The carol in my heart I send to you:It comes from out the depths of brooding timeTo cheer and bless in every place and clime;To purge the false, to chasten and subdue;To lift the drooping life, inspire the trueTo nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.This anthem—which I sing in sonnet rhyme—Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!And now we fear no longer war's alarms,For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home:Christ took the little children in his armsAnd blessed them, saying, Suffer them to comeTo me that all the sons of men may findMy kingdom here within the child-like mind.
The carol in my heart I send to you:It comes from out the depths of brooding timeTo cheer and bless in every place and clime;To purge the false, to chasten and subdue;To lift the drooping life, inspire the trueTo nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.This anthem—which I sing in sonnet rhyme—Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!And now we fear no longer war's alarms,For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home:Christ took the little children in his armsAnd blessed them, saying, Suffer them to comeTo me that all the sons of men may findMy kingdom here within the child-like mind.
The carol in my heart I send to you:It comes from out the depths of brooding timeTo cheer and bless in every place and clime;To purge the false, to chasten and subdue;To lift the drooping life, inspire the trueTo nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.This anthem—which I sing in sonnet rhyme—Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!
And now we fear no longer war's alarms,For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home:Christ took the little children in his armsAnd blessed them, saying, Suffer them to comeTo me that all the sons of men may findMy kingdom here within the child-like mind.
O lyric muse, thou didst not tune aloneThe lyre that loving Orpheus smoteWith subtle touch, who struck the golden noteThat pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,And won again Eurydice his own;Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throatThat thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul;Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,And then he sang mankind a deathless song.But thou at last didst reach the lyric goalOf art in Tennyson's immortal theme.
O lyric muse, thou didst not tune aloneThe lyre that loving Orpheus smoteWith subtle touch, who struck the golden noteThat pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,And won again Eurydice his own;Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throatThat thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul;Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,And then he sang mankind a deathless song.But thou at last didst reach the lyric goalOf art in Tennyson's immortal theme.
O lyric muse, thou didst not tune aloneThe lyre that loving Orpheus smoteWith subtle touch, who struck the golden noteThat pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,And won again Eurydice his own;Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throatThat thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul;Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,And then he sang mankind a deathless song.But thou at last didst reach the lyric goalOf art in Tennyson's immortal theme.
To F. W. B. Family
Those scarlet days come back to me to-nightAcross the span of many happy years—Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.The world of science bursting on my sight,And words of wisdom falling on my ears,The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.Not all: three figures—Faith and Hope and Love—I see them still through years of mist and haze—Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken;And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,To-night I would not have them back again.
Those scarlet days come back to me to-nightAcross the span of many happy years—Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.The world of science bursting on my sight,And words of wisdom falling on my ears,The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.Not all: three figures—Faith and Hope and Love—I see them still through years of mist and haze—Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken;And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,To-night I would not have them back again.
Those scarlet days come back to me to-nightAcross the span of many happy years—Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.The world of science bursting on my sight,And words of wisdom falling on my ears,The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.
Not all: three figures—Faith and Hope and Love—I see them still through years of mist and haze—Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken;And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,To-night I would not have them back again.
Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!I will not boast the midnight of her hair,Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;I will not swear I have not seen her frown;She may be rich and proud and debonair,For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!I've gazed upon the stars of northern skiesAnd breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;I've listened to the boom of far-off seasOn mystic shores; I've seen the full moon riseThrough branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!
Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!I will not boast the midnight of her hair,Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;I will not swear I have not seen her frown;She may be rich and proud and debonair,For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!I've gazed upon the stars of northern skiesAnd breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;I've listened to the boom of far-off seasOn mystic shores; I've seen the full moon riseThrough branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!
Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!I will not boast the midnight of her hair,Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;I will not swear I have not seen her frown;She may be rich and proud and debonair,For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!
I've gazed upon the stars of northern skiesAnd breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;I've listened to the boom of far-off seasOn mystic shores; I've seen the full moon riseThrough branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!
The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;The tragedy of life he has not read,Or deems it but the comedy of fear:He never lifts his eyes above the groundTo gaze upon the glittering world of stars;The poet's richest music only marsThe rasping of the locust's strident sound.And yet I've never seen a wilder lightGlow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sightOf some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!
The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;The tragedy of life he has not read,Or deems it but the comedy of fear:He never lifts his eyes above the groundTo gaze upon the glittering world of stars;The poet's richest music only marsThe rasping of the locust's strident sound.And yet I've never seen a wilder lightGlow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sightOf some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!
The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;The tragedy of life he has not read,Or deems it but the comedy of fear:He never lifts his eyes above the groundTo gaze upon the glittering world of stars;The poet's richest music only marsThe rasping of the locust's strident sound.And yet I've never seen a wilder lightGlow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sightOf some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!
(To H. H. T.)
O soul responsive to the subtlest thoughtThat flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyreTo music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caughtLove's brimming cup that did her song inspire,Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,Who lived in better days when maidens wrought—To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymesIn memory of happy days of yore,Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,The charming rustic maid of olden timesFirst won our love, less for her lack of lore,Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.
O soul responsive to the subtlest thoughtThat flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyreTo music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caughtLove's brimming cup that did her song inspire,Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,Who lived in better days when maidens wrought—To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymesIn memory of happy days of yore,Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,The charming rustic maid of olden timesFirst won our love, less for her lack of lore,Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.
O soul responsive to the subtlest thoughtThat flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyreTo music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caughtLove's brimming cup that did her song inspire,Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,Who lived in better days when maidens wrought—
To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymesIn memory of happy days of yore,Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,The charming rustic maid of olden timesFirst won our love, less for her lack of lore,Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.
(To M. E. W.)
I dream to-night of happy childhood days;I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;The years come back when I was but a boy,And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;The moving pictures in the clouds above;The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love—All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,And those who wrought for us are waiting there:Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;Our fathers with the keys to all the creedsAre there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.
I dream to-night of happy childhood days;I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;The years come back when I was but a boy,And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;The moving pictures in the clouds above;The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love—All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,And those who wrought for us are waiting there:Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;Our fathers with the keys to all the creedsAre there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.
I dream to-night of happy childhood days;I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;The years come back when I was but a boy,And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;The moving pictures in the clouds above;The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love—All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!
And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,And those who wrought for us are waiting there:Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;Our fathers with the keys to all the creedsAre there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.
(To the Canterbury Club)
The merry band that started long agoUpon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,Were happy that a poet's pen divineInspired by all a genial wit can know,Or sympathetic human heart bestow,Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,Who worship at a holier shrine than they—The living temple of the sacred muse:May she who is our patron saint infuse,Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,To leave the world a noble heritage.
The merry band that started long agoUpon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,Were happy that a poet's pen divineInspired by all a genial wit can know,Or sympathetic human heart bestow,Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,Who worship at a holier shrine than they—The living temple of the sacred muse:May she who is our patron saint infuse,Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,To leave the world a noble heritage.
The merry band that started long agoUpon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,Were happy that a poet's pen divineInspired by all a genial wit can know,Or sympathetic human heart bestow,Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.
We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,Who worship at a holier shrine than they—The living temple of the sacred muse:May she who is our patron saint infuse,Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,To leave the world a noble heritage.
(To a Physician engaged to a Nurse)
When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaftDeep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,Then took three strands of raveled midnight skiesAnd strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,Thy doom, O son of Esculapius' craft,Was sealed:—the fatalest dart that fliesIs Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize—And now, physician, take thy healing draft.Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!Wondrous disease that no physician's artCan heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,—A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!
When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaftDeep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,Then took three strands of raveled midnight skiesAnd strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,Thy doom, O son of Esculapius' craft,Was sealed:—the fatalest dart that fliesIs Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize—And now, physician, take thy healing draft.Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!Wondrous disease that no physician's artCan heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,—A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!
When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaftDeep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,Then took three strands of raveled midnight skiesAnd strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,Thy doom, O son of Esculapius' craft,Was sealed:—the fatalest dart that fliesIs Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize—And now, physician, take thy healing draft.
Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!Wondrous disease that no physician's artCan heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,—A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!
He held the key to every mystic doorOf Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred riteOf druid, sage and seer; and loved the lightOf Babylonian and Assyrian lore:He saw old Enoch when he walked with God;He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead;He knew the Israelites whom Moses led;And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!And yet this man who gazed on gods and kings,And saw and felt whatever mortal can,Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man,A tender minister in humble things.He had a royal mind, a priestly ken;But best of all he loved and helped young men.
He held the key to every mystic doorOf Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred riteOf druid, sage and seer; and loved the lightOf Babylonian and Assyrian lore:He saw old Enoch when he walked with God;He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead;He knew the Israelites whom Moses led;And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!And yet this man who gazed on gods and kings,And saw and felt whatever mortal can,Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man,A tender minister in humble things.He had a royal mind, a priestly ken;But best of all he loved and helped young men.
He held the key to every mystic doorOf Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred riteOf druid, sage and seer; and loved the lightOf Babylonian and Assyrian lore:He saw old Enoch when he walked with God;He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead;He knew the Israelites whom Moses led;And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!
And yet this man who gazed on gods and kings,And saw and felt whatever mortal can,Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man,A tender minister in humble things.He had a royal mind, a priestly ken;But best of all he loved and helped young men.
The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow,The sword of Nero clanking at his side,His giant hand made crimson in the tideOf Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bowBefore the altar of the Prince of Peace.How long, O God in heaven, wilt thou bideThis mockery of the lowly Christ who diedThat sin and greed and enmity might cease?Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics,Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky,Nor bended knee before the crucifix,Nor any faith in form can sanctify;But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife,And Love, the incense of a noble life.
The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow,The sword of Nero clanking at his side,His giant hand made crimson in the tideOf Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bowBefore the altar of the Prince of Peace.How long, O God in heaven, wilt thou bideThis mockery of the lowly Christ who diedThat sin and greed and enmity might cease?Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics,Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky,Nor bended knee before the crucifix,Nor any faith in form can sanctify;But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife,And Love, the incense of a noble life.
The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow,The sword of Nero clanking at his side,His giant hand made crimson in the tideOf Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bowBefore the altar of the Prince of Peace.How long, O God in heaven, wilt thou bideThis mockery of the lowly Christ who diedThat sin and greed and enmity might cease?
Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics,Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky,Nor bended knee before the crucifix,Nor any faith in form can sanctify;But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife,And Love, the incense of a noble life.
Whence is thy song,Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;The dews of eve; the mists of morn;The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong—Ah! whence islifeten-thousand passions throng?—Thenceis thy song!Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,The passionate love of Juliet;Thy villainous art can weave a netWith shreds of song, that never yetHath lover escaped, however noble and pure.Ophelia's broken heart is thine,And Desdemona's, true and good;Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of bloodThat will not out in stain or line!Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!
Whence is thy song,Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;The dews of eve; the mists of morn;The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong—Ah! whence islifeten-thousand passions throng?—Thenceis thy song!Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,The passionate love of Juliet;Thy villainous art can weave a netWith shreds of song, that never yetHath lover escaped, however noble and pure.Ophelia's broken heart is thine,And Desdemona's, true and good;Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of bloodThat will not out in stain or line!Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!
Whence is thy song,Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;The dews of eve; the mists of morn;The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong—Ah! whence islifeten-thousand passions throng?—Thenceis thy song!
Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,The passionate love of Juliet;Thy villainous art can weave a netWith shreds of song, that never yetHath lover escaped, however noble and pure.Ophelia's broken heart is thine,And Desdemona's, true and good;Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of bloodThat will not out in stain or line!Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!
October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves is crowned;Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned,Her hair all golden in the haze:She sits upon a throne ablaze,Her limbs with royal robes are gowned—October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves encrownedBut now o'erwhelmed in sad amazeShe hears a far-off rising sound;The hills and booming seas resound;The plaintive wind her requiem plays—October, queen of autumn days.
October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves is crowned;Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned,Her hair all golden in the haze:She sits upon a throne ablaze,Her limbs with royal robes are gowned—October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves encrownedBut now o'erwhelmed in sad amazeShe hears a far-off rising sound;The hills and booming seas resound;The plaintive wind her requiem plays—October, queen of autumn days.
October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves is crowned;Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned,Her hair all golden in the haze:
She sits upon a throne ablaze,Her limbs with royal robes are gowned—October, queen of autumn days,With green and crimson leaves encrowned
But now o'erwhelmed in sad amazeShe hears a far-off rising sound;The hills and booming seas resound;The plaintive wind her requiem plays—October, queen of autumn days.
The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead—That scarlet power once England's dread;And lustful Henry's brutal sinHath slain the noble Catharine,—More stainless wife was never wed.Anne Boleyn shares the royal bedAnd wears upon her graceless headThe good queen's crown without chagrin—The play is o'er!A few brief months have swiftly sped,The faithless consort's blood is shed.What means the mighty noise within?The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?Jane Seymour's to the altar led,—The play is o'er!
The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead—That scarlet power once England's dread;And lustful Henry's brutal sinHath slain the noble Catharine,—More stainless wife was never wed.Anne Boleyn shares the royal bedAnd wears upon her graceless headThe good queen's crown without chagrin—The play is o'er!A few brief months have swiftly sped,The faithless consort's blood is shed.What means the mighty noise within?The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?Jane Seymour's to the altar led,—The play is o'er!
The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead—That scarlet power once England's dread;And lustful Henry's brutal sinHath slain the noble Catharine,—More stainless wife was never wed.
Anne Boleyn shares the royal bedAnd wears upon her graceless headThe good queen's crown without chagrin—The play is o'er!
A few brief months have swiftly sped,The faithless consort's blood is shed.What means the mighty noise within?The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?Jane Seymour's to the altar led,—The play is o'er!
His heart was pure: he loved the childThat dwelt among untrodden waysAnd dared to lift his voice in praiseOf humblest wight in highlands wild.Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,He sang in sympathetic lays—His heart was pure.The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,The daffodils, like elfin fays,The mystery of sunset hazeO'er barren moors, his pen beguiled—His heart was pure.
His heart was pure: he loved the childThat dwelt among untrodden waysAnd dared to lift his voice in praiseOf humblest wight in highlands wild.Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,He sang in sympathetic lays—His heart was pure.The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,The daffodils, like elfin fays,The mystery of sunset hazeO'er barren moors, his pen beguiled—His heart was pure.
His heart was pure: he loved the childThat dwelt among untrodden waysAnd dared to lift his voice in praiseOf humblest wight in highlands wild.
Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,He sang in sympathetic lays—His heart was pure.
The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,The daffodils, like elfin fays,The mystery of sunset hazeO'er barren moors, his pen beguiled—His heart was pure.
Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet,Teasing, tantalizing, madcap varlet,Glooming, glinting through the boughs,Making, breaking lover's vows;Dashing leader of the choir,Standing on the topmost spire,Scintillating song and fire,Calls me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!Daytime meteor trailing light,Like a shooting star at night—Just a moment of delight,Followed by a mad desire:But the flaming flash of scarlet,Tantalizing madcap varlet,Hiding from my aching sight—This time just a little nigher—Laughing from his leafy height,Mocks me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!
Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet,Teasing, tantalizing, madcap varlet,Glooming, glinting through the boughs,Making, breaking lover's vows;Dashing leader of the choir,Standing on the topmost spire,Scintillating song and fire,Calls me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!Daytime meteor trailing light,Like a shooting star at night—Just a moment of delight,Followed by a mad desire:But the flaming flash of scarlet,Tantalizing madcap varlet,Hiding from my aching sight—This time just a little nigher—Laughing from his leafy height,Mocks me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!
Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet,Teasing, tantalizing, madcap varlet,Glooming, glinting through the boughs,Making, breaking lover's vows;Dashing leader of the choir,Standing on the topmost spire,Scintillating song and fire,Calls me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!
Daytime meteor trailing light,Like a shooting star at night—Just a moment of delight,Followed by a mad desire:But the flaming flash of scarlet,Tantalizing madcap varlet,Hiding from my aching sight—This time just a little nigher—Laughing from his leafy height,Mocks me:Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!
Through purple haze of evening mountain mist,A spiral thread of dark blue smoke aroseFrom hidden cove and rugged steep defile;While like a ball of blood o'er some far magic isle,The sun a moment hung in deep repose,Above a placid sea of amethyst,In mystic prophecy of death and doom,—Then dropped and splashed the sky with crimson spray and spume!
Through purple haze of evening mountain mist,A spiral thread of dark blue smoke aroseFrom hidden cove and rugged steep defile;While like a ball of blood o'er some far magic isle,The sun a moment hung in deep repose,Above a placid sea of amethyst,In mystic prophecy of death and doom,—Then dropped and splashed the sky with crimson spray and spume!
Through purple haze of evening mountain mist,A spiral thread of dark blue smoke aroseFrom hidden cove and rugged steep defile;While like a ball of blood o'er some far magic isle,The sun a moment hung in deep repose,Above a placid sea of amethyst,In mystic prophecy of death and doom,—Then dropped and splashed the sky with crimson spray and spume!
His eyes divine were shot with lightLike flashes in a northern night,Magnetic gleam that wrought a spellOn whom its star-like shimmer fell—A spell of wonder and delight;—Enchantment such as gods exciteWith glowing depths of chrysolite,Or blooming beds of asphodel—His eyes divine!In metaphysics recondite,In realms of verse by royal rightOf Genevieve and ChristabelThe first upon the mystic shell;And yet his greatest charm and mightWere eyes divine!
His eyes divine were shot with lightLike flashes in a northern night,Magnetic gleam that wrought a spellOn whom its star-like shimmer fell—A spell of wonder and delight;—Enchantment such as gods exciteWith glowing depths of chrysolite,Or blooming beds of asphodel—His eyes divine!In metaphysics recondite,In realms of verse by royal rightOf Genevieve and ChristabelThe first upon the mystic shell;And yet his greatest charm and mightWere eyes divine!
His eyes divine were shot with lightLike flashes in a northern night,Magnetic gleam that wrought a spellOn whom its star-like shimmer fell—A spell of wonder and delight;—
Enchantment such as gods exciteWith glowing depths of chrysolite,Or blooming beds of asphodel—His eyes divine!
In metaphysics recondite,In realms of verse by royal rightOf Genevieve and ChristabelThe first upon the mystic shell;And yet his greatest charm and mightWere eyes divine!
In a pixy chariot, drawn,Not by deer, but elfin fawn,Thou hast come, Jack Frost and gone.Silently, unheralded,O'er the earth thy chariot sped;Dear Jack Frost, where hast thou fled?Thou the child's and poet's friend,Brings't us blessings without end,Joys the world can not transcend.Naught but beauty now remains—Flowers, ferns and fairy fanes,Wrought upon the window panes;Fields and forests all aglow,—Colors only thou dost know:How the heart doth overflow!Purple clusters thine and mine,Winter-wild and muscadine,Bursting with the wine of vine!Haws, persimmons, berries red,Nuts the earth have overspread—Dear Jack Frost, why hast thou fled?Old Chris we hail with all his boast,His jolly fun and merry cost,But oh, we love Jack Frost, Jack Frost!
In a pixy chariot, drawn,Not by deer, but elfin fawn,Thou hast come, Jack Frost and gone.Silently, unheralded,O'er the earth thy chariot sped;Dear Jack Frost, where hast thou fled?Thou the child's and poet's friend,Brings't us blessings without end,Joys the world can not transcend.Naught but beauty now remains—Flowers, ferns and fairy fanes,Wrought upon the window panes;Fields and forests all aglow,—Colors only thou dost know:How the heart doth overflow!Purple clusters thine and mine,Winter-wild and muscadine,Bursting with the wine of vine!Haws, persimmons, berries red,Nuts the earth have overspread—Dear Jack Frost, why hast thou fled?Old Chris we hail with all his boast,His jolly fun and merry cost,But oh, we love Jack Frost, Jack Frost!
In a pixy chariot, drawn,Not by deer, but elfin fawn,Thou hast come, Jack Frost and gone.
Silently, unheralded,O'er the earth thy chariot sped;Dear Jack Frost, where hast thou fled?
Thou the child's and poet's friend,Brings't us blessings without end,Joys the world can not transcend.
Naught but beauty now remains—Flowers, ferns and fairy fanes,Wrought upon the window panes;
Fields and forests all aglow,—Colors only thou dost know:How the heart doth overflow!
Purple clusters thine and mine,Winter-wild and muscadine,Bursting with the wine of vine!
Haws, persimmons, berries red,Nuts the earth have overspread—Dear Jack Frost, why hast thou fled?
Old Chris we hail with all his boast,His jolly fun and merry cost,But oh, we love Jack Frost, Jack Frost!
"Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,"O bird of whom the poets sing,O emblem of the noblest thingOf which mankind can boast!Didst thou but know thy image deckedThat which commands the world's respect,And makes kings kneel as slaves abjectTo it, their god, almost:Then thou wouldst soar to greater heightThan e'er attained by birds of flight,To show the eagle's power and might,With wings unfurled and stiff;And at that dizzy height surveyThe sea and land without dismay,Till weary, sink at close of dayUpon thy mountain cliff:And there secure from all the world,Nestle, with plumed wings closely furledThat sustained thee and o'er earth whirledThee with a haughty air.Ambitions would disturb thy dreams,The night air shudder with thy screams,And like the human soul that teemsWith vain-glorious care,Thy heart would ache, thy soul would long,To move the world, to sway the throng,Or be the hero of the songOf some great epic pen.'Tis well O bird that thou art freeTo soar the air, 'tis well with thee,'Tis well that thou hast eyes to see,But not the human ken.
"Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,"O bird of whom the poets sing,O emblem of the noblest thingOf which mankind can boast!Didst thou but know thy image deckedThat which commands the world's respect,And makes kings kneel as slaves abjectTo it, their god, almost:Then thou wouldst soar to greater heightThan e'er attained by birds of flight,To show the eagle's power and might,With wings unfurled and stiff;And at that dizzy height surveyThe sea and land without dismay,Till weary, sink at close of dayUpon thy mountain cliff:And there secure from all the world,Nestle, with plumed wings closely furledThat sustained thee and o'er earth whirledThee with a haughty air.Ambitions would disturb thy dreams,The night air shudder with thy screams,And like the human soul that teemsWith vain-glorious care,Thy heart would ache, thy soul would long,To move the world, to sway the throng,Or be the hero of the songOf some great epic pen.'Tis well O bird that thou art freeTo soar the air, 'tis well with thee,'Tis well that thou hast eyes to see,But not the human ken.
"Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,"O bird of whom the poets sing,O emblem of the noblest thingOf which mankind can boast!Didst thou but know thy image deckedThat which commands the world's respect,And makes kings kneel as slaves abjectTo it, their god, almost:
Then thou wouldst soar to greater heightThan e'er attained by birds of flight,To show the eagle's power and might,With wings unfurled and stiff;And at that dizzy height surveyThe sea and land without dismay,Till weary, sink at close of dayUpon thy mountain cliff:
And there secure from all the world,Nestle, with plumed wings closely furledThat sustained thee and o'er earth whirledThee with a haughty air.Ambitions would disturb thy dreams,The night air shudder with thy screams,And like the human soul that teemsWith vain-glorious care,
Thy heart would ache, thy soul would long,To move the world, to sway the throng,Or be the hero of the songOf some great epic pen.'Tis well O bird that thou art freeTo soar the air, 'tis well with thee,'Tis well that thou hast eyes to see,But not the human ken.
He came, proud monarch of the Land of Snows,Triumphant, in his argent chariot, deckedWith jewels mined in regions of the polar zones!He came! his fifty snowy steeds were swiftAs howling north-winds, and their flowing manesWere flecked with diamonds brighter than Brazilian stones!He came! To celebrate his triumph, firstHe spread a fleecy mantle o'er the earth—A frozen shroud symbolic of the Death he wrought.And then to every pendent branch he hungA glittering sword,—the tyrant's right to rule,—Demanding greater homage than ever warrior sought.More brilliant pageant than the Ice-King's inThe Land of Flowers, never graced returnOf oriental monarch from victorious wars.But oh! beneath the sparkle and the gleamOf crystal beauty beats an icy heart,And a sullen silence his splendid triumph mars;The waterfalls that leap from jutting ledgeIn happy song, are speechless as the tomb,And every melody that haunts the woods and streamsHas vanished from the earth, and Nature's voiceThat erstwhile woke the matin in the meadIs silent now as music of forgotten dreams.Back to thy home in the icy Land of Snows,O tyrant czar! No cringing southern heartPays honor to thy rich magnificence and power.Back with thy splendor and thy glistening gems!This is the land where every freeman bowsBut to the Queen alone, whose sceptre is the flower.Back, that our sovereign may usher inThe reign of love with sunshine and with song,And drive away the gloom from every southern hearth.Back rude invader! to Siberian climes!And let our royal daughter, Spring, returnTo fill with happiness and beauty all the earth.
He came, proud monarch of the Land of Snows,Triumphant, in his argent chariot, deckedWith jewels mined in regions of the polar zones!He came! his fifty snowy steeds were swiftAs howling north-winds, and their flowing manesWere flecked with diamonds brighter than Brazilian stones!He came! To celebrate his triumph, firstHe spread a fleecy mantle o'er the earth—A frozen shroud symbolic of the Death he wrought.And then to every pendent branch he hungA glittering sword,—the tyrant's right to rule,—Demanding greater homage than ever warrior sought.More brilliant pageant than the Ice-King's inThe Land of Flowers, never graced returnOf oriental monarch from victorious wars.But oh! beneath the sparkle and the gleamOf crystal beauty beats an icy heart,And a sullen silence his splendid triumph mars;The waterfalls that leap from jutting ledgeIn happy song, are speechless as the tomb,And every melody that haunts the woods and streamsHas vanished from the earth, and Nature's voiceThat erstwhile woke the matin in the meadIs silent now as music of forgotten dreams.Back to thy home in the icy Land of Snows,O tyrant czar! No cringing southern heartPays honor to thy rich magnificence and power.Back with thy splendor and thy glistening gems!This is the land where every freeman bowsBut to the Queen alone, whose sceptre is the flower.Back, that our sovereign may usher inThe reign of love with sunshine and with song,And drive away the gloom from every southern hearth.Back rude invader! to Siberian climes!And let our royal daughter, Spring, returnTo fill with happiness and beauty all the earth.
He came, proud monarch of the Land of Snows,Triumphant, in his argent chariot, deckedWith jewels mined in regions of the polar zones!He came! his fifty snowy steeds were swiftAs howling north-winds, and their flowing manesWere flecked with diamonds brighter than Brazilian stones!He came! To celebrate his triumph, firstHe spread a fleecy mantle o'er the earth—A frozen shroud symbolic of the Death he wrought.And then to every pendent branch he hungA glittering sword,—the tyrant's right to rule,—Demanding greater homage than ever warrior sought.
More brilliant pageant than the Ice-King's inThe Land of Flowers, never graced returnOf oriental monarch from victorious wars.But oh! beneath the sparkle and the gleamOf crystal beauty beats an icy heart,And a sullen silence his splendid triumph mars;The waterfalls that leap from jutting ledgeIn happy song, are speechless as the tomb,And every melody that haunts the woods and streamsHas vanished from the earth, and Nature's voiceThat erstwhile woke the matin in the meadIs silent now as music of forgotten dreams.
Back to thy home in the icy Land of Snows,O tyrant czar! No cringing southern heartPays honor to thy rich magnificence and power.Back with thy splendor and thy glistening gems!This is the land where every freeman bowsBut to the Queen alone, whose sceptre is the flower.Back, that our sovereign may usher inThe reign of love with sunshine and with song,And drive away the gloom from every southern hearth.Back rude invader! to Siberian climes!And let our royal daughter, Spring, returnTo fill with happiness and beauty all the earth.
Within the tented dome where pheasant rare,With brilliant plumage caught the public gaze,Or magpie won applause by vulgar phrasePicked up from idle crowd that thronged the fair,A pensive nightingale, unnoticed there,In silence sat and heard men's lavish praiseOf these, yet all unmindful dreamed of lays,In freedom she might pour upon the air.
Within the tented dome where pheasant rare,With brilliant plumage caught the public gaze,Or magpie won applause by vulgar phrasePicked up from idle crowd that thronged the fair,A pensive nightingale, unnoticed there,In silence sat and heard men's lavish praiseOf these, yet all unmindful dreamed of lays,In freedom she might pour upon the air.
Within the tented dome where pheasant rare,With brilliant plumage caught the public gaze,Or magpie won applause by vulgar phrasePicked up from idle crowd that thronged the fair,A pensive nightingale, unnoticed there,In silence sat and heard men's lavish praiseOf these, yet all unmindful dreamed of lays,In freedom she might pour upon the air.
Helen of Troy thy face was fair,And fair thy radiant golden hair,Thy form, in every molded part,But not thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy.Betrayed by Aphrodite's wiles,Oenone's life lost all its smiles,And tasted sorrow to the lees,When Paris sailed for sunset seas,Where reigned the queen of all the isles.Thy beauty, poignant as a dart,Drave god-like men to wild despair,And lit the skies with lurid glareBut oh, thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy!
Helen of Troy thy face was fair,And fair thy radiant golden hair,Thy form, in every molded part,But not thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy.Betrayed by Aphrodite's wiles,Oenone's life lost all its smiles,And tasted sorrow to the lees,When Paris sailed for sunset seas,Where reigned the queen of all the isles.Thy beauty, poignant as a dart,Drave god-like men to wild despair,And lit the skies with lurid glareBut oh, thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy!
Helen of Troy thy face was fair,And fair thy radiant golden hair,Thy form, in every molded part,But not thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy.
Betrayed by Aphrodite's wiles,Oenone's life lost all its smiles,And tasted sorrow to the lees,When Paris sailed for sunset seas,Where reigned the queen of all the isles.
Thy beauty, poignant as a dart,Drave god-like men to wild despair,And lit the skies with lurid glareBut oh, thy false and fickle heart,Helen of Troy!
Oh, the distant muffled tinklingOf the cow bells in the vale,When the dawning stars are twinklingAnd the silent dews are sprinklingFresh the daisies in the dale.How they flood the soul with musicSad as song of nightingale—Tinkling melodies of magic,Vague, uncertain, longing, tragic,—Just the cow bells in the vale!
Oh, the distant muffled tinklingOf the cow bells in the vale,When the dawning stars are twinklingAnd the silent dews are sprinklingFresh the daisies in the dale.How they flood the soul with musicSad as song of nightingale—Tinkling melodies of magic,Vague, uncertain, longing, tragic,—Just the cow bells in the vale!
Oh, the distant muffled tinklingOf the cow bells in the vale,When the dawning stars are twinklingAnd the silent dews are sprinklingFresh the daisies in the dale.How they flood the soul with musicSad as song of nightingale—Tinkling melodies of magic,Vague, uncertain, longing, tragic,—Just the cow bells in the vale!
It may not be quite orthodoxTo say so in society,And yet I think the hollyhocks,Of every known variety,That bloom and bless the humble home,Are sisters sweet of charity,—Fair nuns that wear a beauteous cowl,—God's priestesses unto the soulThat lives in righteous poverty.
It may not be quite orthodoxTo say so in society,And yet I think the hollyhocks,Of every known variety,That bloom and bless the humble home,Are sisters sweet of charity,—Fair nuns that wear a beauteous cowl,—God's priestesses unto the soulThat lives in righteous poverty.
It may not be quite orthodoxTo say so in society,And yet I think the hollyhocks,Of every known variety,That bloom and bless the humble home,Are sisters sweet of charity,—Fair nuns that wear a beauteous cowl,—God's priestesses unto the soulThat lives in righteous poverty.
Acrostic
Warm-heated bard, in thee I findInfinite soul, irradiant mind;Long-suffering worth and love refinedLent thee their ken.In Robert Burns the heart enshrinedE'en mice and men.
Warm-heated bard, in thee I findInfinite soul, irradiant mind;Long-suffering worth and love refinedLent thee their ken.In Robert Burns the heart enshrinedE'en mice and men.
Warm-heated bard, in thee I findInfinite soul, irradiant mind;Long-suffering worth and love refinedLent thee their ken.In Robert Burns the heart enshrinedE'en mice and men.
He knows Will Shakespeare's human heartAnd feels his godlike brain;And sings his soul a kindred partIn rondeau and quatrain.
He knows Will Shakespeare's human heartAnd feels his godlike brain;And sings his soul a kindred partIn rondeau and quatrain.
He knows Will Shakespeare's human heartAnd feels his godlike brain;And sings his soul a kindred partIn rondeau and quatrain.
'Tis early morn and on the greenThe children are at play;The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen,Their hearts are blithe and gay:A shadow flits across the scene—The hour has come that sadness brings,The master rings, the master rings,'Tis books!'Tis late at eve, and o'er the greenThe weary toilers pass;The shadows fall, the sky's serene,And dew is on the grass:A light breaks in upon the scene—The hour has come that gladness brings,The Master rings, the Master rings,'Tis books!
'Tis early morn and on the greenThe children are at play;The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen,Their hearts are blithe and gay:A shadow flits across the scene—The hour has come that sadness brings,The master rings, the master rings,'Tis books!'Tis late at eve, and o'er the greenThe weary toilers pass;The shadows fall, the sky's serene,And dew is on the grass:A light breaks in upon the scene—The hour has come that gladness brings,The Master rings, the Master rings,'Tis books!
'Tis early morn and on the greenThe children are at play;The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen,Their hearts are blithe and gay:A shadow flits across the scene—The hour has come that sadness brings,The master rings, the master rings,'Tis books!
'Tis late at eve, and o'er the greenThe weary toilers pass;The shadows fall, the sky's serene,And dew is on the grass:A light breaks in upon the scene—The hour has come that gladness brings,The Master rings, the Master rings,'Tis books!
Unvoic-ed songs that always dieOn the strings of the harp that gives them birth,The flutter of hope, a breath, a sigh,The song nor asks nor gives a why—The poet's song he deems most worth.
Unvoic-ed songs that always dieOn the strings of the harp that gives them birth,The flutter of hope, a breath, a sigh,The song nor asks nor gives a why—The poet's song he deems most worth.
Unvoic-ed songs that always dieOn the strings of the harp that gives them birth,The flutter of hope, a breath, a sigh,The song nor asks nor gives a why—The poet's song he deems most worth.
The silent music of the heart is sweetTo listen to. The slow and measured beatOf the imprisoned soul that finds a voiceIn melodious sound oft may rejoiceUs much; but that which sometimes plays on stringsToo fine to sympathize with words e'er singsThe sweetest melodies, though never heardExcept by ear of him whose soul is stirred.
The silent music of the heart is sweetTo listen to. The slow and measured beatOf the imprisoned soul that finds a voiceIn melodious sound oft may rejoiceUs much; but that which sometimes plays on stringsToo fine to sympathize with words e'er singsThe sweetest melodies, though never heardExcept by ear of him whose soul is stirred.
The silent music of the heart is sweetTo listen to. The slow and measured beatOf the imprisoned soul that finds a voiceIn melodious sound oft may rejoiceUs much; but that which sometimes plays on stringsToo fine to sympathize with words e'er singsThe sweetest melodies, though never heardExcept by ear of him whose soul is stirred.
In childhood's fairy hour I watched a bowThe Titian Sun had painted in the skies,And marveled at its wondrous hues and dyesAnd held my breath in silence at its glow;"The hand of God," I cried, "Divine, I know!"And at the thought the tears stood in my eyes.But when I heard that awful pack of liesAbout the pot of gold, I said, "'S that so!"
In childhood's fairy hour I watched a bowThe Titian Sun had painted in the skies,And marveled at its wondrous hues and dyesAnd held my breath in silence at its glow;"The hand of God," I cried, "Divine, I know!"And at the thought the tears stood in my eyes.But when I heard that awful pack of liesAbout the pot of gold, I said, "'S that so!"
In childhood's fairy hour I watched a bowThe Titian Sun had painted in the skies,And marveled at its wondrous hues and dyesAnd held my breath in silence at its glow;"The hand of God," I cried, "Divine, I know!"And at the thought the tears stood in my eyes.But when I heard that awful pack of liesAbout the pot of gold, I said, "'S that so!"
Down Lover's Lane the creamy sprayOf elder blooms enchants the way,And dappled shadows sport and play,Down Lover's Lane!Here happy redbirds glint and gloom,The wildrose sheds a sweet perfume,But death oft lurks in leaf and bloom,Down Lover's Lane!
Down Lover's Lane the creamy sprayOf elder blooms enchants the way,And dappled shadows sport and play,Down Lover's Lane!Here happy redbirds glint and gloom,The wildrose sheds a sweet perfume,But death oft lurks in leaf and bloom,Down Lover's Lane!
Down Lover's Lane the creamy sprayOf elder blooms enchants the way,And dappled shadows sport and play,Down Lover's Lane!Here happy redbirds glint and gloom,The wildrose sheds a sweet perfume,But death oft lurks in leaf and bloom,Down Lover's Lane!
