 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
269
SONNETS.
271
LITTLE WE KNOW WHAT SECRET INFLUENCE.
Little we know what secret influenceA word, a glance, a casual tone may bring,
That, like the wind's breath on a chorded string,
May thrill the memory, touch the inner sense,
And waken dreams that come we know not whence;
Or like the light touch of a bird's swift wing,
The lake's still face a moment visiting,
Leave pulsing rings, when he has vanished thence.
You looked into my eyes an instant's space,
And all the boundaries of time and place
Broke down, and far into a world beyond
Of buried hopes and dreams my soul had sight,
Where dim desires long lost, and memories fond,
Rose in a soft mirage of tender light.
272
GLAD IS THE SUNSHINE.
Glad is the sunshine, perfect is the day,A pearl of days; a flawless chrysolite
The sky above us lifts its dome of light,
And loitering clouds along its blue fields stray,
Unshepherded by winds that far away
Are sleeping in their caves. This pure delight,
This silent, peaceful gladness infinite,
Is troubled by no sorrow, no dismay.
Yes, for o'er all the shadow of a fear
Is brooding, that the restless spirit knows,
The doubting human spirit that forecasts,
Even in the brightest that surrounds us here,
The inevitable change,—for naught life knows
Is fixed and permanent, naught lives that lasts.
273
THE MIGHTY MAKERS.
I.
Whose are those forms august that, in the pressAnd busy blames and praises of to-day,
Stand so serene above life's fierce affray
With ever youthful strength and loveliness?
Those are the mighty makers, whom no stress
Of time can shame, nor fashion sweep away,
Whom art begot on nature in the play
Of healthy passion, scorning base excess.
Rising perchance in mists, and half obscure
When up the horizon of their age they came,
Brighter with years they shine in steadier light,
Great constellations that will aye endure,
Though myriad meteors of ephemeral fame
Across them flash, to vanish into night.
II.
Such was our Chaucer in the early primeOf English verse, who held to Nature's hand
And walked serenely through its morning land,
Gladsome and hale, brushing its dewy rime.
And such was Shakespeare, whose strong soul could climb
274
Of passion's deeps, or over Fancy's strand
Trip with his fairies, keeping step and time.
His, too, the power to laugh out full and clear,
With unembittered joyance, and to move
Along the silent, shadowy paths of love
As tenderly as Dante, whose austere,
Stern spirit through the worlds below, above,
Unsmiling strode, to tell their tidings here.
275
EUROPA.
A PICTURE BY PAUL VERONESE.
Zephyr is wandering here with gentle soundThe first fresh fragrance of the spring to seek;
The milk-white steer, whose budding horns are crowned
With flowery garlands, kneeling on the ground
Receives his burden fair, and turns his sleek
Mild head around, her sandalled foot to lick;
Luxuriant, joyous, fresh, with roses bound
About her sunny head, and on her cheek
The glow of morn, Europa mounts the steer.
One handmaid clasps her girdle, and one calls
The hovering loves to bring their garlands near.
From her full breast the loosened drapery falls,
As borne by Love o'er slope and lea she goes,
Glad with exuberant life—fresh as a new-blown rose.
276
GIOTTO'S CHAPEL.
PADUA.
How sweet the mild retirement of this spot!This area, where the gladiator bled,
With turf and flowers is softly carpeted;
These girdling walls where later knighthood fought
Now draped with ivy stand, remembering not
Their scenes of former life. But here, instead,
The artist's steps in pilgrimage are led
To seek the shrine by Giotto's genius wrought.
Here, dedicate to art and piety,
His simple chapel stands; and painted here
Upon its walls a pictured life I see,
Inspired by feeling, earnest and sincere.
What faith, what simple dignity and grace
Art since hath lost, are in this cloistered place!
277
IT WOULD NOT SEEM TO ME ONE HALF SO STRANGE.
It would not seem to me one half so strangeTo see the door with one burst open wide,
And feel you once more bounding to my side
All full of Life and Joy, as seems this change
That hath upborne you from the senses' range
And left a blank that cannot be supplied,
And wreck and ruin where were joy and pride
And hope and love's perpetual interchange.
I crave to see you, hear you once again,
And nature has no more the charm to cheer;
The sunshine hurts me with a secret pain
I never knew when you were with us here.
Dear spirit! we are wretched and alone,
But yet I pray you cannot hear our moan.
Albano, April 3, 1854.
278
TIMON.
[I. What were we made for? If to struggle here]
What were we made for? If to struggle here,
To strive, to suffer, train each faculty
With many a pain, and then at last to die
With naught beyond, no fuller, larger sphere
Of onward going unto knowledge clear,—
How vain seems Life—betwixt a smile and sigh
Across Time's section of Infinity
Flitting a moment, but to disappear.
To strive, to suffer, train each faculty
With many a pain, and then at last to die
With naught beyond, no fuller, larger sphere
Of onward going unto knowledge clear,—
How vain seems Life—betwixt a smile and sigh
Across Time's section of Infinity
Flitting a moment, but to disappear.
It cannot be that the Almighty Power
Without our asking makes us thus the prey
Of pain, disease, death; for one little hour
To beat like some poor fly against the pane
Through which he sees the open, boundless day
Of perfect promise,—and but beats in vain.
Without our asking makes us thus the prey
Of pain, disease, death; for one little hour
To beat like some poor fly against the pane
Through which he sees the open, boundless day
Of perfect promise,—and but beats in vain.
[II. We are pursued by Fate; nothing on earth]
We are pursued by Fate; nothing on earth
Flowers into satisfaction; on the skirt
Of all temptation, hidden yet alert,
Hangs disappointment ready to spring forth
And jar with discord the clear song of mirth;
Even our best pleasure has the sting of hurt,
And prayers and tears are futile to avert
The Nemesis that haunts us from our birth.
Flowers into satisfaction; on the skirt
Of all temptation, hidden yet alert,
Hangs disappointment ready to spring forth
And jar with discord the clear song of mirth;
Even our best pleasure has the sting of hurt,
279
The Nemesis that haunts us from our birth.
Oh! what avail our struggles, who are caught
In Fate's inextricable web! In vain
Through the dark future our exhausted thought
Seeks for a resting place secure from pain;
Our Present crumbles 'neath us while we laugh,
Our Past has but a sigh for epitaph.
In Fate's inextricable web! In vain
Through the dark future our exhausted thought
Seeks for a resting place secure from pain;
Our Present crumbles 'neath us while we laugh,
Our Past has but a sigh for epitaph.
III. High as man's hopes may fly, he ever falls
High as man's hopes may fly, he ever falls
On his own shadow when on earth he alights.
Joy's exaltation, Love's upspringing flights,
Lift us in air but for brief intervals.
We are Earth's children, we are Nature's thralls,
Whom Discontent pursues, and black Care spites,
And Fancy lures, and Disappointment blights,
And Fortune drives about like random balls.
On his own shadow when on earth he alights.
Joy's exaltation, Love's upspringing flights,
Lift us in air but for brief intervals.
We are Earth's children, we are Nature's thralls,
Whom Discontent pursues, and black Care spites,
And Fancy lures, and Disappointment blights,
And Fortune drives about like random balls.
Nothing is good to us—such fools are we—
But what is lost or promised. Naught we know
So sweet as that dear song of “Long ago,”
So glad as that wild dream of “Yet to be.”
Will death unite the Future with the Past,
And clasp perfected Hope in Memory's arms at last?
But what is lost or promised. Naught we know
So sweet as that dear song of “Long ago,”
So glad as that wild dream of “Yet to be.”
Will death unite the Future with the Past,
And clasp perfected Hope in Memory's arms at last?
280
AFTER LONG DAYS OF DULL PERPETUAL RAIN.
After long days of dull perpetual rain,
And from gray skies, the sun at last shines bright,
And all the sparkling trees are glad with light,
And all the happy world laughs out again;
The sorrow is forgotten, past the pain;
For nature has no memory, feels the blight
Of no regret, nor mars the day's delight
With idle fears and hopes and longings vain.
And from gray skies, the sun at last shines bright,
And all the sparkling trees are glad with light,
And all the happy world laughs out again;
The sorrow is forgotten, past the pain;
For nature has no memory, feels the blight
Of no regret, nor mars the day's delight
With idle fears and hopes and longings vain.
Ah me! it is not so with us; the ghost
Of vanished joys pursues us everywhere;
We live as much in all that we have lost
As what we own; no present is so fair
That the best moment's sunlight is not crossed
By shadowy shapes of hope, and fear, and care.
Of vanished joys pursues us everywhere;
We live as much in all that we have lost
As what we own; no present is so fair
That the best moment's sunlight is not crossed
By shadowy shapes of hope, and fear, and care.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |