SONNETS.
Bring no more flowers and books and precious things!O speak no more of our beloved Art,Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderingsIn leafy refuge from this weary mart!Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart;Now every word a newer sadness brings!Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apartFrom verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings,Nor craves for more than food from day to day;So long bereft of wildwood joy and song,Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long,The music born within him dies away;Even the song he loved becomes a pain,Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.
Bring no more flowers and books and precious things!O speak no more of our beloved Art,Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderingsIn leafy refuge from this weary mart!Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart;Now every word a newer sadness brings!Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apartFrom verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings,Nor craves for more than food from day to day;So long bereft of wildwood joy and song,Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long,The music born within him dies away;Even the song he loved becomes a pain,Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.
Bring no more flowers and books and precious things!O speak no more of our beloved Art,Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderingsIn leafy refuge from this weary mart!Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart;Now every word a newer sadness brings!Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apartFrom verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings,Nor craves for more than food from day to day;So long bereft of wildwood joy and song,Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long,The music born within him dies away;Even the song he loved becomes a pain,Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.
Bring no more flowers and books and precious things!
O speak no more of our beloved Art,
Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderings
In leafy refuge from this weary mart!
Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart;
Now every word a newer sadness brings!
Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart
From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings,
Nor craves for more than food from day to day;
So long bereft of wildwood joy and song,
Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long,
The music born within him dies away;
Even the song he loved becomes a pain,
Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!Once, when the glorifying moon revealedHer who at evening by our pillow kneeled,—Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skiesFlown to her loves on wings of Paradise,—We looked to see the pinions half concealed.The Tuscan vines and olives will not yieldHer back to me, who loved her in this wise,And since have little known her, but have grownTo see another mother, tenderlyWatch over sleeping children of my own.Perchance the years have changed her: yet aloneThis picture lingers; still she seems to meThe fair young angel of my infancy.
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!Once, when the glorifying moon revealedHer who at evening by our pillow kneeled,—Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skiesFlown to her loves on wings of Paradise,—We looked to see the pinions half concealed.The Tuscan vines and olives will not yieldHer back to me, who loved her in this wise,And since have little known her, but have grownTo see another mother, tenderlyWatch over sleeping children of my own.Perchance the years have changed her: yet aloneThis picture lingers; still she seems to meThe fair young angel of my infancy.
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!Once, when the glorifying moon revealedHer who at evening by our pillow kneeled,—Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skiesFlown to her loves on wings of Paradise,—We looked to see the pinions half concealed.The Tuscan vines and olives will not yieldHer back to me, who loved her in this wise,And since have little known her, but have grownTo see another mother, tenderlyWatch over sleeping children of my own.Perchance the years have changed her: yet aloneThis picture lingers; still she seems to meThe fair young angel of my infancy.
She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled,—
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise,—
We looked to see the pinions half concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly
Watch over sleeping children of my own.
Perchance the years have changed her: yet alone
This picture lingers; still she seems to me
The fair young angel of my infancy.