Long years ago in childhood's hour.Beneath an old Beech Tree,A sweeter and a daintier flowerThan ever graced a lea,Unfolded all its beauteous bloomAnd shed its rich and rare perfumeAlone, alone for me.The dewdrop sparkling on the roseIs fresh and fair to see;I love the lily when it blowsAnd rocks the cradled bee;But fairer than the diamond dewOr lily, was the flower that grewBeneath the old Beech Tree.Rose-petaled with a golden fringe,And calyx to agree;A dash of sea-foam and a tingeOf sky in harmony;The subtile perfume sunny smiles,And sunnier love, though but a child's,Beneath an old Beech Tree.One morn I sought the cooling shadeWith heart as light and freeAs snowy whitecap ever playedUpon the bounding sea;But she, the fairy child, was gone,—The flower that grew for me alone—Beneath the old Beech Tree.The brooks still ran the hills amongAnd babbled on in glee;The birds still mated, loved and sungIn tuneful melody:But all the soul of song was lost;My flower had withered with the frostBeneath the old Beech Tree.The years ran on in golden sandsFor lovers rapidly;The flowers waved their magic wandsAnd smiled still joyously:But love's enchanting power was goneFor me whom Death had left aloneBeneath the old Beech Tree.
Long years ago in childhood's hour.Beneath an old Beech Tree,A sweeter and a daintier flowerThan ever graced a lea,Unfolded all its beauteous bloomAnd shed its rich and rare perfumeAlone, alone for me.The dewdrop sparkling on the roseIs fresh and fair to see;I love the lily when it blowsAnd rocks the cradled bee;But fairer than the diamond dewOr lily, was the flower that grewBeneath the old Beech Tree.Rose-petaled with a golden fringe,And calyx to agree;A dash of sea-foam and a tingeOf sky in harmony;The subtile perfume sunny smiles,And sunnier love, though but a child's,Beneath an old Beech Tree.One morn I sought the cooling shadeWith heart as light and freeAs snowy whitecap ever playedUpon the bounding sea;But she, the fairy child, was gone,—The flower that grew for me alone—Beneath the old Beech Tree.The brooks still ran the hills amongAnd babbled on in glee;The birds still mated, loved and sungIn tuneful melody:But all the soul of song was lost;My flower had withered with the frostBeneath the old Beech Tree.The years ran on in golden sandsFor lovers rapidly;The flowers waved their magic wandsAnd smiled still joyously:But love's enchanting power was goneFor me whom Death had left aloneBeneath the old Beech Tree.
Long years ago in childhood's hour.Beneath an old Beech Tree,A sweeter and a daintier flowerThan ever graced a lea,Unfolded all its beauteous bloomAnd shed its rich and rare perfumeAlone, alone for me.
The dewdrop sparkling on the roseIs fresh and fair to see;I love the lily when it blowsAnd rocks the cradled bee;But fairer than the diamond dewOr lily, was the flower that grewBeneath the old Beech Tree.
Rose-petaled with a golden fringe,And calyx to agree;A dash of sea-foam and a tingeOf sky in harmony;The subtile perfume sunny smiles,And sunnier love, though but a child's,Beneath an old Beech Tree.
One morn I sought the cooling shadeWith heart as light and freeAs snowy whitecap ever playedUpon the bounding sea;But she, the fairy child, was gone,—The flower that grew for me alone—Beneath the old Beech Tree.
The brooks still ran the hills amongAnd babbled on in glee;The birds still mated, loved and sungIn tuneful melody:But all the soul of song was lost;My flower had withered with the frostBeneath the old Beech Tree.
The years ran on in golden sandsFor lovers rapidly;The flowers waved their magic wandsAnd smiled still joyously:But love's enchanting power was goneFor me whom Death had left aloneBeneath the old Beech Tree.
The moonlight sifting through the leavesFell soft and silvery,As threads that sly Arachne weavesWith artful modesty;It fell and wove a mystic veilAbout her face; my cheek grew paleBeneath the Chestnut Tree.A breathless moment, all was still;A deep solemnityHung over earth,—and then a thrillOf love and mystery—An odor of a rare perfume,The sweetest flower that e'er did bloomBeneath the Chestnut Tree!The brooks now run the hills amongAnd babble on in glee;For love brought back the soul of songBeneath the Chestnut Tree;—Brought back, while moonlit breezes blewThe sweetest flower that ever grew,Alone, alone for me.
The moonlight sifting through the leavesFell soft and silvery,As threads that sly Arachne weavesWith artful modesty;It fell and wove a mystic veilAbout her face; my cheek grew paleBeneath the Chestnut Tree.A breathless moment, all was still;A deep solemnityHung over earth,—and then a thrillOf love and mystery—An odor of a rare perfume,The sweetest flower that e'er did bloomBeneath the Chestnut Tree!The brooks now run the hills amongAnd babble on in glee;For love brought back the soul of songBeneath the Chestnut Tree;—Brought back, while moonlit breezes blewThe sweetest flower that ever grew,Alone, alone for me.
The moonlight sifting through the leavesFell soft and silvery,As threads that sly Arachne weavesWith artful modesty;It fell and wove a mystic veilAbout her face; my cheek grew paleBeneath the Chestnut Tree.
A breathless moment, all was still;A deep solemnityHung over earth,—and then a thrillOf love and mystery—An odor of a rare perfume,The sweetest flower that e'er did bloomBeneath the Chestnut Tree!
The brooks now run the hills amongAnd babble on in glee;For love brought back the soul of songBeneath the Chestnut Tree;—Brought back, while moonlit breezes blewThe sweetest flower that ever grew,Alone, alone for me.