 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
262
THE LOCUST.
Voice of Summer, hidden from the eye
In the sunny tree's green privacy,
Fiery locust—shrill again, again!
Drunk with sunshine—free of work and care,
Happy idler, while the world is fair,
Sing to us from out thy leafy lair,
Praise of idleness to soothe our pain.
In the sunny tree's green privacy,
Fiery locust—shrill again, again!
Drunk with sunshine—free of work and care,
Happy idler, while the world is fair,
Sing to us from out thy leafy lair,
Praise of idleness to soothe our pain.
What is hotter than that voice of thine!
Like a sunbeam stinging sharp and fine
Through the inmost chambers of the brain;
Burning with the noonday's sultry glare,
Shining dust and glassy simmering air,
Skies of brass, blear sands, and deserts bare,
Is the fierce sirocco of thy strain.
Like a sunbeam stinging sharp and fine
Through the inmost chambers of the brain;
Burning with the noonday's sultry glare,
Shining dust and glassy simmering air,
Skies of brass, blear sands, and deserts bare,
Is the fierce sirocco of thy strain.
Though the blinds are shut and all the room
Shrouded softly in a cool, half gloom,
Thy shrill voice the burning out-world sings,—
While the fig-tree scratches at the blind,
And the shadow of the grape spray, twined
Round the balcony, with every wind
Moves across the casement as it swings.
Shrouded softly in a cool, half gloom,
Thy shrill voice the burning out-world sings,—
While the fig-tree scratches at the blind,
And the shadow of the grape spray, twined
Round the balcony, with every wind
Moves across the casement as it swings.
263
Ah! how sweet that dear Italian tune
Thou art singing! In the burning noon
Dreams the shepherd by the ruined tomb—
On his staff he leans—the while his sheep
Round the wall's scant shadow nibbling creep,
And the bearded goats rear up and peep
Through the rifts and browse the poppy's bloom.
Thou art singing! In the burning noon
Dreams the shepherd by the ruined tomb—
On his staff he leans—the while his sheep
Round the wall's scant shadow nibbling creep,
And the bearded goats rear up and peep
Through the rifts and browse the poppy's bloom.
In the fields the peasant feels the sun
Beating more intolerably down
While thou singest as he panting stands
Breast high in the grain, or hid between
Trellised vines that o'er their cany screen
Topple, waving all their thick-leaved green,
Plucking purple grapes with double hands.
Beating more intolerably down
While thou singest as he panting stands
Breast high in the grain, or hid between
Trellised vines that o'er their cany screen
Topple, waving all their thick-leaved green,
Plucking purple grapes with double hands.
In the villa, checkered sun and shade
Spot the broken moss-rough balustrade,
And a silver network o'er the rail
Flashes from the basin's quivering tides.
Through the grass the sudden lizard slides
Up the wall, and stands with tremulous sides,
Gleaming in his green enamelled mail.
Spot the broken moss-rough balustrade,
And a silver network o'er the rail
Flashes from the basin's quivering tides.
Through the grass the sudden lizard slides
Up the wall, and stands with tremulous sides,
Gleaming in his green enamelled mail.
Now the sun the wasp-stung nectarine rots,
Freckles o'er the rusty apricots,
And distends the grape's thin skin with wine;
Now the glowing orange drops and breaks—
Apples strain their tight and shining cheeks,
And the smooth, green, lazy melon takes
Its siesta in the coiling vine.
Freckles o'er the rusty apricots,
And distends the grape's thin skin with wine;
Now the glowing orange drops and breaks—
Apples strain their tight and shining cheeks,
And the smooth, green, lazy melon takes
Its siesta in the coiling vine.
264
Childhood's voice is in thy fiery clirr,
Olden summer memories thou canst stir,
Golden visions we no more shall see:
Thou canst bid the pictured past arise
To the wanderer's heart, who dying lies,
Far from home, and to his closing eyes
Summon up its lost felicity.
Olden summer memories thou canst stir,
Golden visions we no more shall see:
Thou canst bid the pictured past arise
To the wanderer's heart, who dying lies,
Far from home, and to his closing eyes
Summon up its lost felicity.
Yes! he treads again the garden ground
Which his childish feet once pattered round;
Where the clustering oleanders tower—
Where, while rocking on its flowery stalk,
Bees he prisoned in the hollyhock,
Listening to their buzz of angry talk,
As they struggled in the crumpled flower.
Which his childish feet once pattered round;
Where the clustering oleanders tower—
Where, while rocking on its flowery stalk,
Bees he prisoned in the hollyhock,
Listening to their buzz of angry talk,
As they struggled in the crumpled flower.
There the sunflower's shield of brown and gold,
Flaming in the noonday gay and bold,
Topples on its tall o'erburdened stem;
There the currants hang their ruddy beads,
There its flower-globes the hydrangea spreads,
There the spicy pink its odor sheds
From its painted petals' fringèd hem.
Flaming in the noonday gay and bold,
Topples on its tall o'erburdened stem;
There the currants hang their ruddy beads,
There its flower-globes the hydrangea spreads,
There the spicy pink its odor sheds
From its painted petals' fringèd hem.
And a little hand is in his own
Whose warm pressure never more is known,
Who was taken in her childish bloom;
But those sunny curls still seem to float
On the air the while he hears thy note,
And her spirit wavers through his thought,
Like a sunbeam in a darkened room.
Whose warm pressure never more is known,
Who was taken in her childish bloom;
But those sunny curls still seem to float
On the air the while he hears thy note,
And her spirit wavers through his thought,
Like a sunbeam in a darkened room.
265
Voices full of wild and childish glee,
Faces he again shall never see,
Are around him while thy voice he hears.
And the ticking watch ticks not so loud
In that silent room that shutters shroud,
And the cautious figure o'er him bowed
Through his dying eyelids sees the tears.
Faces he again shall never see,
Are around him while thy voice he hears.
And the ticking watch ticks not so loud
In that silent room that shutters shroud,
And the cautious figure o'er him bowed
Through his dying eyelids sees the tears.
Chirp away, then, happy summer guest,
Bringing unto every human breast
Summer visions, early memories,—
Trill thy gauzy wings, and let us hear
Through the noon's intensest atmosphere
Thy fine clarion sounding shrilly clear,
Praise of summer idleness and ease.
Bringing unto every human breast
Summer visions, early memories,—
Trill thy gauzy wings, and let us hear
Through the noon's intensest atmosphere
Thy fine clarion sounding shrilly clear,
Praise of summer idleness and ease.
Castel Gandolfo, August, 1852.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |