The Winter Wind, the wind of death,Who knocked upon my door,Now through the key-hole entereth,Invisible and hoar:He breathes around his icy breathAnd treads the flickering floor.I heard him, wandering in the night,Tap at my window pane,With ghostly fingers, snowy white,I heard him tug in vain,Until the shuddering candle-lightDid cringe with fear and strain.The fire, awakened by his voice,Leapt up with frantic arms,Like some wild babe that greets, with noise,Its father home who storms,With rosy gestures that rejoiceAnd crimson kiss that warms.Now in the hearth he sits and, drownedAmong the ashes, blows;Or through the room goes stealing roundOn cautious-stepping toes,Deep-mantled in the drowsy soundOf night that sleets and snows.And oft, like some thin fairy-thing,The stormy hush amid,I hear his captive trebles ringBeneath the kettle’s lid;Or now a harp of elfland stringIn some dark cranny hid.Again I hear him, imp-like, whine,Cramped in the gusty flue;Or knotted in the resinous pineRaise goblin cry and hue,While through the smoke his eyeballs shine,A sooty red and blue.At last I hear him, nearing dawn,Take up his roaring broom,And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn,And from the heavens the gloom,To show the gaunt world lying wan,And morn’s cold rose a-bloom.
The Winter Wind, the wind of death,Who knocked upon my door,Now through the key-hole entereth,Invisible and hoar:He breathes around his icy breathAnd treads the flickering floor.I heard him, wandering in the night,Tap at my window pane,With ghostly fingers, snowy white,I heard him tug in vain,Until the shuddering candle-lightDid cringe with fear and strain.The fire, awakened by his voice,Leapt up with frantic arms,Like some wild babe that greets, with noise,Its father home who storms,With rosy gestures that rejoiceAnd crimson kiss that warms.Now in the hearth he sits and, drownedAmong the ashes, blows;Or through the room goes stealing roundOn cautious-stepping toes,Deep-mantled in the drowsy soundOf night that sleets and snows.And oft, like some thin fairy-thing,The stormy hush amid,I hear his captive trebles ringBeneath the kettle’s lid;Or now a harp of elfland stringIn some dark cranny hid.Again I hear him, imp-like, whine,Cramped in the gusty flue;Or knotted in the resinous pineRaise goblin cry and hue,While through the smoke his eyeballs shine,A sooty red and blue.At last I hear him, nearing dawn,Take up his roaring broom,And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn,And from the heavens the gloom,To show the gaunt world lying wan,And morn’s cold rose a-bloom.
The Winter Wind, the wind of death,Who knocked upon my door,Now through the key-hole entereth,Invisible and hoar:He breathes around his icy breathAnd treads the flickering floor.
I heard him, wandering in the night,Tap at my window pane,With ghostly fingers, snowy white,I heard him tug in vain,Until the shuddering candle-lightDid cringe with fear and strain.
The fire, awakened by his voice,Leapt up with frantic arms,Like some wild babe that greets, with noise,Its father home who storms,With rosy gestures that rejoiceAnd crimson kiss that warms.
Now in the hearth he sits and, drownedAmong the ashes, blows;Or through the room goes stealing roundOn cautious-stepping toes,Deep-mantled in the drowsy soundOf night that sleets and snows.
And oft, like some thin fairy-thing,The stormy hush amid,I hear his captive trebles ringBeneath the kettle’s lid;Or now a harp of elfland stringIn some dark cranny hid.
Again I hear him, imp-like, whine,Cramped in the gusty flue;Or knotted in the resinous pineRaise goblin cry and hue,While through the smoke his eyeballs shine,A sooty red and blue.
At last I hear him, nearing dawn,Take up his roaring broom,And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn,And from the heavens the gloom,To show the gaunt world lying wan,And morn’s cold rose a-bloom.
Small twilight singerOf dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer wingerOf dusk’s dim glimmer,How cool thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmerVibrate, soft-sighing,Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying.I stand and listen,And at thy song the garden-beds, that glistenWith rose and lily,Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly,Breathing around its cold and colorless breath,Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death.
Small twilight singerOf dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer wingerOf dusk’s dim glimmer,How cool thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmerVibrate, soft-sighing,Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying.I stand and listen,And at thy song the garden-beds, that glistenWith rose and lily,Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly,Breathing around its cold and colorless breath,Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death.
Small twilight singerOf dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer wingerOf dusk’s dim glimmer,How cool thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmerVibrate, soft-sighing,Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying.I stand and listen,And at thy song the garden-beds, that glistenWith rose and lily,Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly,Breathing around its cold and colorless breath,Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death.
I see thee quaintlyBeneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly—As thin as spangleOf cobwebbed rain—held up at airy angle;I hear thy tinkle,Thy fairy notes, the silvery stillness sprinkle;Investing whollyThe moonlight with divinest melancholy:Until, in seeming,I see the Spirit of the Summer dreamingAmid her ripened orchards, apple-strewn,Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.
I see thee quaintlyBeneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly—As thin as spangleOf cobwebbed rain—held up at airy angle;I hear thy tinkle,Thy fairy notes, the silvery stillness sprinkle;Investing whollyThe moonlight with divinest melancholy:Until, in seeming,I see the Spirit of the Summer dreamingAmid her ripened orchards, apple-strewn,Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.
I see thee quaintlyBeneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly—As thin as spangleOf cobwebbed rain—held up at airy angle;I hear thy tinkle,Thy fairy notes, the silvery stillness sprinkle;Investing whollyThe moonlight with divinest melancholy:Until, in seeming,I see the Spirit of the Summer dreamingAmid her ripened orchards, apple-strewn,Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.
As dewdrops beady,As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy:The vaguest vaporOf melody, now near; now, like some taperOf sound, far fading—Thou will-o’-wisp of music aye evading.Among the bowers,The fog-washed stalks of Autumn’s weeds and flowers,By hill and hollow,I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow—Thou jack-o’-lantern voice, thou elfin cry,Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die.
As dewdrops beady,As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy:The vaguest vaporOf melody, now near; now, like some taperOf sound, far fading—Thou will-o’-wisp of music aye evading.Among the bowers,The fog-washed stalks of Autumn’s weeds and flowers,By hill and hollow,I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow—Thou jack-o’-lantern voice, thou elfin cry,Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die.
As dewdrops beady,As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy:The vaguest vaporOf melody, now near; now, like some taperOf sound, far fading—Thou will-o’-wisp of music aye evading.Among the bowers,The fog-washed stalks of Autumn’s weeds and flowers,By hill and hollow,I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow—Thou jack-o’-lantern voice, thou elfin cry,Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die.
And when the franticWild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic;And walnuts scatterThe mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patterIn grove and forest,Like some frail grief, with the rude blast thou warrest,Sending thy slenderFar cry against the gale, that, rough, untender,Untouched of sorrow,Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrowShall find thee lying, tiny, cold and crushed,Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed.
And when the franticWild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic;And walnuts scatterThe mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patterIn grove and forest,Like some frail grief, with the rude blast thou warrest,Sending thy slenderFar cry against the gale, that, rough, untender,Untouched of sorrow,Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrowShall find thee lying, tiny, cold and crushed,Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed.
And when the franticWild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic;And walnuts scatterThe mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patterIn grove and forest,Like some frail grief, with the rude blast thou warrest,Sending thy slenderFar cry against the gale, that, rough, untender,Untouched of sorrow,Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrowShall find thee lying, tiny, cold and crushed,Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed.
When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams,And slow the hues of sunset die;When firefly and moth go by,And in still streams the new-moon gleams,A sickle in the sky:Then from the hills there comes a cry,The owlet’s cry:A shivering voice that sobs and screams,That, frightened, screams:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who rides through the dusk and dew,With a pair of horns,As thin as thorns,And face a bubble-blue?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams,And slow the hues of sunset die;When firefly and moth go by,And in still streams the new-moon gleams,A sickle in the sky:Then from the hills there comes a cry,The owlet’s cry:A shivering voice that sobs and screams,That, frightened, screams:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who rides through the dusk and dew,With a pair of horns,As thin as thorns,And face a bubble-blue?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams,And slow the hues of sunset die;When firefly and moth go by,And in still streams the new-moon gleams,A sickle in the sky:Then from the hills there comes a cry,The owlet’s cry:A shivering voice that sobs and screams,That, frightened, screams:—
“Who is it, who is it, who?Who rides through the dusk and dew,With a pair of horns,As thin as thorns,And face a bubble-blue?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When night has dulled the lily’s white,And opened wide the moonflower’s eyes,When pale mists rise and veil the skies,And round the height in whispering flightThe night wind sounds and sighs:Then in the woods again it cries,The owlet cries:A shivering voice that calls in fright,In maundering fright:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who walks with a shuffling shoe,’Mid the gusty trees,With a face none sees,And a form as ghostly too?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When night has dulled the lily’s white,And opened wide the moonflower’s eyes,When pale mists rise and veil the skies,And round the height in whispering flightThe night wind sounds and sighs:Then in the woods again it cries,The owlet cries:A shivering voice that calls in fright,In maundering fright:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who walks with a shuffling shoe,’Mid the gusty trees,With a face none sees,And a form as ghostly too?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When night has dulled the lily’s white,And opened wide the moonflower’s eyes,When pale mists rise and veil the skies,And round the height in whispering flightThe night wind sounds and sighs:Then in the woods again it cries,The owlet cries:A shivering voice that calls in fright,In maundering fright:—
“Who is it, who is it, who?Who walks with a shuffling shoe,’Mid the gusty trees,With a face none sees,And a form as ghostly too?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When midnight leans a listening earAnd tinkles on her insect lutes;When ’mid the roots the cricket flutes,And marsh and mere, now far, now near,A jack-o’-lantern foots:Then o’er the pool again it hoots,The owlet hoots:A voice that shivers as with fear,That cries in fear:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who creeps with his glow-worm crewAbove the mireWith a corpse-light fire,As only dead men do?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When midnight leans a listening earAnd tinkles on her insect lutes;When ’mid the roots the cricket flutes,And marsh and mere, now far, now near,A jack-o’-lantern foots:Then o’er the pool again it hoots,The owlet hoots:A voice that shivers as with fear,That cries in fear:—“Who is it, who is it, who?Who creeps with his glow-worm crewAbove the mireWith a corpse-light fire,As only dead men do?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
When midnight leans a listening earAnd tinkles on her insect lutes;When ’mid the roots the cricket flutes,And marsh and mere, now far, now near,A jack-o’-lantern foots:Then o’er the pool again it hoots,The owlet hoots:A voice that shivers as with fear,That cries in fear:—
“Who is it, who is it, who?Who creeps with his glow-worm crewAbove the mireWith a corpse-light fire,As only dead men do?Who, who, who!Who is it, who is it, who?”
He stands above all worldly schism,And, gazing over life’s abysm,Beholds, within the starry rangeOf heaven, laws of death and change,That, through his soul’s prophetic prism,Are turned to rainbows wild and strange.Through nature is his hope made surerOf that ideal, his allurer,By whom his life is upward drawnTo mount pale pinnacles of dawn,’Mid which all that is fairer, purerOf love and lore it comes upon.An alkahest, that makes gold metalOf dross, his mind is—where one petalOf one wild-rose will well outweighThe piled-up facts of every-day—Where commonplaces, there that settle,Are changed to things of heavenly ray.He climbs by steps of stars and flowers,Companioned of the spirit Hours,And sets his feet in pastures whereNo merely mortal feet may fare;And higher than the stars he towersThough lowly as the flowers there.His comrades are his own high fanciesAnd thoughts in which his soul romances;And every part of heaven or earthHe visits, lo, assumes new worth;And touched with loftier traits and trancesReshines as with a lovelier birth.He is the play, also the player;The word that’s said, likewise the sayer;And in the books of heart and headThere is no thing he has not read;Of time and tears he is the weigher,And mouthpiece ’twixt the quick and dead.He dies: but, mounting ever higher,Wings Phœnix-like from out his pyreAbove our mortal day and night,Clothed on with sempiternal light;And raimented in thought’s fine fireFlames on in everlasting flight.Unseen, yet seen, on heights of visions,Above all praise and world derisions,His spirit and his deathless broodOf dreams fare on, a multitude,While on the pillar of great missionsHis name and place are granite-hewed.
He stands above all worldly schism,And, gazing over life’s abysm,Beholds, within the starry rangeOf heaven, laws of death and change,That, through his soul’s prophetic prism,Are turned to rainbows wild and strange.Through nature is his hope made surerOf that ideal, his allurer,By whom his life is upward drawnTo mount pale pinnacles of dawn,’Mid which all that is fairer, purerOf love and lore it comes upon.An alkahest, that makes gold metalOf dross, his mind is—where one petalOf one wild-rose will well outweighThe piled-up facts of every-day—Where commonplaces, there that settle,Are changed to things of heavenly ray.He climbs by steps of stars and flowers,Companioned of the spirit Hours,And sets his feet in pastures whereNo merely mortal feet may fare;And higher than the stars he towersThough lowly as the flowers there.His comrades are his own high fanciesAnd thoughts in which his soul romances;And every part of heaven or earthHe visits, lo, assumes new worth;And touched with loftier traits and trancesReshines as with a lovelier birth.He is the play, also the player;The word that’s said, likewise the sayer;And in the books of heart and headThere is no thing he has not read;Of time and tears he is the weigher,And mouthpiece ’twixt the quick and dead.He dies: but, mounting ever higher,Wings Phœnix-like from out his pyreAbove our mortal day and night,Clothed on with sempiternal light;And raimented in thought’s fine fireFlames on in everlasting flight.Unseen, yet seen, on heights of visions,Above all praise and world derisions,His spirit and his deathless broodOf dreams fare on, a multitude,While on the pillar of great missionsHis name and place are granite-hewed.
He stands above all worldly schism,And, gazing over life’s abysm,Beholds, within the starry rangeOf heaven, laws of death and change,That, through his soul’s prophetic prism,Are turned to rainbows wild and strange.
Through nature is his hope made surerOf that ideal, his allurer,By whom his life is upward drawnTo mount pale pinnacles of dawn,’Mid which all that is fairer, purerOf love and lore it comes upon.
An alkahest, that makes gold metalOf dross, his mind is—where one petalOf one wild-rose will well outweighThe piled-up facts of every-day—Where commonplaces, there that settle,Are changed to things of heavenly ray.
He climbs by steps of stars and flowers,Companioned of the spirit Hours,And sets his feet in pastures whereNo merely mortal feet may fare;And higher than the stars he towersThough lowly as the flowers there.
His comrades are his own high fanciesAnd thoughts in which his soul romances;And every part of heaven or earthHe visits, lo, assumes new worth;And touched with loftier traits and trancesReshines as with a lovelier birth.
He is the play, also the player;The word that’s said, likewise the sayer;And in the books of heart and headThere is no thing he has not read;Of time and tears he is the weigher,And mouthpiece ’twixt the quick and dead.
He dies: but, mounting ever higher,Wings Phœnix-like from out his pyreAbove our mortal day and night,Clothed on with sempiternal light;And raimented in thought’s fine fireFlames on in everlasting flight.
Unseen, yet seen, on heights of visions,Above all praise and world derisions,His spirit and his deathless broodOf dreams fare on, a multitude,While on the pillar of great missionsHis name and place are granite-hewed.
The slender snail clings to the leafGray on its silvered underside;And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with briefBright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf,Her warm hands berry-dyed,Comes down the tanned Noontide.The pungent fragrance of the mintAnd pennyroyal drench her gown,That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tintAmong the thorns, and everywhere the glintOf gold and white and brownHer flowery steps waft down.The leaves, like hands with emerald veined,Along her way try their wild bestTo reach the jewel—whose hot hue was drainedFrom some rich rose that all the June contained—The butterfly, soft pressedUpon her sunny breast.Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom,She hangs upon the hillside brake,Smelling of warmth and of her breast’s perfume,And, lying in the citron-colored gloomBeside the lilied lake,She stares the buds awake.Or, with a smile, through watery deepsShe leads the oaring turtle’s legs;Or guides the crimson fin, that swims and sleeps,From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps;And to its nest’s green eggsThe reed-bird there that begs.Then ’mid the fields of unmown hayShe shows the bees where sweets are found;And points the butterflies, at airy play,And dragon-flies, along the water-way,Where honeyed flowers aboundFor them to flicker round.Or where ripe apples pelt with goldSome barn—around which, coned with snow,The wild-potato blooms—she mounts its oldMossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed,Lets her long glances glowInto the loft below.To show the mud-wasp at its cellSlenderly busy: swallows, too,Packing against a beam their nest’s clay shell;And crouching in the dark the owl as wellWith all her downy crewOf owlets gray of hue.These are her joys; and until duskLounging she walks where reapers reap,From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk,Rustling the corn within its silken husk,And driving down heav’n’s deepWhite herds of clouds like sheep.
The slender snail clings to the leafGray on its silvered underside;And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with briefBright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf,Her warm hands berry-dyed,Comes down the tanned Noontide.The pungent fragrance of the mintAnd pennyroyal drench her gown,That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tintAmong the thorns, and everywhere the glintOf gold and white and brownHer flowery steps waft down.The leaves, like hands with emerald veined,Along her way try their wild bestTo reach the jewel—whose hot hue was drainedFrom some rich rose that all the June contained—The butterfly, soft pressedUpon her sunny breast.Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom,She hangs upon the hillside brake,Smelling of warmth and of her breast’s perfume,And, lying in the citron-colored gloomBeside the lilied lake,She stares the buds awake.Or, with a smile, through watery deepsShe leads the oaring turtle’s legs;Or guides the crimson fin, that swims and sleeps,From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps;And to its nest’s green eggsThe reed-bird there that begs.Then ’mid the fields of unmown hayShe shows the bees where sweets are found;And points the butterflies, at airy play,And dragon-flies, along the water-way,Where honeyed flowers aboundFor them to flicker round.Or where ripe apples pelt with goldSome barn—around which, coned with snow,The wild-potato blooms—she mounts its oldMossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed,Lets her long glances glowInto the loft below.To show the mud-wasp at its cellSlenderly busy: swallows, too,Packing against a beam their nest’s clay shell;And crouching in the dark the owl as wellWith all her downy crewOf owlets gray of hue.These are her joys; and until duskLounging she walks where reapers reap,From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk,Rustling the corn within its silken husk,And driving down heav’n’s deepWhite herds of clouds like sheep.
The slender snail clings to the leafGray on its silvered underside;And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with briefBright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf,Her warm hands berry-dyed,Comes down the tanned Noontide.
The pungent fragrance of the mintAnd pennyroyal drench her gown,That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tintAmong the thorns, and everywhere the glintOf gold and white and brownHer flowery steps waft down.
The leaves, like hands with emerald veined,Along her way try their wild bestTo reach the jewel—whose hot hue was drainedFrom some rich rose that all the June contained—The butterfly, soft pressedUpon her sunny breast.
Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom,She hangs upon the hillside brake,Smelling of warmth and of her breast’s perfume,And, lying in the citron-colored gloomBeside the lilied lake,She stares the buds awake.
Or, with a smile, through watery deepsShe leads the oaring turtle’s legs;Or guides the crimson fin, that swims and sleeps,From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps;And to its nest’s green eggsThe reed-bird there that begs.
Then ’mid the fields of unmown hayShe shows the bees where sweets are found;And points the butterflies, at airy play,And dragon-flies, along the water-way,Where honeyed flowers aboundFor them to flicker round.
Or where ripe apples pelt with goldSome barn—around which, coned with snow,The wild-potato blooms—she mounts its oldMossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed,Lets her long glances glowInto the loft below.
To show the mud-wasp at its cellSlenderly busy: swallows, too,Packing against a beam their nest’s clay shell;And crouching in the dark the owl as wellWith all her downy crewOf owlets gray of hue.
These are her joys; and until duskLounging she walks where reapers reap,From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk,Rustling the corn within its silken husk,And driving down heav’n’s deepWhite herds of clouds like sheep.
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer!—dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoon—When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady-browed,Upon his sultry scythe—thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: ’midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes;No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;Sleepy the pastures with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep, and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer’s dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day’s peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness ’neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with wearinessDrops, and the hum of murmuring bees grows less?
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer!—dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoon—When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady-browed,Upon his sultry scythe—thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: ’midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes;No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;Sleepy the pastures with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep, and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer’s dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day’s peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness ’neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with wearinessDrops, and the hum of murmuring bees grows less?
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer!—dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoon—When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady-browed,Upon his sultry scythe—thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.
Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: ’midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes;No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.
Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;Sleepy the pastures with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep, and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.
Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer’s dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day’s peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness ’neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with wearinessDrops, and the hum of murmuring bees grows less?
Now ’tis the time when, tall,The long blue torches of the bellflower gleamAmong the trees; and, by the wooded stream,In many a fragrant ball,Blooms of the button-bush fall.Let us go forth and seekWoods where the wild plums redden and the beechPlumps its stout burrs; and, swelling, just in reach,The pawpaw, emerald-sleek,Ripens along the creek.Now ’tis the time when waysOf glimmering green flaunt white the giant plumesOf the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,—A blur of orange rays,—The butterfly-blossoms blaze.Let us go forth and hearThe spiral music that the locusts beat,And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,Dear to a country ear,The cricket’s summer cheer.Now golden celandineIs hairy hung with silvery sacs of seeds,And bugled o’er with freckled gold, like beads,Beneath the fox-grape vine,The jewel-weed’s blossoms shine.Let us go forth and seeThe dragon-and the butterfly, like gems,Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,Weighed down with many a bee,Nodding mellifluously.Now morns are full of song;The cat-bird and the red-bird and the jayUpon the hilltops rouse the ruddy day,Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,Lures their wild wings along.Now noons are full of dreams;The clouds of heaven and the wandering breezeFollow a vision; and the flowers and trees,The hills and fields and streams,Are lapped in mystic gleams.The nights are full of love;The stars and moon take up the golden taleOf the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,Mixing their fires above,Grow eloquent thereof.Such days are like a sighThat beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:Such nights are like the sweetness of a kissOn lips that half deny—The warm lips of July.
Now ’tis the time when, tall,The long blue torches of the bellflower gleamAmong the trees; and, by the wooded stream,In many a fragrant ball,Blooms of the button-bush fall.Let us go forth and seekWoods where the wild plums redden and the beechPlumps its stout burrs; and, swelling, just in reach,The pawpaw, emerald-sleek,Ripens along the creek.Now ’tis the time when waysOf glimmering green flaunt white the giant plumesOf the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,—A blur of orange rays,—The butterfly-blossoms blaze.Let us go forth and hearThe spiral music that the locusts beat,And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,Dear to a country ear,The cricket’s summer cheer.Now golden celandineIs hairy hung with silvery sacs of seeds,And bugled o’er with freckled gold, like beads,Beneath the fox-grape vine,The jewel-weed’s blossoms shine.Let us go forth and seeThe dragon-and the butterfly, like gems,Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,Weighed down with many a bee,Nodding mellifluously.Now morns are full of song;The cat-bird and the red-bird and the jayUpon the hilltops rouse the ruddy day,Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,Lures their wild wings along.Now noons are full of dreams;The clouds of heaven and the wandering breezeFollow a vision; and the flowers and trees,The hills and fields and streams,Are lapped in mystic gleams.The nights are full of love;The stars and moon take up the golden taleOf the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,Mixing their fires above,Grow eloquent thereof.Such days are like a sighThat beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:Such nights are like the sweetness of a kissOn lips that half deny—The warm lips of July.
Now ’tis the time when, tall,The long blue torches of the bellflower gleamAmong the trees; and, by the wooded stream,In many a fragrant ball,Blooms of the button-bush fall.
Let us go forth and seekWoods where the wild plums redden and the beechPlumps its stout burrs; and, swelling, just in reach,The pawpaw, emerald-sleek,Ripens along the creek.
Now ’tis the time when waysOf glimmering green flaunt white the giant plumesOf the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,—A blur of orange rays,—The butterfly-blossoms blaze.
Let us go forth and hearThe spiral music that the locusts beat,And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,Dear to a country ear,The cricket’s summer cheer.
Now golden celandineIs hairy hung with silvery sacs of seeds,And bugled o’er with freckled gold, like beads,Beneath the fox-grape vine,The jewel-weed’s blossoms shine.
Let us go forth and seeThe dragon-and the butterfly, like gems,Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,Weighed down with many a bee,Nodding mellifluously.
Now morns are full of song;The cat-bird and the red-bird and the jayUpon the hilltops rouse the ruddy day,Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,Lures their wild wings along.
Now noons are full of dreams;The clouds of heaven and the wandering breezeFollow a vision; and the flowers and trees,The hills and fields and streams,Are lapped in mystic gleams.
The nights are full of love;The stars and moon take up the golden taleOf the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,Mixing their fires above,Grow eloquent thereof.
Such days are like a sighThat beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:Such nights are like the sweetness of a kissOn lips that half deny—The warm lips of July.
From out the hills where twilight stands,Above the shadowy pasture-lands,With strained and strident cry,Beneath pale skies that sunset bands,The bull-bats fly.A cloud hangs over, strange of shape,And, colored like the half-ripe grape,Seems some uneven stainOn heaven’s azure, thin as crape,And blue as rain.By ways, that sunset’s sardonyxO’erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks,Through which the cattle came,The mullein stalks seem giant wicksOf downy flame.From woods no glimmer enters in,Above the streams that, wandering, winFrom out the violet hills,Those haunters of the dusk begin,The whippoorwills.Adown the dark the firefly marksIts flight in golden-emerald sparks;And, loosened from his chain,The shaggy watch-dog bounds and barks,And barks again.Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay;And now an owlet, far away,Cries twice or thrice, “T-o-o-w-h-o-o”;And cool dim moths of mottled grayFlit through the dew.The silence sounds its frog-bassoon,Where, on the woodland creek’s lagoon,Pale as a ghostly girlLost ’mid the trees, looks down the moonWith face of pearl.Within the shed where logs, late hewed,Smell forest-sweet, and chips of woodMake blurs of white and brown,The brood-hen cuddles her warm broodOf teetering down.The clattering guineas in the treeDin for a time; and quietlyThe hen-house, near the fence,Sleeps, save for some brief rivalryOf cocks and hens.A cow-bell tinkles by the rails,Where, streaming white in foaming pails,Milk makes an uddery sound;While overhead the black bat trailsAround and round.The night is still. The slow cows chewA drowsy cud. The bird that flewAnd sang is in its nest.It is the time of falling dew,Of dreams and rest.The brown bees sleep; and round the walk,The garden path, from stalk to stalkThe bungling beetle booms,Where two soft shadows stand and talkAmong the blooms.The stars are thick: the light is deadThat dyed the west: and Drowsyhead,Tuning his cricket-pipe,Nods, and some apple, round and red,Drops over-ripe.Now down the road, that shambles by,A window, shining like an eyeThrough climbing rose and gourd,Shows where Toil sups and these things lie—His heart and hoard.
From out the hills where twilight stands,Above the shadowy pasture-lands,With strained and strident cry,Beneath pale skies that sunset bands,The bull-bats fly.A cloud hangs over, strange of shape,And, colored like the half-ripe grape,Seems some uneven stainOn heaven’s azure, thin as crape,And blue as rain.By ways, that sunset’s sardonyxO’erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks,Through which the cattle came,The mullein stalks seem giant wicksOf downy flame.From woods no glimmer enters in,Above the streams that, wandering, winFrom out the violet hills,Those haunters of the dusk begin,The whippoorwills.Adown the dark the firefly marksIts flight in golden-emerald sparks;And, loosened from his chain,The shaggy watch-dog bounds and barks,And barks again.Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay;And now an owlet, far away,Cries twice or thrice, “T-o-o-w-h-o-o”;And cool dim moths of mottled grayFlit through the dew.The silence sounds its frog-bassoon,Where, on the woodland creek’s lagoon,Pale as a ghostly girlLost ’mid the trees, looks down the moonWith face of pearl.Within the shed where logs, late hewed,Smell forest-sweet, and chips of woodMake blurs of white and brown,The brood-hen cuddles her warm broodOf teetering down.The clattering guineas in the treeDin for a time; and quietlyThe hen-house, near the fence,Sleeps, save for some brief rivalryOf cocks and hens.A cow-bell tinkles by the rails,Where, streaming white in foaming pails,Milk makes an uddery sound;While overhead the black bat trailsAround and round.The night is still. The slow cows chewA drowsy cud. The bird that flewAnd sang is in its nest.It is the time of falling dew,Of dreams and rest.The brown bees sleep; and round the walk,The garden path, from stalk to stalkThe bungling beetle booms,Where two soft shadows stand and talkAmong the blooms.The stars are thick: the light is deadThat dyed the west: and Drowsyhead,Tuning his cricket-pipe,Nods, and some apple, round and red,Drops over-ripe.Now down the road, that shambles by,A window, shining like an eyeThrough climbing rose and gourd,Shows where Toil sups and these things lie—His heart and hoard.
From out the hills where twilight stands,Above the shadowy pasture-lands,With strained and strident cry,Beneath pale skies that sunset bands,The bull-bats fly.
A cloud hangs over, strange of shape,And, colored like the half-ripe grape,Seems some uneven stainOn heaven’s azure, thin as crape,And blue as rain.
By ways, that sunset’s sardonyxO’erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks,Through which the cattle came,The mullein stalks seem giant wicksOf downy flame.
From woods no glimmer enters in,Above the streams that, wandering, winFrom out the violet hills,Those haunters of the dusk begin,The whippoorwills.
Adown the dark the firefly marksIts flight in golden-emerald sparks;And, loosened from his chain,The shaggy watch-dog bounds and barks,And barks again.
Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay;And now an owlet, far away,Cries twice or thrice, “T-o-o-w-h-o-o”;And cool dim moths of mottled grayFlit through the dew.
The silence sounds its frog-bassoon,Where, on the woodland creek’s lagoon,Pale as a ghostly girlLost ’mid the trees, looks down the moonWith face of pearl.
Within the shed where logs, late hewed,Smell forest-sweet, and chips of woodMake blurs of white and brown,The brood-hen cuddles her warm broodOf teetering down.
The clattering guineas in the treeDin for a time; and quietlyThe hen-house, near the fence,Sleeps, save for some brief rivalryOf cocks and hens.
A cow-bell tinkles by the rails,Where, streaming white in foaming pails,Milk makes an uddery sound;While overhead the black bat trailsAround and round.
The night is still. The slow cows chewA drowsy cud. The bird that flewAnd sang is in its nest.It is the time of falling dew,Of dreams and rest.
