 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
I would not pass from Earth.
1842.
I would not pass from Earth
In the sweet spring-time,
When all fair things have birth
In our Northland clime!
When the forest's song is new;
When the violet blooms in dew;
When the living woods are seen
In their first and freshest green;
When the laughing mead unfolds
A hue that shames the gold's;
When each hawthorn-hedge, in blow,
Seems a wreath of summer snow;
When the azure river glides
Through flowers that fringe its sides,
And, crowding rich and rife,
Drink thence exulting life;—
O! I would not vanish then
From the world of living men!
In the sweet spring-time,
When all fair things have birth
In our Northland clime!
When the forest's song is new;
When the violet blooms in dew;
When the living woods are seen
In their first and freshest green;
When the laughing mead unfolds
A hue that shames the gold's;
281
Seems a wreath of summer snow;
When the azure river glides
Through flowers that fringe its sides,
And, crowding rich and rife,
Drink thence exulting life;—
O! I would not vanish then
From the world of living men!
I know that, after death,
The Soul shall draw her breath
In a purer, finer air,
And 'mid scenes surpassing fair;
But I feel—and be it said
Not profanely!—might I tread
The vales of Heaven, e'en then
I should dream of earth again!
So deep, here, the love-trace
Of Nature and of Place,
That my musings would come back
To their old and hallowed track,
Leave the pure life-waters there
For the Beaumont and the Aire!
For beautiful is earth
In the sweet spring-time,
When all fair things have birth
In our Northland clime!
The Soul shall draw her breath
In a purer, finer air,
And 'mid scenes surpassing fair;
But I feel—and be it said
Not profanely!—might I tread
The vales of Heaven, e'en then
I should dream of earth again!
So deep, here, the love-trace
Of Nature and of Place,
That my musings would come back
To their old and hallowed track,
Leave the pure life-waters there
For the Beaumont and the Aire!
For beautiful is earth
In the sweet spring-time,
When all fair things have birth
In our Northland clime!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |