and suspicion leaveTo gods below.
Two solitary stars—Unmeasured systems farBetween us roll;But by our conscious light we areDetermined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?—Love can afford to wait;For it no hour’s too lateThat witnesseth one duty’s end,Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use,More than the tints of flowers;Only the independent guestFrequents its bowers,Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it;But kinder silence dolesUnto its mates;By night consoles,By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue?What heareth ear of ear?By the decrees of fateFrom year to year,Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns;No trivial bridge of words,Or arch of boldest span,Can leap the moat that girdsThe sincere man.
No show of bolts and barsCan keep the foeman out,Or ’scape his secret mine,Who entered with the doubtThat drew the line.
No warder at the gateCan let the friendly in;But, like the sun, o’er allHe will the castle win,And shine along the wall.
There’s nothing in the world I knowThat can escape from love,For every depth it goes below,And every height above.
It waits, as waits the skyUntil the clouds go by,Yet shines serenely onWith an eternal day,Alike when they are gone,And when they stay.
Implacable is Love,—Foes may be bought or teasedFrom their hostile intent,But he goes unappeasedWho is on kindness bent.
Truekindness is a pure divine affinity,Not founded upon human consanguinity.It is a spirit, not a blood relation,Superior to family and station.
Truekindness is a pure divine affinity,Not founded upon human consanguinity.It is a spirit, not a blood relation,Superior to family and station.
Truekindness is a pure divine affinity,Not founded upon human consanguinity.It is a spirit, not a blood relation,Superior to family and station.
Lowin the eastern skyIs set thy glancing eye;And though its gracious lightNe’er riseth to my sight,Yet every star that climbsAbove the gnarlèd limbsOf yonder hill,Conveys thy gentle will.Believe I knew thy thought,And that the zephyrs broughtThy kindest wishes through,As mine they bear to you;That some attentive cloudDid pause amid the crowdOver my head,While gentle things were said.Believe the thrushes sung,And that the flower-bells rung,That herbs exhaled their scent,And beasts knew what was meant,The trees a welcome waved,And lakes their margins laved,When thy free mindTo my retreat did wind.It was a summer eve,The air did gently heaveWhile yet a low-hung cloudThy eastern skies did shroud;The lightning’s silent gleam,Startling my drowsy dream,Seemed like the flashUnder thy dark eyelash.From yonder comes the sun,But soon his course is run,Rising to trivial dayAlong his dusty way;But thy noontide completesOnly auroral heats,Nor ever sets,To hasten vain regrets.Direct thy pensive eyeInto the western sky;And when the evening starDoes glimmer from afarUpon the mountain line,Accept it for a signThat I am near,And thinking of thee here.I’ll be thy Mercury,Thou Cytherea to me,Distinguished by thy faceThe earth shall learn my place;As near beneath thy lightWill I outwear the night,With mingled rayLeading the westward way.Still will I strive to beAs if thou wert with me;Whatever path I take,It shall be for thy sake,Of gentle slope and wide,As thou wert by my side,Without a rootTo trip thy gentle foot.I’ll walk with gentle pace,And choose the smoothest place,And careful dip the oar,And shun the winding shore,And gently steer my boatWhere water-lilies float,And cardinal flowersStand in their sylvan bowers.
Lowin the eastern skyIs set thy glancing eye;And though its gracious lightNe’er riseth to my sight,Yet every star that climbsAbove the gnarlèd limbsOf yonder hill,Conveys thy gentle will.Believe I knew thy thought,And that the zephyrs broughtThy kindest wishes through,As mine they bear to you;That some attentive cloudDid pause amid the crowdOver my head,While gentle things were said.Believe the thrushes sung,And that the flower-bells rung,That herbs exhaled their scent,And beasts knew what was meant,The trees a welcome waved,And lakes their margins laved,When thy free mindTo my retreat did wind.It was a summer eve,The air did gently heaveWhile yet a low-hung cloudThy eastern skies did shroud;The lightning’s silent gleam,Startling my drowsy dream,Seemed like the flashUnder thy dark eyelash.From yonder comes the sun,But soon his course is run,Rising to trivial dayAlong his dusty way;But thy noontide completesOnly auroral heats,Nor ever sets,To hasten vain regrets.Direct thy pensive eyeInto the western sky;And when the evening starDoes glimmer from afarUpon the mountain line,Accept it for a signThat I am near,And thinking of thee here.I’ll be thy Mercury,Thou Cytherea to me,Distinguished by thy faceThe earth shall learn my place;As near beneath thy lightWill I outwear the night,With mingled rayLeading the westward way.Still will I strive to beAs if thou wert with me;Whatever path I take,It shall be for thy sake,Of gentle slope and wide,As thou wert by my side,Without a rootTo trip thy gentle foot.I’ll walk with gentle pace,And choose the smoothest place,And careful dip the oar,And shun the winding shore,And gently steer my boatWhere water-lilies float,And cardinal flowersStand in their sylvan bowers.
Lowin the eastern skyIs set thy glancing eye;And though its gracious lightNe’er riseth to my sight,Yet every star that climbsAbove the gnarlèd limbsOf yonder hill,Conveys thy gentle will.
Believe I knew thy thought,And that the zephyrs broughtThy kindest wishes through,As mine they bear to you;That some attentive cloudDid pause amid the crowdOver my head,While gentle things were said.
Believe the thrushes sung,And that the flower-bells rung,That herbs exhaled their scent,And beasts knew what was meant,The trees a welcome waved,And lakes their margins laved,When thy free mindTo my retreat did wind.
It was a summer eve,The air did gently heaveWhile yet a low-hung cloudThy eastern skies did shroud;The lightning’s silent gleam,Startling my drowsy dream,Seemed like the flashUnder thy dark eyelash.
From yonder comes the sun,But soon his course is run,Rising to trivial dayAlong his dusty way;But thy noontide completesOnly auroral heats,Nor ever sets,To hasten vain regrets.
Direct thy pensive eyeInto the western sky;And when the evening starDoes glimmer from afarUpon the mountain line,Accept it for a signThat I am near,And thinking of thee here.
I’ll be thy Mercury,Thou Cytherea to me,Distinguished by thy faceThe earth shall learn my place;As near beneath thy lightWill I outwear the night,With mingled rayLeading the westward way.
Still will I strive to beAs if thou wert with me;Whatever path I take,It shall be for thy sake,Of gentle slope and wide,As thou wert by my side,Without a rootTo trip thy gentle foot.
I’ll walk with gentle pace,And choose the smoothest place,And careful dip the oar,And shun the winding shore,And gently steer my boatWhere water-lilies float,And cardinal flowersStand in their sylvan bowers.
Mylove must be as freeAs is the eagle’s wing,Hovering o’er land and seaAnd everything.I must not dim my eyeIn thy saloon,I must not leave my skyAnd nightly moon.Be not the fowler’s netWhich stays my flight,And craftily is setT’ allure the sight.But be the favoring galeThat bears me on,And still doth fill my sailWhen thou art gone.I cannot leave my skyFor thy caprice,True love would soar as highAs heaven is.The eagle would not brookHer mate thus won,Who trained his eye to lookBeneath the sun.
Mylove must be as freeAs is the eagle’s wing,Hovering o’er land and seaAnd everything.I must not dim my eyeIn thy saloon,I must not leave my skyAnd nightly moon.Be not the fowler’s netWhich stays my flight,And craftily is setT’ allure the sight.But be the favoring galeThat bears me on,And still doth fill my sailWhen thou art gone.I cannot leave my skyFor thy caprice,True love would soar as highAs heaven is.The eagle would not brookHer mate thus won,Who trained his eye to lookBeneath the sun.
Mylove must be as freeAs is the eagle’s wing,Hovering o’er land and seaAnd everything.
I must not dim my eyeIn thy saloon,I must not leave my skyAnd nightly moon.
Be not the fowler’s netWhich stays my flight,And craftily is setT’ allure the sight.
But be the favoring galeThat bears me on,And still doth fill my sailWhen thou art gone.
I cannot leave my skyFor thy caprice,True love would soar as highAs heaven is.
The eagle would not brookHer mate thus won,Who trained his eye to lookBeneath the sun.
Thereis a vale which none hath seen,Where foot of man has never been,Such as here lives with toil and strife,An anxious and a sinful life.There every virtue has its birth,Ere it descends upon the earth,And thither every deed returns,Which in the generous bosom burns.There love is warm, and youth is young,And poetry is yet unsung,For Virtue still adventures there,And freely breathes her native air.And ever, if you hearken well,You still may hear its vesper bell,And tread of high-souled men go by,Their thoughts conversing with the sky.
Thereis a vale which none hath seen,Where foot of man has never been,Such as here lives with toil and strife,An anxious and a sinful life.There every virtue has its birth,Ere it descends upon the earth,And thither every deed returns,Which in the generous bosom burns.There love is warm, and youth is young,And poetry is yet unsung,For Virtue still adventures there,And freely breathes her native air.And ever, if you hearken well,You still may hear its vesper bell,And tread of high-souled men go by,Their thoughts conversing with the sky.
Thereis a vale which none hath seen,Where foot of man has never been,Such as here lives with toil and strife,An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,Ere it descends upon the earth,And thither every deed returns,Which in the generous bosom burns.
There love is warm, and youth is young,And poetry is yet unsung,For Virtue still adventures there,And freely breathes her native air.
And ever, if you hearken well,You still may hear its vesper bell,And tread of high-souled men go by,Their thoughts conversing with the sky.
Thoughall the Fates should prove unkind,Leave not your native land behind.The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;The steed must rest beneath the hill;But swiftly still our fortunes paceTo find us out in every place.The vessel, though her masts be firm,Beneath her copper bears a worm;Around the Cape, across the Line,Till fields of ice her course confine;It matters not how smooth the breeze,How shallow or how deep the seas,Whether she bears Manilla twine,Or in her hold Madeira wine,Or China teas, or Spanish hides,In port or quarantine she rides;Far from New England’s blustering shore,New England’s worm her hulk shall bore,And sink her in the Indian seas,—Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
Thoughall the Fates should prove unkind,Leave not your native land behind.The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;The steed must rest beneath the hill;But swiftly still our fortunes paceTo find us out in every place.The vessel, though her masts be firm,Beneath her copper bears a worm;Around the Cape, across the Line,Till fields of ice her course confine;It matters not how smooth the breeze,How shallow or how deep the seas,Whether she bears Manilla twine,Or in her hold Madeira wine,Or China teas, or Spanish hides,In port or quarantine she rides;Far from New England’s blustering shore,New England’s worm her hulk shall bore,And sink her in the Indian seas,—Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
Thoughall the Fates should prove unkind,Leave not your native land behind.The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;The steed must rest beneath the hill;But swiftly still our fortunes paceTo find us out in every place.
The vessel, though her masts be firm,Beneath her copper bears a worm;Around the Cape, across the Line,Till fields of ice her course confine;It matters not how smooth the breeze,How shallow or how deep the seas,Whether she bears Manilla twine,Or in her hold Madeira wine,Or China teas, or Spanish hides,In port or quarantine she rides;Far from New England’s blustering shore,New England’s worm her hulk shall bore,And sink her in the Indian seas,—Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
‘Before each vanPrick forth the aery knights, and couch their spearsTill thickest legions close; with feats of armsFrom either end of Heaven the welkin burns.’
‘Before each vanPrick forth the aery knights, and couch their spearsTill thickest legions close; with feats of armsFrom either end of Heaven the welkin burns.’
‘Before each vanPrick forth the aery knights, and couch their spearsTill thickest legions close; with feats of armsFrom either end of Heaven the welkin burns.’
Away! away! away! away!Ye have not kept your secret well,I will abide that other day,Those other lands ye tell.Has time no leisure left for these,The acts that ye rehearse?Is not eternity a leaseFor better deeds than verse?’Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,To know them still alive,But sweeter if we earn their bread,And in us they survive.Our life should feed the springs of fameWith a perennial wave,As ocean feeds the babbling fountsWhich find in it their grave.Ye skies drop gently round my breast,And be my corslet blue,Ye earth receive my lance in rest,My faithful charger you;Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,My arrow-tips ye are;I see the routed foemen fly,My bright spears fixèd are.Give me an angel for a foe,Fix now the place and time,And straight to meet him I will goAbove the starry chime.And with our clashing bucklers’ clangThe heavenly spheres shall ring,While bright the northern lights shall hangBeside our tourneying.And if she lose her champion true,Tell Heaven not despair,For I will be her champion new,Her fame I will repair.
Away! away! away! away!Ye have not kept your secret well,I will abide that other day,Those other lands ye tell.Has time no leisure left for these,The acts that ye rehearse?Is not eternity a leaseFor better deeds than verse?’Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,To know them still alive,But sweeter if we earn their bread,And in us they survive.Our life should feed the springs of fameWith a perennial wave,As ocean feeds the babbling fountsWhich find in it their grave.Ye skies drop gently round my breast,And be my corslet blue,Ye earth receive my lance in rest,My faithful charger you;Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,My arrow-tips ye are;I see the routed foemen fly,My bright spears fixèd are.Give me an angel for a foe,Fix now the place and time,And straight to meet him I will goAbove the starry chime.And with our clashing bucklers’ clangThe heavenly spheres shall ring,While bright the northern lights shall hangBeside our tourneying.And if she lose her champion true,Tell Heaven not despair,For I will be her champion new,Her fame I will repair.
Away! away! away! away!Ye have not kept your secret well,I will abide that other day,Those other lands ye tell.
Has time no leisure left for these,The acts that ye rehearse?Is not eternity a leaseFor better deeds than verse?
’Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,To know them still alive,But sweeter if we earn their bread,And in us they survive.
Our life should feed the springs of fameWith a perennial wave,As ocean feeds the babbling fountsWhich find in it their grave.
Ye skies drop gently round my breast,And be my corslet blue,Ye earth receive my lance in rest,My faithful charger you;
Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,My arrow-tips ye are;I see the routed foemen fly,My bright spears fixèd are.
Give me an angel for a foe,Fix now the place and time,And straight to meet him I will goAbove the starry chime.
And with our clashing bucklers’ clangThe heavenly spheres shall ring,While bright the northern lights shall hangBeside our tourneying.
And if she lose her champion true,Tell Heaven not despair,For I will be her champion new,Her fame I will repair.
Theriver swelleth more and more,Like some sweet influence stealing o’erThe passive town; and for a whileEach tussock makes a tiny isle,Where, on some friendly Ararat,Resteth the weary water-rat.No ripple shows Musketaquid,Her very current e’en is hid,As deepest souls do calmest rest,When thoughts are swelling in the breast,And she that in the summer’s droughtDoth make a rippling and a rout,Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff,Unruffled by a single skiff.But by a thousand distant hillsThe louder roar a thousand rills,And many a spring which now is dumb,And many a stream with smothered hum,Doth swifter well and faster glide,Though buried deep beneath the tide.Our village shows a rural Venice,Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;As lovely as the Bay of NaplesYon placid cove amid the maples;And in my neighbour’s field of cornI recognise the Golden Horn.Here Nature taught from year to year,When only red men came to hear;Methinks ’twas in this school of artVenice and Naples learned their part,But still their mistress, to my mind,Her young disciples leaves behind.
Theriver swelleth more and more,Like some sweet influence stealing o’erThe passive town; and for a whileEach tussock makes a tiny isle,Where, on some friendly Ararat,Resteth the weary water-rat.No ripple shows Musketaquid,Her very current e’en is hid,As deepest souls do calmest rest,When thoughts are swelling in the breast,And she that in the summer’s droughtDoth make a rippling and a rout,Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff,Unruffled by a single skiff.But by a thousand distant hillsThe louder roar a thousand rills,And many a spring which now is dumb,And many a stream with smothered hum,Doth swifter well and faster glide,Though buried deep beneath the tide.Our village shows a rural Venice,Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;As lovely as the Bay of NaplesYon placid cove amid the maples;And in my neighbour’s field of cornI recognise the Golden Horn.Here Nature taught from year to year,When only red men came to hear;Methinks ’twas in this school of artVenice and Naples learned their part,But still their mistress, to my mind,Her young disciples leaves behind.
Theriver swelleth more and more,Like some sweet influence stealing o’erThe passive town; and for a whileEach tussock makes a tiny isle,Where, on some friendly Ararat,Resteth the weary water-rat.
No ripple shows Musketaquid,Her very current e’en is hid,As deepest souls do calmest rest,When thoughts are swelling in the breast,And she that in the summer’s droughtDoth make a rippling and a rout,Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff,Unruffled by a single skiff.But by a thousand distant hillsThe louder roar a thousand rills,And many a spring which now is dumb,And many a stream with smothered hum,Doth swifter well and faster glide,Though buried deep beneath the tide.
Our village shows a rural Venice,Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;As lovely as the Bay of NaplesYon placid cove amid the maples;And in my neighbour’s field of cornI recognise the Golden Horn.Here Nature taught from year to year,When only red men came to hear;Methinks ’twas in this school of artVenice and Naples learned their part,But still their mistress, to my mind,Her young disciples leaves behind.
Ply the oars! away! away!In each dew-drop of the morningLies the promise of a day.Rivers from the sunrise flow,Springing with the dewy morn;Voyageurs ’gainst time do row,Idle noon nor sunset know,Ever even with the dawn.. . . . . .Since that first ‘Away! away!’Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed,Still the sparrow on the sprayHastes to usher in the dayWith her simple-stanza’d ode.
Ply the oars! away! away!In each dew-drop of the morningLies the promise of a day.Rivers from the sunrise flow,Springing with the dewy morn;Voyageurs ’gainst time do row,Idle noon nor sunset know,Ever even with the dawn.. . . . . .Since that first ‘Away! away!’Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed,Still the sparrow on the sprayHastes to usher in the dayWith her simple-stanza’d ode.
Ply the oars! away! away!In each dew-drop of the morningLies the promise of a day.
Rivers from the sunrise flow,Springing with the dewy morn;Voyageurs ’gainst time do row,Idle noon nor sunset know,Ever even with the dawn.
. . . . . .
Since that first ‘Away! away!’Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed,Still the sparrow on the sprayHastes to usher in the dayWith her simple-stanza’d ode.
Sometumultuous little rill,Purling round its storied pebble,Tinkling to the selfsame tune,From September until June,Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble.Silent flows the parent stream,And if rocks do lie below,Smothers with her waves the din,As it were a youthful sin,Just as still, and just as slow.
Sometumultuous little rill,Purling round its storied pebble,Tinkling to the selfsame tune,From September until June,Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble.Silent flows the parent stream,And if rocks do lie below,Smothers with her waves the din,As it were a youthful sin,Just as still, and just as slow.
Sometumultuous little rill,Purling round its storied pebble,Tinkling to the selfsame tune,From September until June,Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble.
Silent flows the parent stream,And if rocks do lie below,Smothers with her waves the din,As it were a youthful sin,Just as still, and just as slow.
Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter,Many a lagging year agone,Gliding o’er thy rippling waters,Lowly hummed a natural song.Now the sun’s behind the willows,Now he gleams along the waves,Faintly o’er the wearied billowsCome the spirits of the braves.
Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter,Many a lagging year agone,Gliding o’er thy rippling waters,Lowly hummed a natural song.Now the sun’s behind the willows,Now he gleams along the waves,Faintly o’er the wearied billowsCome the spirits of the braves.
Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter,Many a lagging year agone,Gliding o’er thy rippling waters,Lowly hummed a natural song.
Now the sun’s behind the willows,Now he gleams along the waves,Faintly o’er the wearied billowsCome the spirits of the braves.
Brother, where dost thou dwell?What sun shines for thee now?Dost thou indeed fare well,As we wished thee here below?What season didst thou find?’Twas winter here.Are not the Fates more kindThan they appear?Is thy brow clear againAs in thy youthful years?And was that ugly painThe summit of thy fears?Yet thou wast cheery still;They could not quench thy fire;Thou didst abide their will,And then retire.Where chiefly shall I lookTo feel thy presence near?Along the neighboring brookMay I thy voice still hear?Dost thou still haunt the brinkOf yonder river’s tide?And may I ever thinkThat thou art by my side?What bird wilt thou employTo bring me word of thee?For it would give them joy—’Twould give them liberty—To serve their former lordWith wing and minstrelsy.A sadder strain mixed with their song,They’ve slowlier built their nests;Since thou art goneTheir lively labor rests.Where is the finch, the thrush,I used to hear?Ah, they could well abideThe dying year.Now they no more return,I hear them not;They have remained to mourn,Or else forgot.
Brother, where dost thou dwell?What sun shines for thee now?Dost thou indeed fare well,As we wished thee here below?What season didst thou find?’Twas winter here.Are not the Fates more kindThan they appear?Is thy brow clear againAs in thy youthful years?And was that ugly painThe summit of thy fears?Yet thou wast cheery still;They could not quench thy fire;Thou didst abide their will,And then retire.Where chiefly shall I lookTo feel thy presence near?Along the neighboring brookMay I thy voice still hear?Dost thou still haunt the brinkOf yonder river’s tide?And may I ever thinkThat thou art by my side?What bird wilt thou employTo bring me word of thee?For it would give them joy—’Twould give them liberty—To serve their former lordWith wing and minstrelsy.A sadder strain mixed with their song,They’ve slowlier built their nests;Since thou art goneTheir lively labor rests.Where is the finch, the thrush,I used to hear?Ah, they could well abideThe dying year.Now they no more return,I hear them not;They have remained to mourn,Or else forgot.
Brother, where dost thou dwell?What sun shines for thee now?Dost thou indeed fare well,As we wished thee here below?
What season didst thou find?’Twas winter here.Are not the Fates more kindThan they appear?
Is thy brow clear againAs in thy youthful years?And was that ugly painThe summit of thy fears?
Yet thou wast cheery still;They could not quench thy fire;Thou didst abide their will,And then retire.
Where chiefly shall I lookTo feel thy presence near?Along the neighboring brookMay I thy voice still hear?
Dost thou still haunt the brinkOf yonder river’s tide?And may I ever thinkThat thou art by my side?
What bird wilt thou employTo bring me word of thee?For it would give them joy—’Twould give them liberty—To serve their former lordWith wing and minstrelsy.
A sadder strain mixed with their song,They’ve slowlier built their nests;Since thou art goneTheir lively labor rests.
Where is the finch, the thrush,I used to hear?Ah, they could well abideThe dying year.
Now they no more return,I hear them not;They have remained to mourn,Or else forgot.
Naturedoth have her dawn each day,But mine are far between;Content, I cry, for, sooth to say,Mine brightest are, I ween.For when my sun doth deign to rise,Though it be her noontide,Her fairest field in shadow lies,Nor can my light abide.Sometimes I bask me in her day,Conversing with my mate,But if we interchange one ray,Forthwith her heats abate.Through his discourse I climb and seeAs from some eastern hill,A brighter morrow rise to meThan lieth in her skill.As ’twere two summer days in one,Two Sundays come together,Our rays united make one sun,With fairest summer weather.
Naturedoth have her dawn each day,But mine are far between;Content, I cry, for, sooth to say,Mine brightest are, I ween.For when my sun doth deign to rise,Though it be her noontide,Her fairest field in shadow lies,Nor can my light abide.Sometimes I bask me in her day,Conversing with my mate,But if we interchange one ray,Forthwith her heats abate.Through his discourse I climb and seeAs from some eastern hill,A brighter morrow rise to meThan lieth in her skill.As ’twere two summer days in one,Two Sundays come together,Our rays united make one sun,With fairest summer weather.
Naturedoth have her dawn each day,But mine are far between;Content, I cry, for, sooth to say,Mine brightest are, I ween.
For when my sun doth deign to rise,Though it be her noontide,Her fairest field in shadow lies,Nor can my light abide.
Sometimes I bask me in her day,Conversing with my mate,But if we interchange one ray,Forthwith her heats abate.
Through his discourse I climb and seeAs from some eastern hill,A brighter morrow rise to meThan lieth in her skill.
As ’twere two summer days in one,Two Sundays come together,Our rays united make one sun,With fairest summer weather.
Packedin my mind lie all the clothesWhich outward nature wears,And in its fashion’s hourly changeIt all things else repairs.In vain I look for change abroad,And can no difference find,Till some new ray of peace uncalledIllumes my inmost mind.What is it gilds the trees and clouds,And paints the heavens so gay,But yonder fast-abiding lightWith its unchanging ray?Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,Upon a winter’s morn,Where’er his silent beams intrudeThe murky night is gone.How could the patient pine have knownThe morning breeze would come,Or humble flowers anticipateThe insect’s noonday hum,—Till the new light with morning cheerFrom far streamed through the aisles,And nimbly told the forest treesFor many stretching miles?I’ve heard within my inmost soulSuch cheerful morning news,In the horizon of my mindHave seen such orient hues,As in the twilight of the dawn,When the first birds awake,Are heard within some silent wood,Where they the small twigs break,Or in the eastern skies are seen,Before the sun appears,The harbingers of summer heatsWhich from afar he bears.
Packedin my mind lie all the clothesWhich outward nature wears,And in its fashion’s hourly changeIt all things else repairs.In vain I look for change abroad,And can no difference find,Till some new ray of peace uncalledIllumes my inmost mind.What is it gilds the trees and clouds,And paints the heavens so gay,But yonder fast-abiding lightWith its unchanging ray?Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,Upon a winter’s morn,Where’er his silent beams intrudeThe murky night is gone.How could the patient pine have knownThe morning breeze would come,Or humble flowers anticipateThe insect’s noonday hum,—Till the new light with morning cheerFrom far streamed through the aisles,And nimbly told the forest treesFor many stretching miles?I’ve heard within my inmost soulSuch cheerful morning news,In the horizon of my mindHave seen such orient hues,As in the twilight of the dawn,When the first birds awake,Are heard within some silent wood,Where they the small twigs break,Or in the eastern skies are seen,Before the sun appears,The harbingers of summer heatsWhich from afar he bears.
Packedin my mind lie all the clothesWhich outward nature wears,And in its fashion’s hourly changeIt all things else repairs.
In vain I look for change abroad,And can no difference find,Till some new ray of peace uncalledIllumes my inmost mind.
What is it gilds the trees and clouds,And paints the heavens so gay,But yonder fast-abiding lightWith its unchanging ray?
Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,Upon a winter’s morn,Where’er his silent beams intrudeThe murky night is gone.
How could the patient pine have knownThe morning breeze would come,Or humble flowers anticipateThe insect’s noonday hum,—
Till the new light with morning cheerFrom far streamed through the aisles,And nimbly told the forest treesFor many stretching miles?
I’ve heard within my inmost soulSuch cheerful morning news,In the horizon of my mindHave seen such orient hues,
As in the twilight of the dawn,When the first birds awake,Are heard within some silent wood,Where they the small twigs break,
Or in the eastern skies are seen,Before the sun appears,The harbingers of summer heatsWhich from afar he bears.