The brown bees sleep; and round the walk,The garden path, from stalk to stalkThe bungling beetle booms,Where two soft shadows stand and talkAmong the blooms.
The stars are thick: the light is deadThat dyed the west: and Drowsyhead,Tuning his cricket-pipe,Nods, and some apple, round and red,Drops over-ripe.
Now down the road, that shambles by,A window, shining like an eyeThrough climbing rose and gourd,Shows where Toil sups and these things lie—His heart and hoard.
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdHeav’n’s hollow hive wane in her silvery light.Along the distance folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers;To strip the woods of wealth, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo’s pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet’s globes of gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:Now on frail threads of gossamerStringing slim pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow’rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystalled with stardew, over everything;While ’neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They wander and a moon-chill music drawFrom thin leaf-cricket flutes—the sweet,Dim dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdHeav’n’s hollow hive wane in her silvery light.Along the distance folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers;To strip the woods of wealth, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo’s pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet’s globes of gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:Now on frail threads of gossamerStringing slim pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow’rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystalled with stardew, over everything;While ’neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They wander and a moon-chill music drawFrom thin leaf-cricket flutes—the sweet,Dim dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdHeav’n’s hollow hive wane in her silvery light.
Along the distance folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.
All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers;To strip the woods of wealth, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.
I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:
Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo’s pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet’s globes of gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:
Now on frail threads of gossamerStringing slim pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow’rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystalled with stardew, over everything;
While ’neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They wander and a moon-chill music drawFrom thin leaf-cricket flutes—the sweet,Dim dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i’ the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o’-clock,And summer is near its close—It’s—Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i’ the skies,And summer is near its end—It’s—Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done—It’s—Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone—It’s—Oh, for the rock and the woodland lane,And the silence and stars and her lips again!When the weight of the apples breaks down the limbs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon’s broad boat in the heaven swims,And summer has spent its heat—It’s—Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i’ the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o’-clock,And summer is near its close—It’s—Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i’ the skies,And summer is near its end—It’s—Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done—It’s—Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone—It’s—Oh, for the rock and the woodland lane,And the silence and stars and her lips again!When the weight of the apples breaks down the limbs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon’s broad boat in the heaven swims,And summer has spent its heat—It’s—Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i’ the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o’-clock,And summer is near its close—It’s—Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!
When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i’ the skies,And summer is near its end—It’s—Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!
When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done—It’s—Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!
When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone—It’s—Oh, for the rock and the woodland lane,And the silence and stars and her lips again!
When the weight of the apples breaks down the limbs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon’s broad boat in the heaven swims,And summer has spent its heat—It’s—Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the great green hills;’Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.There is nothing that maketh my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:’Tis a burning bush whence God’s own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its starry slope:’Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with hope.There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel,That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us and healOur lives that are overwrought.
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the great green hills;’Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.There is nothing that maketh my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:’Tis a burning bush whence God’s own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its starry slope:’Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with hope.There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel,That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us and healOur lives that are overwrought.
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the great green hills;’Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.
There is nothing that maketh my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:’Tis a burning bush whence God’s own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.
There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its starry slope:’Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with hope.
There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel,That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us and healOur lives that are overwrought.
There is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything’s old; there is nothing that’s new,And so it will be while the world goes on.The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.With our mind’s small light in the dark we crawl,—Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,—Till the Power that made us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.’Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.
There is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything’s old; there is nothing that’s new,And so it will be while the world goes on.The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.With our mind’s small light in the dark we crawl,—Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,—Till the Power that made us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.’Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.
There is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything’s old; there is nothing that’s new,And so it will be while the world goes on.
The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.
We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.
No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.
With our mind’s small light in the dark we crawl,—Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,—Till the Power that made us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.
Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.
’Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.
There is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth’s mightier acts;Love is a fact, and ’tis love endures‘Though the world make wreck of all other facts.Through thought alone shall our age obtainAbove all ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to balanced Scales;The one is Love, and the other, Law,And their presence alone it is avails.For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and the moon made one.Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.
There is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth’s mightier acts;Love is a fact, and ’tis love endures‘Though the world make wreck of all other facts.Through thought alone shall our age obtainAbove all ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to balanced Scales;The one is Love, and the other, Law,And their presence alone it is avails.For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and the moon made one.Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.
There is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.
As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth’s mightier acts;Love is a fact, and ’tis love endures‘Though the world make wreck of all other facts.
Through thought alone shall our age obtainAbove all ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.
Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to balanced Scales;The one is Love, and the other, Law,And their presence alone it is avails.
For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and the moon made one.
Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.
Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.
Through ferns and moss the path wound toA hollow where the touch-me-notsSwung horns of honey filled with dew;And where—like footprints—violets blueAnd bluets made sweet sapphire blots,’Twas there that she had passed I knew.The grass, the very wildernessOn either side, breathed rapture ofHer passage: ’twas her hand or dressThat touched some tree—a slight caress—That made the wood-birds sing above;Her step that woke the flowers, I guess.I hurried, till across my way,Foam-footed, bounding through the wood,A brook, like some wild child at play,Went laughing loud its roundelay;And there upon its bank she stood,A sunbeam clad in forest gray.And when she saw me, all her faceBloomed like a wild-rose by the stream;And to my breast a moment’s spaceI gathered her; and all the placeSeemed conscious of some happy dreamCome true to add to Earth its grace:Some union, that was Heav’n’s intent—For which God made the world—the bliss,The love, that raised her innocentYoung face to mine that, smiling, bentAnd sealed her first words with a kiss—As Love might close his testament.
Through ferns and moss the path wound toA hollow where the touch-me-notsSwung horns of honey filled with dew;And where—like footprints—violets blueAnd bluets made sweet sapphire blots,’Twas there that she had passed I knew.The grass, the very wildernessOn either side, breathed rapture ofHer passage: ’twas her hand or dressThat touched some tree—a slight caress—That made the wood-birds sing above;Her step that woke the flowers, I guess.I hurried, till across my way,Foam-footed, bounding through the wood,A brook, like some wild child at play,Went laughing loud its roundelay;And there upon its bank she stood,A sunbeam clad in forest gray.And when she saw me, all her faceBloomed like a wild-rose by the stream;And to my breast a moment’s spaceI gathered her; and all the placeSeemed conscious of some happy dreamCome true to add to Earth its grace:Some union, that was Heav’n’s intent—For which God made the world—the bliss,The love, that raised her innocentYoung face to mine that, smiling, bentAnd sealed her first words with a kiss—As Love might close his testament.
Through ferns and moss the path wound toA hollow where the touch-me-notsSwung horns of honey filled with dew;And where—like footprints—violets blueAnd bluets made sweet sapphire blots,’Twas there that she had passed I knew.
The grass, the very wildernessOn either side, breathed rapture ofHer passage: ’twas her hand or dressThat touched some tree—a slight caress—That made the wood-birds sing above;Her step that woke the flowers, I guess.
I hurried, till across my way,Foam-footed, bounding through the wood,A brook, like some wild child at play,Went laughing loud its roundelay;And there upon its bank she stood,A sunbeam clad in forest gray.
And when she saw me, all her faceBloomed like a wild-rose by the stream;And to my breast a moment’s spaceI gathered her; and all the placeSeemed conscious of some happy dreamCome true to add to Earth its grace:
Some union, that was Heav’n’s intent—For which God made the world—the bliss,The love, that raised her innocentYoung face to mine that, smiling, bentAnd sealed her first words with a kiss—As Love might close his testament.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember whereThe willows used to screenThe water flowing fair?The mill-stream’s banks of greenWhere first our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember howFrom th’ old bridge we would lean—The bridge that’s broken now—To watch the minnows sheenThrough ripples of the Run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember, too,The old beech-tree, betweenWhose roots the windflowers grew?Where oft we sat at E’en,When stars were few or none,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The bark is grown aroundThe names I cut therein,And the true-love knot that bound;The love-knot, clear and clean,I carved when our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The roof of the farm-house grayIs fallen and mossy green;Its rafters rot away:The old path scarce is seenWhere oft our feet would run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Through each old tree and boughThe lone winds cry and keen—The place is haunted nowWith ghosts of what-has-been,And dreams of love-long-done,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,There, in your world of wealth,There, where you move a queen,Broken in heart and health,Does there ever rise a sceneOf days, your thought would shun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Here, ’mid the rose and rue,Would God that your grave were green,And I were lying, too!Here on the hill, I mean,Where oft we laughed in the sun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember whereThe willows used to screenThe water flowing fair?The mill-stream’s banks of greenWhere first our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember howFrom th’ old bridge we would lean—The bridge that’s broken now—To watch the minnows sheenThrough ripples of the Run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember, too,The old beech-tree, betweenWhose roots the windflowers grew?Where oft we sat at E’en,When stars were few or none,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The bark is grown aroundThe names I cut therein,And the true-love knot that bound;The love-knot, clear and clean,I carved when our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The roof of the farm-house grayIs fallen and mossy green;Its rafters rot away:The old path scarce is seenWhere oft our feet would run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Through each old tree and boughThe lone winds cry and keen—The place is haunted nowWith ghosts of what-has-been,And dreams of love-long-done,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,There, in your world of wealth,There, where you move a queen,Broken in heart and health,Does there ever rise a sceneOf days, your thought would shun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Here, ’mid the rose and rue,Would God that your grave were green,And I were lying, too!Here on the hill, I mean,Where oft we laughed in the sun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember whereThe willows used to screenThe water flowing fair?The mill-stream’s banks of greenWhere first our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember howFrom th’ old bridge we would lean—The bridge that’s broken now—To watch the minnows sheenThrough ripples of the Run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Do you remember, too,The old beech-tree, betweenWhose roots the windflowers grew?Where oft we sat at E’en,When stars were few or none,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The bark is grown aroundThe names I cut therein,And the true-love knot that bound;The love-knot, clear and clean,I carved when our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,The roof of the farm-house grayIs fallen and mossy green;Its rafters rot away:The old path scarce is seenWhere oft our feet would run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Through each old tree and boughThe lone winds cry and keen—The place is haunted nowWith ghosts of what-has-been,And dreams of love-long-done,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,There, in your world of wealth,There, where you move a queen,Broken in heart and health,Does there ever rise a sceneOf days, your thought would shun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?
Mamie Dean, ah, Mamie Dean,Here, ’mid the rose and rue,Would God that your grave were green,And I were lying, too!Here on the hill, I mean,Where oft we laughed in the sun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.