BETTER MOMENTS.
My mother’s voice! how often creepsIts cadence on my lonely hours,Like healing sent on wings of sleep,Or dew to the unconscious flowers!I can forget her melting prayerWhile leaping pulses madly fly;But in the still unbroken air,Her gentle tone comes stealing by,And years, and sin, and manhood flee,And leave me at my mother’s knee.The book of nature, and the printOf beauty on the whispering sea,Give aye to me some lineamentOf what I have been taught to be.My heart is harder, and perhapsMy manliness hath drunk up tears,And there’s a mildew in the lapseOf a few miserable years—But nature’s book is even yetWith all my mother’s lessons writ.I have been out at eventideBeneath a moonlight sky of spring,When earth was garnished like a bride,And night had on her silver wing;When bursting leaves and diamond grass,And waters leaping to the light,And all that makes the pulses passWith wilder fleetness, thronged the night—When all was beauty—then have I,With friends on whom my love is flungLike myrrh on winds of Araby,Gazed up where evening’s lamp is hung,And when the beautiful spirit thereFlung over me its golden chain,My mother’s voice came on the airLike the light dropping of the rain,And resting on some silver starThe spirit of a bended knee,I’ve poured her low and fervent prayerThat our eternity might beTo rise in heaven like stars at night,And tread a living path of light!I have been on the dewy hillsWhen night was stealing from the dawn,And mist was on the waking rills,And tints were delicately drawnIn the gray east; when birds were wakingWith a low murmur in the trees,And melody by fits was breakingUpon the whisper of the breeze—And this when I was forth, perchance,As a worn reveller from the dance!And when the sun sprang gloriouslyAnd freely up, and hill and riverWere catching upon wave and treeThe arrows from his subtle quiver—I say a voice has thrilled me then,Heard on the still and rushing light,Or creeping from the silent glen,Like words from the departing night—Hath stricken me, and I have pressedOn the wet grass my fevered brow,And pouring forth the earliest,First prayer with which I learned to bow,Have felt my mother’s spirit rushUpon me as in by-past years,And yielding to the blessed gushOf my ungovernable tears,Have risen up—the gay, the wild—As humble as a very child!
My mother’s voice! how often creepsIts cadence on my lonely hours,Like healing sent on wings of sleep,Or dew to the unconscious flowers!I can forget her melting prayerWhile leaping pulses madly fly;But in the still unbroken air,Her gentle tone comes stealing by,And years, and sin, and manhood flee,And leave me at my mother’s knee.The book of nature, and the printOf beauty on the whispering sea,Give aye to me some lineamentOf what I have been taught to be.My heart is harder, and perhapsMy manliness hath drunk up tears,And there’s a mildew in the lapseOf a few miserable years—But nature’s book is even yetWith all my mother’s lessons writ.I have been out at eventideBeneath a moonlight sky of spring,When earth was garnished like a bride,And night had on her silver wing;When bursting leaves and diamond grass,And waters leaping to the light,And all that makes the pulses passWith wilder fleetness, thronged the night—When all was beauty—then have I,With friends on whom my love is flungLike myrrh on winds of Araby,Gazed up where evening’s lamp is hung,And when the beautiful spirit thereFlung over me its golden chain,My mother’s voice came on the airLike the light dropping of the rain,And resting on some silver starThe spirit of a bended knee,I’ve poured her low and fervent prayerThat our eternity might beTo rise in heaven like stars at night,And tread a living path of light!I have been on the dewy hillsWhen night was stealing from the dawn,And mist was on the waking rills,And tints were delicately drawnIn the gray east; when birds were wakingWith a low murmur in the trees,And melody by fits was breakingUpon the whisper of the breeze—And this when I was forth, perchance,As a worn reveller from the dance!And when the sun sprang gloriouslyAnd freely up, and hill and riverWere catching upon wave and treeThe arrows from his subtle quiver—I say a voice has thrilled me then,Heard on the still and rushing light,Or creeping from the silent glen,Like words from the departing night—Hath stricken me, and I have pressedOn the wet grass my fevered brow,And pouring forth the earliest,First prayer with which I learned to bow,Have felt my mother’s spirit rushUpon me as in by-past years,And yielding to the blessed gushOf my ungovernable tears,Have risen up—the gay, the wild—As humble as a very child!
My mother’s voice! how often creepsIts cadence on my lonely hours,Like healing sent on wings of sleep,Or dew to the unconscious flowers!
My mother’s voice! how often creeps
Its cadence on my lonely hours,
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers!
I can forget her melting prayerWhile leaping pulses madly fly;But in the still unbroken air,Her gentle tone comes stealing by,And years, and sin, and manhood flee,And leave me at my mother’s knee.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly;
But in the still unbroken air,
Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother’s knee.
The book of nature, and the printOf beauty on the whispering sea,Give aye to me some lineamentOf what I have been taught to be.My heart is harder, and perhapsMy manliness hath drunk up tears,And there’s a mildew in the lapseOf a few miserable years—But nature’s book is even yetWith all my mother’s lessons writ.
The book of nature, and the print
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give aye to me some lineament
Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there’s a mildew in the lapse
Of a few miserable years—
But nature’s book is even yet
With all my mother’s lessons writ.
I have been out at eventideBeneath a moonlight sky of spring,When earth was garnished like a bride,And night had on her silver wing;When bursting leaves and diamond grass,And waters leaping to the light,And all that makes the pulses passWith wilder fleetness, thronged the night—When all was beauty—then have I,With friends on whom my love is flungLike myrrh on winds of Araby,Gazed up where evening’s lamp is hung,And when the beautiful spirit thereFlung over me its golden chain,My mother’s voice came on the airLike the light dropping of the rain,And resting on some silver starThe spirit of a bended knee,I’ve poured her low and fervent prayerThat our eternity might beTo rise in heaven like stars at night,And tread a living path of light!
I have been out at eventide
Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnished like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing;
When bursting leaves and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that makes the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, thronged the night—
When all was beauty—then have I,
With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
Gazed up where evening’s lamp is hung,
And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother’s voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain,
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,
I’ve poured her low and fervent prayer
That our eternity might be
To rise in heaven like stars at night,
And tread a living path of light!
I have been on the dewy hillsWhen night was stealing from the dawn,And mist was on the waking rills,And tints were delicately drawnIn the gray east; when birds were wakingWith a low murmur in the trees,And melody by fits was breakingUpon the whisper of the breeze—And this when I was forth, perchance,As a worn reveller from the dance!And when the sun sprang gloriouslyAnd freely up, and hill and riverWere catching upon wave and treeThe arrows from his subtle quiver—I say a voice has thrilled me then,Heard on the still and rushing light,Or creeping from the silent glen,Like words from the departing night—Hath stricken me, and I have pressedOn the wet grass my fevered brow,And pouring forth the earliest,First prayer with which I learned to bow,Have felt my mother’s spirit rushUpon me as in by-past years,And yielding to the blessed gushOf my ungovernable tears,Have risen up—the gay, the wild—As humble as a very child!
I have been on the dewy hills
When night was stealing from the dawn,
And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn
In the gray east; when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees,
And melody by fits was breaking
Upon the whisper of the breeze—
And this when I was forth, perchance,
As a worn reveller from the dance!
And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver—
I say a voice has thrilled me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or creeping from the silent glen,
Like words from the departing night—
Hath stricken me, and I have pressed
On the wet grass my fevered brow,
And pouring forth the earliest,
First prayer with which I learned to bow,
Have felt my mother’s spirit rush
Upon me as in by-past years,
And yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up—the gay, the wild—
As humble as a very child!