Whenlife contracts into a vulgar span,And human nature tires to be a man,I thank the Gods for Greece,That permanent realm of peace.For as the rising moon far in the nightChequers the shade with her forerunning light,So in my darkest hour my senses seemTo catch from her Acropolis a gleam.Greece, who am I that should remember thee,Thy Marathon, and thy Thermopylae?Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,Which on such golden memories can lean?
Whenlife contracts into a vulgar span,And human nature tires to be a man,I thank the Gods for Greece,That permanent realm of peace.For as the rising moon far in the nightChequers the shade with her forerunning light,So in my darkest hour my senses seemTo catch from her Acropolis a gleam.Greece, who am I that should remember thee,Thy Marathon, and thy Thermopylae?Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,Which on such golden memories can lean?
Whenlife contracts into a vulgar span,And human nature tires to be a man,I thank the Gods for Greece,That permanent realm of peace.For as the rising moon far in the nightChequers the shade with her forerunning light,So in my darkest hour my senses seemTo catch from her Acropolis a gleam.
Greece, who am I that should remember thee,Thy Marathon, and thy Thermopylae?Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,Which on such golden memories can lean?
Onemore is goneOut of the busy throngThat tread these paths;The church-bell tolls,Its sad knell rollsTo many hearths.Flower-bells toll not,Their echoes roll notUpon my ear;There still perchanceThat gentle spirit hauntsA fragrant bier.Low lies the pall,Lowly the mourners allTheir passage grope;No sable hueMars the serene blueOf heaven’s cope.In distant dellFaint sounds the funeral bell;A heavenly chime;Some poet thereWeaves the light-burthened airInto sweet rhyme.
Onemore is goneOut of the busy throngThat tread these paths;The church-bell tolls,Its sad knell rollsTo many hearths.Flower-bells toll not,Their echoes roll notUpon my ear;There still perchanceThat gentle spirit hauntsA fragrant bier.Low lies the pall,Lowly the mourners allTheir passage grope;No sable hueMars the serene blueOf heaven’s cope.In distant dellFaint sounds the funeral bell;A heavenly chime;Some poet thereWeaves the light-burthened airInto sweet rhyme.
Onemore is goneOut of the busy throngThat tread these paths;The church-bell tolls,Its sad knell rollsTo many hearths.
Flower-bells toll not,Their echoes roll notUpon my ear;There still perchanceThat gentle spirit hauntsA fragrant bier.
Low lies the pall,Lowly the mourners allTheir passage grope;No sable hueMars the serene blueOf heaven’s cope.
In distant dellFaint sounds the funeral bell;A heavenly chime;Some poet thereWeaves the light-burthened airInto sweet rhyme.
Mybooks I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at largeDown in the meadow, where is richer feed,And will not mind to hit their proper targe.Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,If juster battles are enacted nowBetween the ants upon this hummock’s crown?Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,If red or black the gods will favor most,Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,Struggling to heave some rock against the host.Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spreadLast year with nicer skill than monarchs use,A clover tuft is pillow for my head,And violets quite overtop my shoes.And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,And gently swells the wind to say all’s well;The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;But see that globe come rolling down its stem,Now like a lonely planet there it floats,And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,And richness rare distils from every bough;The wind alone it is makes every sound,Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.For shame the sun will never show himself,Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;My dripping locks,—they would become an elf,Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
Mybooks I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at largeDown in the meadow, where is richer feed,And will not mind to hit their proper targe.Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,If juster battles are enacted nowBetween the ants upon this hummock’s crown?Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,If red or black the gods will favor most,Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,Struggling to heave some rock against the host.Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spreadLast year with nicer skill than monarchs use,A clover tuft is pillow for my head,And violets quite overtop my shoes.And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,And gently swells the wind to say all’s well;The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;But see that globe come rolling down its stem,Now like a lonely planet there it floats,And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,And richness rare distils from every bough;The wind alone it is makes every sound,Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.For shame the sun will never show himself,Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;My dripping locks,—they would become an elf,Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
Mybooks I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at largeDown in the meadow, where is richer feed,And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,If juster battles are enacted nowBetween the ants upon this hummock’s crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,If red or black the gods will favor most,Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spreadLast year with nicer skill than monarchs use,A clover tuft is pillow for my head,And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,And gently swells the wind to say all’s well;The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;But see that globe come rolling down its stem,Now like a lonely planet there it floats,And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.
Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,And richness rare distils from every bough;The wind alone it is makes every sound,Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself,Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;My dripping locks,—they would become an elf,Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
Low-anchoredcloud,Newfoundland air,Fountain-head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—Bear only perfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields.
Low-anchoredcloud,Newfoundland air,Fountain-head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—Bear only perfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields.
Low-anchoredcloud,Newfoundland air,Fountain-head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—Bear only perfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields.
Light-wingedSmoke, Icarian bird,Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;Or else, departing dream, and shadowy formOf midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;By night star-veiling, and by dayDarkening the light and blotting out the sun;Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
Light-wingedSmoke, Icarian bird,Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;Or else, departing dream, and shadowy formOf midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;By night star-veiling, and by dayDarkening the light and blotting out the sun;Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
Light-wingedSmoke, Icarian bird,Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;Or else, departing dream, and shadowy formOf midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;By night star-veiling, and by dayDarkening the light and blotting out the sun;Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
Woofof the sun,[9]ethereal gauze,Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,Last conquest of the eye;Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,Ethereal estuary, frith of light,Breakers of air, billows of heat,Fine summer spray on inland seas;Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,From heath or stubble rising without song,—Establish thy serenity o’er the fields.
Woofof the sun,[9]ethereal gauze,Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,Last conquest of the eye;Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,Ethereal estuary, frith of light,Breakers of air, billows of heat,Fine summer spray on inland seas;Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,From heath or stubble rising without song,—Establish thy serenity o’er the fields.
Woofof the sun,[9]ethereal gauze,Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,Last conquest of the eye;Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,Ethereal estuary, frith of light,Breakers of air, billows of heat,Fine summer spray on inland seas;Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,From heath or stubble rising without song,—Establish thy serenity o’er the fields.
‘Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;Mortality below her orb is placed.’—Raleigh.
‘Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;Mortality below her orb is placed.’—Raleigh.
‘Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;Mortality below her orb is placed.’—Raleigh.
Thefull-orbed moon with unchanged rayMounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye,But shining steadily.She does not wane, but my fortùne,Which her rays do not bless;My wayward path declineth soon,But she shines not the less.And if she faintly glimmers hereAnd palèd is her light,Yet always in her proper sphereShe’s mistress of the night.
Thefull-orbed moon with unchanged rayMounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye,But shining steadily.She does not wane, but my fortùne,Which her rays do not bless;My wayward path declineth soon,But she shines not the less.And if she faintly glimmers hereAnd palèd is her light,Yet always in her proper sphereShe’s mistress of the night.
Thefull-orbed moon with unchanged rayMounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye,But shining steadily.
She does not wane, but my fortùne,Which her rays do not bless;My wayward path declineth soon,But she shines not the less.
And if she faintly glimmers hereAnd palèd is her light,Yet always in her proper sphereShe’s mistress of the night.
Uponthe lofty elm-tree spraysThe vireo rings the changes sweet,During the trivial summer days,Striving to lift our thoughts above the street.
Uponthe lofty elm-tree spraysThe vireo rings the changes sweet,During the trivial summer days,Striving to lift our thoughts above the street.
Uponthe lofty elm-tree spraysThe vireo rings the changes sweet,During the trivial summer days,Striving to lift our thoughts above the street.
Invain I see the morning rise,In vain observe the western blaze,Who idly look to other skies,Expecting life by other ways.Amidst such boundless wealth without,I only still am poor within,The birds have sung their summer out,But still my spring does not begin.Shall I then wait the autumn wind,Compelled to seek a milder day,And leave no curious nest behind,No woods still echoing to my lay?
Invain I see the morning rise,In vain observe the western blaze,Who idly look to other skies,Expecting life by other ways.Amidst such boundless wealth without,I only still am poor within,The birds have sung their summer out,But still my spring does not begin.Shall I then wait the autumn wind,Compelled to seek a milder day,And leave no curious nest behind,No woods still echoing to my lay?
Invain I see the morning rise,In vain observe the western blaze,Who idly look to other skies,Expecting life by other ways.
Amidst such boundless wealth without,I only still am poor within,The birds have sung their summer out,But still my spring does not begin.
Shall I then wait the autumn wind,Compelled to seek a milder day,And leave no curious nest behind,No woods still echoing to my lay?
Allthings are current foundOn earthly ground,Spirits and elementsHave their descents.Night and day, year on year,High and low, far and near,These are our own aspects,These are our own regrets.Ye gods of the shore,Who abide evermore,I see your far headland,Stretching on either hand;I hear the sweet evening soundsFrom your undecaying grounds;Cheat me no more with time,Take me to your clime.
Allthings are current foundOn earthly ground,Spirits and elementsHave their descents.Night and day, year on year,High and low, far and near,These are our own aspects,These are our own regrets.Ye gods of the shore,Who abide evermore,I see your far headland,Stretching on either hand;I hear the sweet evening soundsFrom your undecaying grounds;Cheat me no more with time,Take me to your clime.
Allthings are current foundOn earthly ground,Spirits and elementsHave their descents.
Night and day, year on year,High and low, far and near,These are our own aspects,These are our own regrets.
Ye gods of the shore,Who abide evermore,I see your far headland,Stretching on either hand;I hear the sweet evening soundsFrom your undecaying grounds;Cheat me no more with time,Take me to your clime.
I amthe autumnal sun,With autumn gales my race is run;When will the hazel put forth its flowers,Or the grape ripen under my bowers?When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon,Turn my midnight into mid-noon?I am all sere and yellow,And to my core mellow.The mast is dropping within my woods,The winter is lurking within my moods,And the rustling of the withered leafIs the constant music of my grief.
I amthe autumnal sun,With autumn gales my race is run;When will the hazel put forth its flowers,Or the grape ripen under my bowers?When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon,Turn my midnight into mid-noon?I am all sere and yellow,And to my core mellow.The mast is dropping within my woods,The winter is lurking within my moods,And the rustling of the withered leafIs the constant music of my grief.
I amthe autumnal sun,With autumn gales my race is run;When will the hazel put forth its flowers,Or the grape ripen under my bowers?When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon,Turn my midnight into mid-noon?I am all sere and yellow,And to my core mellow.The mast is dropping within my woods,The winter is lurking within my moods,And the rustling of the withered leafIs the constant music of my grief.
