Next I asked the evening-sky,Hanging out its lamps of fire;Saying, “Loved one, passed she by?Tell me, tell me, evening-sky!She, the star of my desire—Sister whom the Pleiads lost,And my soul’s high pentecost.”—But the sky made no reply.
Next I asked the evening-sky,Hanging out its lamps of fire;Saying, “Loved one, passed she by?Tell me, tell me, evening-sky!She, the star of my desire—Sister whom the Pleiads lost,And my soul’s high pentecost.”—But the sky made no reply.
Next I asked the evening-sky,Hanging out its lamps of fire;Saying, “Loved one, passed she by?Tell me, tell me, evening-sky!She, the star of my desire—Sister whom the Pleiads lost,And my soul’s high pentecost.”—But the sky made no reply.
Where is she? ah, where is she?She to whom both love and dutyBind me, yea, immortally.—Where is she? ah, where is she?Symbol of the Earth-soul’s beauty.I have lost her. Help my heartFind her! her, who is a partOf the pagan soul of me!
Where is she? ah, where is she?She to whom both love and dutyBind me, yea, immortally.—Where is she? ah, where is she?Symbol of the Earth-soul’s beauty.I have lost her. Help my heartFind her! her, who is a partOf the pagan soul of me!
Where is she? ah, where is she?She to whom both love and dutyBind me, yea, immortally.—Where is she? ah, where is she?Symbol of the Earth-soul’s beauty.I have lost her. Help my heartFind her! her, who is a partOf the pagan soul of me!
Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder’s sullen drumRumbling night’s hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting,—like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago,—avowed again,’Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder’s sullen drumRumbling night’s hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting,—like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago,—avowed again,’Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.
The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.
Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder’s sullen drumRumbling night’s hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting,—like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago,—avowed again,’Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again,With all the star-white Hours in her train,Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blendsA sprinkled amber with the showers that layTheir oblong emeralds on the leafy ends.Behold her bend with maiden-braided browsAbove the wildflower, sidewise with its strainOf dewy happiness, to kiss againEach drop to death; or, under rainy boughs,With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain,Gather the sparkles from the sycamore,To set within the coreOf crimson roses girdling her hips,Where each bud dreams and drips.Smoothing her blue-black hair,—where many a tuskOf iris flashes,—like the falchions keenOf Faery round blue banners of their Queen,—Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk,That haunts the spring, where all the moss is muskWith footsteps of the flowers on the banks?Or but a wild-bird voluble with thanks?Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepareA festival each weed’s invited to.Each bee is drunken with the honied air:And all the heaven is eloquent with blue.The wet hay glitters, and the harvesterTinkles his scythe,—as twinkling as the dew,—That shall not spareBlossom or brier in its sweeping path;And, ere it cut one swath,Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade?A Dryad’s lips, who slumbers in the shade?A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreathSlip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pullsThe chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls?A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breatheHer viewless presence near us, unafraid?Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wadeThe brook? whose wisdom knows no other songBut that the bird sings where it builds beneathThe wild-rose and sits singing all day long.Oh, let me sit with silence for a space,A little while forgetting that fierce partOf man that struggles in the toiling mart;Where God can look into my heart’s own heartFrom unsoiled heights made amiable with grace;And where the sermons that the old oaks keepCan steal into me.—And what better thenThan, turning to the moss a quiet face,To fall asleep? a little while to sleepAnd dream of wiser worlds and wiser men.
Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again,With all the star-white Hours in her train,Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blendsA sprinkled amber with the showers that layTheir oblong emeralds on the leafy ends.Behold her bend with maiden-braided browsAbove the wildflower, sidewise with its strainOf dewy happiness, to kiss againEach drop to death; or, under rainy boughs,With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain,Gather the sparkles from the sycamore,To set within the coreOf crimson roses girdling her hips,Where each bud dreams and drips.Smoothing her blue-black hair,—where many a tuskOf iris flashes,—like the falchions keenOf Faery round blue banners of their Queen,—Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk,That haunts the spring, where all the moss is muskWith footsteps of the flowers on the banks?Or but a wild-bird voluble with thanks?Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepareA festival each weed’s invited to.Each bee is drunken with the honied air:And all the heaven is eloquent with blue.The wet hay glitters, and the harvesterTinkles his scythe,—as twinkling as the dew,—That shall not spareBlossom or brier in its sweeping path;And, ere it cut one swath,Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade?A Dryad’s lips, who slumbers in the shade?A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreathSlip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pullsThe chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls?A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breatheHer viewless presence near us, unafraid?Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wadeThe brook? whose wisdom knows no other songBut that the bird sings where it builds beneathThe wild-rose and sits singing all day long.Oh, let me sit with silence for a space,A little while forgetting that fierce partOf man that struggles in the toiling mart;Where God can look into my heart’s own heartFrom unsoiled heights made amiable with grace;And where the sermons that the old oaks keepCan steal into me.—And what better thenThan, turning to the moss a quiet face,To fall asleep? a little while to sleepAnd dream of wiser worlds and wiser men.
Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again,With all the star-white Hours in her train,Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blendsA sprinkled amber with the showers that layTheir oblong emeralds on the leafy ends.Behold her bend with maiden-braided browsAbove the wildflower, sidewise with its strainOf dewy happiness, to kiss againEach drop to death; or, under rainy boughs,With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain,Gather the sparkles from the sycamore,To set within the coreOf crimson roses girdling her hips,Where each bud dreams and drips.
Smoothing her blue-black hair,—where many a tuskOf iris flashes,—like the falchions keenOf Faery round blue banners of their Queen,—Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk,That haunts the spring, where all the moss is muskWith footsteps of the flowers on the banks?Or but a wild-bird voluble with thanks?
Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepareA festival each weed’s invited to.Each bee is drunken with the honied air:And all the heaven is eloquent with blue.The wet hay glitters, and the harvesterTinkles his scythe,—as twinkling as the dew,—That shall not spareBlossom or brier in its sweeping path;And, ere it cut one swath,Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.
What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade?A Dryad’s lips, who slumbers in the shade?A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreathSlip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pullsThe chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls?A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breatheHer viewless presence near us, unafraid?Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wadeThe brook? whose wisdom knows no other songBut that the bird sings where it builds beneathThe wild-rose and sits singing all day long.
Oh, let me sit with silence for a space,A little while forgetting that fierce partOf man that struggles in the toiling mart;Where God can look into my heart’s own heartFrom unsoiled heights made amiable with grace;And where the sermons that the old oaks keepCan steal into me.—And what better thenThan, turning to the moss a quiet face,To fall asleep? a little while to sleepAnd dream of wiser worlds and wiser men.
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves,Torn from the wilderness of storm,Sweep westward like enormous leavesO’er field and farm.And in the west, on burning skies,Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,And deep their drifted thunder liesWith splendor flushed.The black turns gray, the gray turns gold;And sea’d in deeps of radiant rose,Summits of fire, manifold,They now repose.What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal!That have their source in loveliness,Through which the doubts I often feelGrow less and less.Through which I see that other night,That cloud called Death, transformed of LoveTo flame, and pointing with its lightTo life above.
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves,Torn from the wilderness of storm,Sweep westward like enormous leavesO’er field and farm.And in the west, on burning skies,Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,And deep their drifted thunder liesWith splendor flushed.The black turns gray, the gray turns gold;And sea’d in deeps of radiant rose,Summits of fire, manifold,They now repose.What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal!That have their source in loveliness,Through which the doubts I often feelGrow less and less.Through which I see that other night,That cloud called Death, transformed of LoveTo flame, and pointing with its lightTo life above.
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves,Torn from the wilderness of storm,Sweep westward like enormous leavesO’er field and farm.
And in the west, on burning skies,Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,And deep their drifted thunder liesWith splendor flushed.
The black turns gray, the gray turns gold;And sea’d in deeps of radiant rose,Summits of fire, manifold,They now repose.
What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal!That have their source in loveliness,Through which the doubts I often feelGrow less and less.
Through which I see that other night,That cloud called Death, transformed of LoveTo flame, and pointing with its lightTo life above.
What mines the morning heavens unfold!What far Alaskas of the skies!That, veined with elemental gold,Sierra on Sierra rise.Heap up the gold of all the world,The ore that makes men fools and slaves:What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,That rivers through the sunset’s caves.Search Earth for riches all who will,The gold that soils, that turns to dust—Mine be the wealth no thief can steal,The gold of Beauty naught can rust.
What mines the morning heavens unfold!What far Alaskas of the skies!That, veined with elemental gold,Sierra on Sierra rise.Heap up the gold of all the world,The ore that makes men fools and slaves:What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,That rivers through the sunset’s caves.Search Earth for riches all who will,The gold that soils, that turns to dust—Mine be the wealth no thief can steal,The gold of Beauty naught can rust.
What mines the morning heavens unfold!What far Alaskas of the skies!That, veined with elemental gold,Sierra on Sierra rise.
Heap up the gold of all the world,The ore that makes men fools and slaves:What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,That rivers through the sunset’s caves.
Search Earth for riches all who will,The gold that soils, that turns to dust—Mine be the wealth no thief can steal,The gold of Beauty naught can rust.
The clouds that tower in storm, that beatArterial thunder in their veins;The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,Their perfect faces from the plains,—All high, all lowly things of EarthFor no vague end have had their birth.Low strips of mist, that mesh the moonAbove the foaming waterfall;And mountains that God’s hand hath hewn,And forests where the great winds call,—Within the grasp of such as seeAre parts of a conspiracy;To seize the soul with beauty; holdThe heart with love: and thus fulfillWithin ourselves the Age of Gold,That never died, and never will,—As long as one true nature feelsThe wonders that the world reveals.
The clouds that tower in storm, that beatArterial thunder in their veins;The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,Their perfect faces from the plains,—All high, all lowly things of EarthFor no vague end have had their birth.Low strips of mist, that mesh the moonAbove the foaming waterfall;And mountains that God’s hand hath hewn,And forests where the great winds call,—Within the grasp of such as seeAre parts of a conspiracy;To seize the soul with beauty; holdThe heart with love: and thus fulfillWithin ourselves the Age of Gold,That never died, and never will,—As long as one true nature feelsThe wonders that the world reveals.
The clouds that tower in storm, that beatArterial thunder in their veins;The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,Their perfect faces from the plains,—All high, all lowly things of EarthFor no vague end have had their birth.
Low strips of mist, that mesh the moonAbove the foaming waterfall;And mountains that God’s hand hath hewn,And forests where the great winds call,—Within the grasp of such as seeAre parts of a conspiracy;
To seize the soul with beauty; holdThe heart with love: and thus fulfillWithin ourselves the Age of Gold,That never died, and never will,—As long as one true nature feelsThe wonders that the world reveals.
Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads,Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds,Singing a song of manly deeds,In the blossoming springtime weather:The heart in his bosom as high as the wordSaid to the sky by the mating bird,While the beat of an answering heart is heard,His heart and hers together.
Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads,Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds,Singing a song of manly deeds,In the blossoming springtime weather:The heart in his bosom as high as the wordSaid to the sky by the mating bird,While the beat of an answering heart is heard,His heart and hers together.
Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads,Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds,Singing a song of manly deeds,In the blossoming springtime weather:The heart in his bosom as high as the wordSaid to the sky by the mating bird,While the beat of an answering heart is heard,His heart and hers together.
Oh, the noonday heights, the sunlit heights,Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites,Singing a song of the work that requites,In the ripening summer weather:The soul in his body as light as the sighOf the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky,While he hears an answering soul reply,His soul and hers together.
Oh, the noonday heights, the sunlit heights,Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites,Singing a song of the work that requites,In the ripening summer weather:The soul in his body as light as the sighOf the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky,While he hears an answering soul reply,His soul and hers together.
Oh, the noonday heights, the sunlit heights,Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites,Singing a song of the work that requites,In the ripening summer weather:The soul in his body as light as the sighOf the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky,While he hears an answering soul reply,His soul and hers together.
Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales,Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails,Singing a song of the toil that he hails,In the fruitful autumn weather:In heart and in soul as free from fearsAs the first white star in the sky that appears,While the music of life and of love he hears,Her life and his together.
Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales,Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails,Singing a song of the toil that he hails,In the fruitful autumn weather:In heart and in soul as free from fearsAs the first white star in the sky that appears,While the music of life and of love he hears,Her life and his together.
Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales,Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails,Singing a song of the toil that he hails,In the fruitful autumn weather:In heart and in soul as free from fearsAs the first white star in the sky that appears,While the music of life and of love he hears,Her life and his together.
I have not seen her face, and yetShe is more sweet than anythingOf earth—than rose or violetThat winds of May and sunbeams bring.Of all we know, past or to come,That beauty holds within its net,She is the high compendium:And yet—I have not touched her robe, and stillShe is more dear than lyric wordsAnd music; or than strains that fillThe throbbing throats of forest birds.Of all we mean by poetry,That rules the soul and charms the will,She is the deep epitome:And still—She is my world: ah, pity me!A dream that flies whom I pursue:Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be,Who toil for Art and dare and do.The shadow-love for whom they sigh,The far ideal affinity,For whom they live and gladly die—Ah me!
I have not seen her face, and yetShe is more sweet than anythingOf earth—than rose or violetThat winds of May and sunbeams bring.Of all we know, past or to come,That beauty holds within its net,She is the high compendium:And yet—I have not touched her robe, and stillShe is more dear than lyric wordsAnd music; or than strains that fillThe throbbing throats of forest birds.Of all we mean by poetry,That rules the soul and charms the will,She is the deep epitome:And still—She is my world: ah, pity me!A dream that flies whom I pursue:Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be,Who toil for Art and dare and do.The shadow-love for whom they sigh,The far ideal affinity,For whom they live and gladly die—Ah me!
I have not seen her face, and yetShe is more sweet than anythingOf earth—than rose or violetThat winds of May and sunbeams bring.Of all we know, past or to come,That beauty holds within its net,She is the high compendium:And yet—
I have not touched her robe, and stillShe is more dear than lyric wordsAnd music; or than strains that fillThe throbbing throats of forest birds.Of all we mean by poetry,That rules the soul and charms the will,She is the deep epitome:And still—
She is my world: ah, pity me!A dream that flies whom I pursue:Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be,Who toil for Art and dare and do.The shadow-love for whom they sigh,The far ideal affinity,For whom they live and gladly die—Ah me!
There are three things of EarthThat help us moreThan those of heavenly birthThat all implore—Than Love or Faith or Hope,For which we strive and grope.The first one is Desire,—Who takes our handAnd fills our hearts with fireNone may withstand;—Through whom we’re lifted farAbove both moon and star.The second one is Dream,—Who leads our feetBy an immortal gleamTo visions sweet;—Through whom our forms put onDim attributes of dawn.The last of these is Toil,—Who maketh true,Within the world’s turmoilThe other two;—Through whom we may beholdOurselves with kings enrolled.
There are three things of EarthThat help us moreThan those of heavenly birthThat all implore—Than Love or Faith or Hope,For which we strive and grope.The first one is Desire,—Who takes our handAnd fills our hearts with fireNone may withstand;—Through whom we’re lifted farAbove both moon and star.The second one is Dream,—Who leads our feetBy an immortal gleamTo visions sweet;—Through whom our forms put onDim attributes of dawn.The last of these is Toil,—Who maketh true,Within the world’s turmoilThe other two;—Through whom we may beholdOurselves with kings enrolled.
There are three things of EarthThat help us moreThan those of heavenly birthThat all implore—Than Love or Faith or Hope,For which we strive and grope.
The first one is Desire,—Who takes our handAnd fills our hearts with fireNone may withstand;—Through whom we’re lifted farAbove both moon and star.
The second one is Dream,—Who leads our feetBy an immortal gleamTo visions sweet;—Through whom our forms put onDim attributes of dawn.
The last of these is Toil,—Who maketh true,Within the world’s turmoilThe other two;—Through whom we may beholdOurselves with kings enrolled.
As some warm moment of reposeIn one rich roseSums all the summer’s lovely bloomAnd pure perfume—So did her soul epitomizeAll hopes that make life wise,Who lies before us now with lidded eyes,Faith’s amaranth of truthCrowning her youth.
As some warm moment of reposeIn one rich roseSums all the summer’s lovely bloomAnd pure perfume—So did her soul epitomizeAll hopes that make life wise,Who lies before us now with lidded eyes,Faith’s amaranth of truthCrowning her youth.
As some warm moment of reposeIn one rich roseSums all the summer’s lovely bloomAnd pure perfume—So did her soul epitomizeAll hopes that make life wise,Who lies before us now with lidded eyes,Faith’s amaranth of truthCrowning her youth.
As some melodious note or strainMay so containAll of sweet music in one chord,Or lyric word—So did her loving heart suggestAll dreams that make life blessed,Who lies before us now with pulseless breast,Love’s asphodel of dutyCrowning her beauty.
As some melodious note or strainMay so containAll of sweet music in one chord,Or lyric word—So did her loving heart suggestAll dreams that make life blessed,Who lies before us now with pulseless breast,Love’s asphodel of dutyCrowning her beauty.
As some melodious note or strainMay so containAll of sweet music in one chord,Or lyric word—So did her loving heart suggestAll dreams that make life blessed,Who lies before us now with pulseless breast,Love’s asphodel of dutyCrowning her beauty.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleepThe twilight comes like a little goose-girl,Herding her owls with many “Tu-whoos,”Her little brown owls in the forest deep,Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,And gown of glimmering pearl.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep:This is the road to Rockaby Town.Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;Here you can buy any dream for a crown.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleepThe twilight comes like a little goose-girl,Herding her owls with many “Tu-whoos,”Her little brown owls in the forest deep,Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,And gown of glimmering pearl.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep:This is the road to Rockaby Town.Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;Here you can buy any dream for a crown.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleepThe twilight comes like a little goose-girl,Herding her owls with many “Tu-whoos,”Her little brown owls in the forest deep,Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,And gown of glimmering pearl.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep:This is the road to Rockaby Town.Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;Here you can buy any dream for a crown.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wearsA mantle of purple so old, so old!Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs,Up which you can see her come, silent of tread,On hoofs of pale silver and gold.Dream, dream, little one, dream:This is the way to Lullaby Land.Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream,Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand.Dream, dream, little one, dream;The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam,The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land.Over the sea, sweet, over the sand,Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wearsA mantle of purple so old, so old!Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs,Up which you can see her come, silent of tread,On hoofs of pale silver and gold.Dream, dream, little one, dream:This is the way to Lullaby Land.Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream,Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand.Dream, dream, little one, dream;The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam,The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land.Over the sea, sweet, over the sand,Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wearsA mantle of purple so old, so old!Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs,Up which you can see her come, silent of tread,On hoofs of pale silver and gold.
Dream, dream, little one, dream:This is the way to Lullaby Land.Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream,Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand.Dream, dream, little one, dream;The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam,The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land.Over the sea, sweet, over the sand,Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know,And each to the other is true, is true!And there on the moon through the heavens they ride,With the little brown owls all huddled a-row,Through meadows of heaven where, every side,Blossom the stars and the dew.Rest, rest, little one, rest:Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle.Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nestDeep in the heart of a song and a smile.Rest, rest, little one, rest;The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast,The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle.Out of the East, sweet, into the West,Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know,And each to the other is true, is true!And there on the moon through the heavens they ride,With the little brown owls all huddled a-row,Through meadows of heaven where, every side,Blossom the stars and the dew.Rest, rest, little one, rest:Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle.Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nestDeep in the heart of a song and a smile.Rest, rest, little one, rest;The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast,The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle.Out of the East, sweet, into the West,Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know,And each to the other is true, is true!And there on the moon through the heavens they ride,With the little brown owls all huddled a-row,Through meadows of heaven where, every side,Blossom the stars and the dew.
Rest, rest, little one, rest:Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle.Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nestDeep in the heart of a song and a smile.Rest, rest, little one, rest;The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast,The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle.Out of the East, sweet, into the West,Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat,’Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon,Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,A tawny horror coiling at her feet—Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like,Until her eyes shall bid him rise and strike.
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat,’Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon,Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,A tawny horror coiling at her feet—Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like,Until her eyes shall bid him rise and strike.
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat,’Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon,Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,A tawny horror coiling at her feet—Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like,Until her eyes shall bid him rise and strike.
All who have toiled for Art, who’ve won or lost,Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
All who have toiled for Art, who’ve won or lost,Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
All who have toiled for Art, who’ve won or lost,Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
How often in our search for joy belowHoping for happiness we chance on woe.
How often in our search for joy belowHoping for happiness we chance on woe.
How often in our search for joy belowHoping for happiness we chance on woe.
They who take courage from their own defeatAre victors too, no matter how much beat.
They who take courage from their own defeatAre victors too, no matter how much beat.
They who take courage from their own defeatAre victors too, no matter how much beat.
How often hope’s fair flower blooms richest whereThe soul was fertilized with black despair.
How often hope’s fair flower blooms richest whereThe soul was fertilized with black despair.
How often hope’s fair flower blooms richest whereThe soul was fertilized with black despair.
Those unrequited in their love who dieHave never drained life’s chief illusion dry.
Those unrequited in their love who dieHave never drained life’s chief illusion dry.
Those unrequited in their love who dieHave never drained life’s chief illusion dry.
Success allures us in the earth and skies:We seek to win her, but, too amorous,Mocking, she flees us.—Haply, were we wise,We should not strive and she would come to us.
Success allures us in the earth and skies:We seek to win her, but, too amorous,Mocking, she flees us.—Haply, were we wise,We should not strive and she would come to us.
Success allures us in the earth and skies:We seek to win her, but, too amorous,Mocking, she flees us.—Haply, were we wise,We should not strive and she would come to us.
Miranda-like, above the world she wavesThe wand of Prospero; and, beautiful,Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,—Lightning and Steam,—are her unwilling slaves.
Miranda-like, above the world she wavesThe wand of Prospero; and, beautiful,Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,—Lightning and Steam,—are her unwilling slaves.
Miranda-like, above the world she wavesThe wand of Prospero; and, beautiful,Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,—Lightning and Steam,—are her unwilling slaves.
Wild son of Heav’n, with laughter and alarm,Now east, now west, now north, now south he goes,Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm,And in the other, sunshine and a rose.
Wild son of Heav’n, with laughter and alarm,Now east, now west, now north, now south he goes,Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm,And in the other, sunshine and a rose.
Wild son of Heav’n, with laughter and alarm,Now east, now west, now north, now south he goes,Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm,And in the other, sunshine and a rose.
Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chastenethWith disappointments, so that this side death,Through suffering and failure, they know HellTo make them worthy in that Heaven to dwellOf Love’s attainment, where they come to beParts of its beauty and divinity.
Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chastenethWith disappointments, so that this side death,Through suffering and failure, they know HellTo make them worthy in that Heaven to dwellOf Love’s attainment, where they come to beParts of its beauty and divinity.
Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chastenethWith disappointments, so that this side death,Through suffering and failure, they know HellTo make them worthy in that Heaven to dwellOf Love’s attainment, where they come to beParts of its beauty and divinity.
Summer met Sleep at sunset,Dreaming within the south,—Drugged with his soul’s deep slumber,Red with her heart’s hot drouth,These are the drowsy kissesShe pressed upon his mouth.