ThankGod who seasons thus the year,And sometimes kindly slants his rays;For in his winter he’s most nearAnd plainest seen upon the shortest days.Who gently tempers now his heats,And then his harsher cold, lest weShould surfeit on the summer’s sweets,Or pine upon the winter’s crudity.A sober mind will walk alone,Apart from nature, if need be,And only its own seasons own;For nature leaving its humanity.Sometimes a late autumnal thoughtHas crossed my mind in green July,And to its early freshness broughtLate ripened fruits, and an autumnal sky.. . . . . .The evening of the year draws on,The fields a later aspect wear;Since Summer’s garishness is gone,Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.Behold! the shadows of the treesNow circle wider ’bout their stem,Like sentries that by slow degreesPerform their rounds, gently protecting them.And as the year doth decline,The sun allows a scantier light;Behind each needle of the pineThere lurks a small auxiliar to the night.I hear the cricket’s slumbrous layAround, beneath me, and on high;It rocks the night, it soothes the day,And everywhere is Nature’s lullaby.But most he chirps beneath the sod,When he has made his winter bed;His creak grown fainter but more broad,A film of autumn o’er the summer spread.Small birds, in fleets migrating by,Now beat across some meadow’s bay,And as they tack and veer on high,With faint and hurried click beguile the way.Far in the woods, these golden days,Some leaf obeys its Maker’s call;And through their hollow aisles it playsWith delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.Gently withdrawing from its stem,It lightly lays itself alongWhere the same hand hath pillowed them,Resigned to sleep upon the old year’s throng.The loneliest birch is brown and sere,The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,Which float upon their watery bier,Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.The jay screams through the chestnut wood;The crisped and yellow leaves aroundAre hue and texture of my mood—And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.The threadbare trees, so poor and thin—They are no wealthier than I;But with as brave a core withinThey rear their boughs to the October sky.Poor knights they are which bravely waitThe charge of Winter’s cavalry,Keeping a simple Roman state,Discumbered of their Persian luxury.
ThankGod who seasons thus the year,And sometimes kindly slants his rays;For in his winter he’s most nearAnd plainest seen upon the shortest days.Who gently tempers now his heats,And then his harsher cold, lest weShould surfeit on the summer’s sweets,Or pine upon the winter’s crudity.A sober mind will walk alone,Apart from nature, if need be,And only its own seasons own;For nature leaving its humanity.Sometimes a late autumnal thoughtHas crossed my mind in green July,And to its early freshness broughtLate ripened fruits, and an autumnal sky.. . . . . .The evening of the year draws on,The fields a later aspect wear;Since Summer’s garishness is gone,Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.Behold! the shadows of the treesNow circle wider ’bout their stem,Like sentries that by slow degreesPerform their rounds, gently protecting them.And as the year doth decline,The sun allows a scantier light;Behind each needle of the pineThere lurks a small auxiliar to the night.I hear the cricket’s slumbrous layAround, beneath me, and on high;It rocks the night, it soothes the day,And everywhere is Nature’s lullaby.But most he chirps beneath the sod,When he has made his winter bed;His creak grown fainter but more broad,A film of autumn o’er the summer spread.Small birds, in fleets migrating by,Now beat across some meadow’s bay,And as they tack and veer on high,With faint and hurried click beguile the way.Far in the woods, these golden days,Some leaf obeys its Maker’s call;And through their hollow aisles it playsWith delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.Gently withdrawing from its stem,It lightly lays itself alongWhere the same hand hath pillowed them,Resigned to sleep upon the old year’s throng.The loneliest birch is brown and sere,The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,Which float upon their watery bier,Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.The jay screams through the chestnut wood;The crisped and yellow leaves aroundAre hue and texture of my mood—And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.The threadbare trees, so poor and thin—They are no wealthier than I;But with as brave a core withinThey rear their boughs to the October sky.Poor knights they are which bravely waitThe charge of Winter’s cavalry,Keeping a simple Roman state,Discumbered of their Persian luxury.
ThankGod who seasons thus the year,And sometimes kindly slants his rays;For in his winter he’s most nearAnd plainest seen upon the shortest days.
Who gently tempers now his heats,And then his harsher cold, lest weShould surfeit on the summer’s sweets,Or pine upon the winter’s crudity.
A sober mind will walk alone,Apart from nature, if need be,And only its own seasons own;For nature leaving its humanity.
Sometimes a late autumnal thoughtHas crossed my mind in green July,And to its early freshness broughtLate ripened fruits, and an autumnal sky.
. . . . . .
The evening of the year draws on,The fields a later aspect wear;Since Summer’s garishness is gone,Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.
Behold! the shadows of the treesNow circle wider ’bout their stem,Like sentries that by slow degreesPerform their rounds, gently protecting them.
And as the year doth decline,The sun allows a scantier light;Behind each needle of the pineThere lurks a small auxiliar to the night.
I hear the cricket’s slumbrous layAround, beneath me, and on high;It rocks the night, it soothes the day,And everywhere is Nature’s lullaby.
But most he chirps beneath the sod,When he has made his winter bed;His creak grown fainter but more broad,A film of autumn o’er the summer spread.
Small birds, in fleets migrating by,Now beat across some meadow’s bay,And as they tack and veer on high,With faint and hurried click beguile the way.
Far in the woods, these golden days,Some leaf obeys its Maker’s call;And through their hollow aisles it playsWith delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.
Gently withdrawing from its stem,It lightly lays itself alongWhere the same hand hath pillowed them,Resigned to sleep upon the old year’s throng.
The loneliest birch is brown and sere,The furthest pool is strewn with leaves,Which float upon their watery bier,Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.
The jay screams through the chestnut wood;The crisped and yellow leaves aroundAre hue and texture of my mood—And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.
The threadbare trees, so poor and thin—They are no wealthier than I;But with as brave a core withinThey rear their boughs to the October sky.
Poor knights they are which bravely waitThe charge of Winter’s cavalry,Keeping a simple Roman state,Discumbered of their Persian luxury.