Summer met Sleep at sunset,Dreaming within the south,—Drugged with his soul’s deep slumber,Red with her heart’s hot drouth,These are the drowsy kissesShe pressed upon his mouth.
Summer met Sleep at sunset,Dreaming within the south,—Drugged with his soul’s deep slumber,Red with her heart’s hot drouth,These are the drowsy kissesShe pressed upon his mouth.
There is no Paradise like that which liesDeep in the heavens of her azure eyes:There is no Eden here on Earth that glowsLike that which smiles rich in her mouth’s red rose.
There is no Paradise like that which liesDeep in the heavens of her azure eyes:There is no Eden here on Earth that glowsLike that which smiles rich in her mouth’s red rose.
There is no Paradise like that which liesDeep in the heavens of her azure eyes:There is no Eden here on Earth that glowsLike that which smiles rich in her mouth’s red rose.
To me not only does her soul suggestPalms and the peace of tropic shore and wood,But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.
To me not only does her soul suggestPalms and the peace of tropic shore and wood,But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.
To me not only does her soul suggestPalms and the peace of tropic shore and wood,But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.
The gladness of our Southern spring; the graceOf summer; and the dreaminess of fallAre parts of her sweet nature.—Such a faceWas Ruth’s, methinks, divinely spiritual.
The gladness of our Southern spring; the graceOf summer; and the dreaminess of fallAre parts of her sweet nature.—Such a faceWas Ruth’s, methinks, divinely spiritual.
The gladness of our Southern spring; the graceOf summer; and the dreaminess of fallAre parts of her sweet nature.—Such a faceWas Ruth’s, methinks, divinely spiritual.
My soul and I went walkingBeneath the moon of spring;The lilies pale were talking,We heard them murmuring.From dimly moonlit placesThey thrust long throats of white,And lifted fairy facesOf fragrant snow and light.Their language was an essence,Yet clear as any bird’s;And from it grew a presence,As music grows from words.A spirit born of silenceAnd chastity and dewAmong Elysian islandsWere not more white to view.A spirit born of fireAnd holiness and snow,Within the Heaven’s desire,Were not more pure to know.He smiled among them, liftingPale hands of prayer and peace—And through the moonlight, drifting,Came words to me like these:—“We are His lilies, lilies,Whose praises here we sing!We are the lilies, liliesOf Christ our Lord and King!”
My soul and I went walkingBeneath the moon of spring;The lilies pale were talking,We heard them murmuring.From dimly moonlit placesThey thrust long throats of white,And lifted fairy facesOf fragrant snow and light.Their language was an essence,Yet clear as any bird’s;And from it grew a presence,As music grows from words.A spirit born of silenceAnd chastity and dewAmong Elysian islandsWere not more white to view.A spirit born of fireAnd holiness and snow,Within the Heaven’s desire,Were not more pure to know.He smiled among them, liftingPale hands of prayer and peace—And through the moonlight, drifting,Came words to me like these:—“We are His lilies, lilies,Whose praises here we sing!We are the lilies, liliesOf Christ our Lord and King!”
My soul and I went walkingBeneath the moon of spring;The lilies pale were talking,We heard them murmuring.
From dimly moonlit placesThey thrust long throats of white,And lifted fairy facesOf fragrant snow and light.
Their language was an essence,Yet clear as any bird’s;And from it grew a presence,As music grows from words.
A spirit born of silenceAnd chastity and dewAmong Elysian islandsWere not more white to view.
A spirit born of fireAnd holiness and snow,Within the Heaven’s desire,Were not more pure to know.
He smiled among them, liftingPale hands of prayer and peace—And through the moonlight, drifting,Came words to me like these:—
“We are His lilies, lilies,Whose praises here we sing!We are the lilies, liliesOf Christ our Lord and King!”
Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,—Up and far up and over,—the heaven grew erubescent,Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn,Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament’s barbiton;And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems,And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hemsOf the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst,Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.
Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,—Up and far up and over,—the heaven grew erubescent,Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn,Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament’s barbiton;And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems,And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hemsOf the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst,Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.
Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,—Up and far up and over,—the heaven grew erubescent,Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn,Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament’s barbiton;And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems,And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hemsOf the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst,Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.
Then out of the splendor and richness, that burned like a magic stone,The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone,The pomp and the pageant of color, triumphal procession of glare,The sun, like a king in armor, breathing splendor from feet to hair,Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afarWhere the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring war:And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin’s fiery blade,The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade.
Then out of the splendor and richness, that burned like a magic stone,The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone,The pomp and the pageant of color, triumphal procession of glare,The sun, like a king in armor, breathing splendor from feet to hair,Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afarWhere the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring war:And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin’s fiery blade,The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade.
Then out of the splendor and richness, that burned like a magic stone,The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone,The pomp and the pageant of color, triumphal procession of glare,The sun, like a king in armor, breathing splendor from feet to hair,Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afarWhere the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring war:And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin’s fiery blade,The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade.
Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to even:And the stars like rafts went down; and the moon, like a ghost-ship driven,A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that dotted,With pearl and cameo, bays of the day,—her canvas webbed and rotted,—Lay lost in the gulf of heaven; while over her mixed and meltedThe beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted;The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and afterThe rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughterOf halcyon sapphire.—O Dawn! thou visible mirth,Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth!
Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to even:And the stars like rafts went down; and the moon, like a ghost-ship driven,A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that dotted,With pearl and cameo, bays of the day,—her canvas webbed and rotted,—Lay lost in the gulf of heaven; while over her mixed and meltedThe beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted;The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and afterThe rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughterOf halcyon sapphire.—O Dawn! thou visible mirth,Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth!
Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to even:And the stars like rafts went down; and the moon, like a ghost-ship driven,A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that dotted,With pearl and cameo, bays of the day,—her canvas webbed and rotted,—Lay lost in the gulf of heaven; while over her mixed and meltedThe beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted;The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and afterThe rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughterOf halcyon sapphire.—O Dawn! thou visible mirth,Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth!
No more to strip the roses fromThe rose-sprays of her porch’s place!—I dreamed last night that I was homeKissing a rose—her face.I must have smiled in sleep—who knows?—The rose-aroma filled the lane;I saw her white hand’s lifted roseThat welcomed home again.And yet when I awoke—so wan,My old face wet with icy tears—Somehow, it seems, she was not gone,Though dead now thirty years.
No more to strip the roses fromThe rose-sprays of her porch’s place!—I dreamed last night that I was homeKissing a rose—her face.I must have smiled in sleep—who knows?—The rose-aroma filled the lane;I saw her white hand’s lifted roseThat welcomed home again.And yet when I awoke—so wan,My old face wet with icy tears—Somehow, it seems, she was not gone,Though dead now thirty years.
No more to strip the roses fromThe rose-sprays of her porch’s place!—I dreamed last night that I was homeKissing a rose—her face.
I must have smiled in sleep—who knows?—The rose-aroma filled the lane;I saw her white hand’s lifted roseThat welcomed home again.
And yet when I awoke—so wan,My old face wet with icy tears—Somehow, it seems, she was not gone,Though dead now thirty years.
The clouds roll up and the clouds roll downOver the roofs of the little town;Out in the hills, where the pike winds byFields of clover and bottoms of rye,You will hear no sound but the barking coughOf the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off;You will hear no bird but the sapsuckérFar off in the forest,—that seems to purr,As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot,Like the docile back of an ocelot:You will see no thing but the shine and shadeOf briers that climb and of weeds that wadeThe glittering creeks of the heat, that fillsThe dusty road and the red-keel hills.—And all day long in the pennyroyalThe grasshoppers at their anvils toil;Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum,And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum;Tinkers who solder the silence and heatTo make the loneliness more complete.Around old rails where the blackberriesAre reddening ripe, and the bumblebeesAre a drowsy rustle of Summer’s skirts,And the bob-white’s wing is the fan she flirts;Under the hill, through the ironweedsAnd ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leadsThe path forgotten of all but one.Where elder-bushes are sick with sun,And wild raspberries branch big, blue veinsO’er the face of the rock where the old spring rainsIts sparkling splinters of molten sparOn the gravel bed where the tadpoles are,—You will find the pales of a fallen fence,And the tangled orchard and vineyard, denseWith the weedy neglect of thirty years.The garden there,—where the soft sky clearsLike an old sweet face that has dried its tears;—The garden-plot where the cabbage grewAnd the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blewBalloons of white by the melon patch;Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catchOblong amber and agate ballsGlobed of the sun in the frosty falls:Long rows of currants and gooseberries,And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees.And here was a nook for the princess-plumes,The snapdragons and the poppy-blooms,Quaint sweet-williams and pansy-flowers,And the morning-glories’ bewildered bowers,Tipping their cornucopias upFor the humming-birds that came to sup.And over it all was the Sabbath peaceOf the land whose lap was the love of these;And the old log-house where my innocence died,With my boyhood buried side by side.Shall a man with a face as withered and grayAs the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away,—Where the hornets haunt and the mortar dropsFrom the loosened logs of the clapboard tops;—Whom vice has aged as the rotting roomsThe rain where memories haunt the glooms;A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnarsIn the rasping hinge of the door that jars;A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flueWhere the swallows build the summer through;—Shall a man, I say, with the spider sinsThat the long years spin in the outs and insOf his soul, returning to see once moreHis boyhood’s home, where his life was poorWith toil and tears and their fretfulness,But rich with health and the hopes that blessThe unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth;Shall he not take comfort and know the truthIn its threadbare raiment of falsehood?—Yea!In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray,Like a pilgrim come to the shrine againOf the homely saints that shall soothe his pain,And arise and depart made clean again!
The clouds roll up and the clouds roll downOver the roofs of the little town;Out in the hills, where the pike winds byFields of clover and bottoms of rye,You will hear no sound but the barking coughOf the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off;You will hear no bird but the sapsuckérFar off in the forest,—that seems to purr,As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot,Like the docile back of an ocelot:You will see no thing but the shine and shadeOf briers that climb and of weeds that wadeThe glittering creeks of the heat, that fillsThe dusty road and the red-keel hills.—And all day long in the pennyroyalThe grasshoppers at their anvils toil;Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum,And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum;Tinkers who solder the silence and heatTo make the loneliness more complete.Around old rails where the blackberriesAre reddening ripe, and the bumblebeesAre a drowsy rustle of Summer’s skirts,And the bob-white’s wing is the fan she flirts;Under the hill, through the ironweedsAnd ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leadsThe path forgotten of all but one.Where elder-bushes are sick with sun,And wild raspberries branch big, blue veinsO’er the face of the rock where the old spring rainsIts sparkling splinters of molten sparOn the gravel bed where the tadpoles are,—You will find the pales of a fallen fence,And the tangled orchard and vineyard, denseWith the weedy neglect of thirty years.The garden there,—where the soft sky clearsLike an old sweet face that has dried its tears;—The garden-plot where the cabbage grewAnd the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blewBalloons of white by the melon patch;Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catchOblong amber and agate ballsGlobed of the sun in the frosty falls:Long rows of currants and gooseberries,And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees.And here was a nook for the princess-plumes,The snapdragons and the poppy-blooms,Quaint sweet-williams and pansy-flowers,And the morning-glories’ bewildered bowers,Tipping their cornucopias upFor the humming-birds that came to sup.And over it all was the Sabbath peaceOf the land whose lap was the love of these;And the old log-house where my innocence died,With my boyhood buried side by side.Shall a man with a face as withered and grayAs the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away,—Where the hornets haunt and the mortar dropsFrom the loosened logs of the clapboard tops;—Whom vice has aged as the rotting roomsThe rain where memories haunt the glooms;A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnarsIn the rasping hinge of the door that jars;A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flueWhere the swallows build the summer through;—Shall a man, I say, with the spider sinsThat the long years spin in the outs and insOf his soul, returning to see once moreHis boyhood’s home, where his life was poorWith toil and tears and their fretfulness,But rich with health and the hopes that blessThe unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth;Shall he not take comfort and know the truthIn its threadbare raiment of falsehood?—Yea!In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray,Like a pilgrim come to the shrine againOf the homely saints that shall soothe his pain,And arise and depart made clean again!
The clouds roll up and the clouds roll downOver the roofs of the little town;Out in the hills, where the pike winds byFields of clover and bottoms of rye,You will hear no sound but the barking coughOf the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off;You will hear no bird but the sapsuckérFar off in the forest,—that seems to purr,As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot,Like the docile back of an ocelot:You will see no thing but the shine and shadeOf briers that climb and of weeds that wadeThe glittering creeks of the heat, that fillsThe dusty road and the red-keel hills.—And all day long in the pennyroyalThe grasshoppers at their anvils toil;Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum,And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum;Tinkers who solder the silence and heatTo make the loneliness more complete.Around old rails where the blackberriesAre reddening ripe, and the bumblebeesAre a drowsy rustle of Summer’s skirts,And the bob-white’s wing is the fan she flirts;Under the hill, through the ironweedsAnd ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leadsThe path forgotten of all but one.Where elder-bushes are sick with sun,And wild raspberries branch big, blue veinsO’er the face of the rock where the old spring rainsIts sparkling splinters of molten sparOn the gravel bed where the tadpoles are,—You will find the pales of a fallen fence,And the tangled orchard and vineyard, denseWith the weedy neglect of thirty years.The garden there,—where the soft sky clearsLike an old sweet face that has dried its tears;—The garden-plot where the cabbage grewAnd the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blewBalloons of white by the melon patch;Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catchOblong amber and agate ballsGlobed of the sun in the frosty falls:Long rows of currants and gooseberries,And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees.And here was a nook for the princess-plumes,The snapdragons and the poppy-blooms,Quaint sweet-williams and pansy-flowers,And the morning-glories’ bewildered bowers,Tipping their cornucopias upFor the humming-birds that came to sup.And over it all was the Sabbath peaceOf the land whose lap was the love of these;And the old log-house where my innocence died,With my boyhood buried side by side.Shall a man with a face as withered and grayAs the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away,—Where the hornets haunt and the mortar dropsFrom the loosened logs of the clapboard tops;—Whom vice has aged as the rotting roomsThe rain where memories haunt the glooms;A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnarsIn the rasping hinge of the door that jars;A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flueWhere the swallows build the summer through;—Shall a man, I say, with the spider sinsThat the long years spin in the outs and insOf his soul, returning to see once moreHis boyhood’s home, where his life was poorWith toil and tears and their fretfulness,But rich with health and the hopes that blessThe unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth;Shall he not take comfort and know the truthIn its threadbare raiment of falsehood?—Yea!In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray,Like a pilgrim come to the shrine againOf the homely saints that shall soothe his pain,And arise and depart made clean again!
Years of care can not effaceVisions of the hills and treesClosing in its dam and race;Nor the mile-long memoriesOf the mill-stream’s lovely place.How the sunsets used to stainMirrors of the waters lyingUnder eaves made dark with rain!Where the red-bird, westward flying,Lit to try its song again.Dingles, hills and woods, and springs,Where we came in calm and storm,Swinging in the grapevine swings,Wading where the rocks were warm,With our fishing-nets and strings.Here the road plunged down the hill,Under ash and chinquapin,—Where the grasshoppers would drillEars of silence with their din,—To the willow-girdled mill.There the path beyond the fordTakes the woodside; just belowShallows that the lilies sword,Where the scarlet blossoms blowOf the trumpet-vine and gourd.Summer winds, that sink with heat,On the pelted waters winnowMoony petals that repeatCrescents, where the startled minnowBeats a glittering retreat.Summer winds that bear the scentOf the ironweed and mint,Weary with sweet freight and spent,On the deeper pools imprintStumbling steps, whose ripples dent.Summer winds, that split the huskOf the peach and nectarine,Trail along the amber duskHazy skirts of gold and green,Spilling balms of dew and musk.Where with balls of bursting juiceSummer sees the red wild-plumStrew the gravel; ripened loose,Autumn hears the pawpaw drumPlumpness on the rocks that bruise:There we found the water-beech,One forgotten August noon,With a hornet-nest in reach,—Like a fairyland balloon,Full of bustling fairy speech.Some invasion, sure, it was;For we heard the captains scold;Waspish cavalry a-buzz,—Troopers uniformed in gold,Sable-slashed,—to charge on us.Could I find the sedgy angle,Where the dragon-flies would turnSlender flittings into spangleOn the sunlight? or would burn—Where the berries made a tangle—Sparkling green and brassy blue;Rendezvousing, by the stream,Bands of elf-banditti, who,Brigands of the bloom and beam,Drunken were with honey-dew.Could I find the pond that layWhere vermilion blossoms showeredFragrance down the daisied way?That the sassafras emboweredWith the spice of early May?Could I find it—should I seek—The old mill? Its weather-beatenWheel and gable by the creek?With its warping roof; worm-eaten,Dusty rafters worn and weak.Where old shadows haunt old places,Loft and hopper, stair and bin;Ghostly with the dust that lacesWebs that usher phantoms in,Wistful with remembered faces.While the frogs’ grave litaniesDrowse in far-off antiphone,Supplicating, till the eyesOf dead friendships, long aloneIn the dusky corners,—rise.Moonbeams? or the twinkling tipOf a star? or, in the darklingTwilight, fireflies? there that dip—As if Night a myriad sparklingJewels from her hands let slip.Where, I dream, my youth still crosses,With a corn-sack for the meal,Through the sprinkled ferns and mosses,To the gray mill’s lichened wheel,Where the water drips and tosses.
Years of care can not effaceVisions of the hills and treesClosing in its dam and race;Nor the mile-long memoriesOf the mill-stream’s lovely place.How the sunsets used to stainMirrors of the waters lyingUnder eaves made dark with rain!Where the red-bird, westward flying,Lit to try its song again.Dingles, hills and woods, and springs,Where we came in calm and storm,Swinging in the grapevine swings,Wading where the rocks were warm,With our fishing-nets and strings.Here the road plunged down the hill,Under ash and chinquapin,—Where the grasshoppers would drillEars of silence with their din,—To the willow-girdled mill.There the path beyond the fordTakes the woodside; just belowShallows that the lilies sword,Where the scarlet blossoms blowOf the trumpet-vine and gourd.Summer winds, that sink with heat,On the pelted waters winnowMoony petals that repeatCrescents, where the startled minnowBeats a glittering retreat.Summer winds that bear the scentOf the ironweed and mint,Weary with sweet freight and spent,On the deeper pools imprintStumbling steps, whose ripples dent.Summer winds, that split the huskOf the peach and nectarine,Trail along the amber duskHazy skirts of gold and green,Spilling balms of dew and musk.Where with balls of bursting juiceSummer sees the red wild-plumStrew the gravel; ripened loose,Autumn hears the pawpaw drumPlumpness on the rocks that bruise:There we found the water-beech,One forgotten August noon,With a hornet-nest in reach,—Like a fairyland balloon,Full of bustling fairy speech.Some invasion, sure, it was;For we heard the captains scold;Waspish cavalry a-buzz,—Troopers uniformed in gold,Sable-slashed,—to charge on us.Could I find the sedgy angle,Where the dragon-flies would turnSlender flittings into spangleOn the sunlight? or would burn—Where the berries made a tangle—Sparkling green and brassy blue;Rendezvousing, by the stream,Bands of elf-banditti, who,Brigands of the bloom and beam,Drunken were with honey-dew.Could I find the pond that layWhere vermilion blossoms showeredFragrance down the daisied way?That the sassafras emboweredWith the spice of early May?Could I find it—should I seek—The old mill? Its weather-beatenWheel and gable by the creek?With its warping roof; worm-eaten,Dusty rafters worn and weak.Where old shadows haunt old places,Loft and hopper, stair and bin;Ghostly with the dust that lacesWebs that usher phantoms in,Wistful with remembered faces.While the frogs’ grave litaniesDrowse in far-off antiphone,Supplicating, till the eyesOf dead friendships, long aloneIn the dusky corners,—rise.Moonbeams? or the twinkling tipOf a star? or, in the darklingTwilight, fireflies? there that dip—As if Night a myriad sparklingJewels from her hands let slip.Where, I dream, my youth still crosses,With a corn-sack for the meal,Through the sprinkled ferns and mosses,To the gray mill’s lichened wheel,Where the water drips and tosses.
Years of care can not effaceVisions of the hills and treesClosing in its dam and race;Nor the mile-long memoriesOf the mill-stream’s lovely place.
How the sunsets used to stainMirrors of the waters lyingUnder eaves made dark with rain!Where the red-bird, westward flying,Lit to try its song again.
Dingles, hills and woods, and springs,Where we came in calm and storm,Swinging in the grapevine swings,Wading where the rocks were warm,With our fishing-nets and strings.
Here the road plunged down the hill,Under ash and chinquapin,—Where the grasshoppers would drillEars of silence with their din,—To the willow-girdled mill.
There the path beyond the fordTakes the woodside; just belowShallows that the lilies sword,Where the scarlet blossoms blowOf the trumpet-vine and gourd.
Summer winds, that sink with heat,On the pelted waters winnowMoony petals that repeatCrescents, where the startled minnowBeats a glittering retreat.
Summer winds that bear the scentOf the ironweed and mint,Weary with sweet freight and spent,On the deeper pools imprintStumbling steps, whose ripples dent.
Summer winds, that split the huskOf the peach and nectarine,Trail along the amber duskHazy skirts of gold and green,Spilling balms of dew and musk.
Where with balls of bursting juiceSummer sees the red wild-plumStrew the gravel; ripened loose,Autumn hears the pawpaw drumPlumpness on the rocks that bruise:
There we found the water-beech,One forgotten August noon,With a hornet-nest in reach,—Like a fairyland balloon,Full of bustling fairy speech.
Some invasion, sure, it was;For we heard the captains scold;Waspish cavalry a-buzz,—Troopers uniformed in gold,Sable-slashed,—to charge on us.
Could I find the sedgy angle,Where the dragon-flies would turnSlender flittings into spangleOn the sunlight? or would burn—Where the berries made a tangle—
Sparkling green and brassy blue;Rendezvousing, by the stream,Bands of elf-banditti, who,Brigands of the bloom and beam,Drunken were with honey-dew.
Could I find the pond that layWhere vermilion blossoms showeredFragrance down the daisied way?That the sassafras emboweredWith the spice of early May?
Could I find it—should I seek—The old mill? Its weather-beatenWheel and gable by the creek?With its warping roof; worm-eaten,Dusty rafters worn and weak.
Where old shadows haunt old places,Loft and hopper, stair and bin;Ghostly with the dust that lacesWebs that usher phantoms in,Wistful with remembered faces.
While the frogs’ grave litaniesDrowse in far-off antiphone,Supplicating, till the eyesOf dead friendships, long aloneIn the dusky corners,—rise.
Moonbeams? or the twinkling tipOf a star? or, in the darklingTwilight, fireflies? there that dip—As if Night a myriad sparklingJewels from her hands let slip.
Where, I dream, my youth still crosses,With a corn-sack for the meal,Through the sprinkled ferns and mosses,To the gray mill’s lichened wheel,Where the water drips and tosses.