 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
TO SARAH
The bird of land when far at sea
Looks wishful toward the shore;
The skiff, its oars pulls fearfully
When night the sky is o'er.
Looks wishful toward the shore;
The skiff, its oars pulls fearfully
When night the sky is o'er.
The wanderer in a distant clime,
Will think oft of his cot,
Remembering where the matin chime
Pealed out, “Forget me not.”
Will think oft of his cot,
Remembering where the matin chime
Pealed out, “Forget me not.”
The last lone one whom madness binds,
Within its burning chain,
Sometimes will feel sweet reason winds
Blow o'er its scorched plain.
Within its burning chain,
Sometimes will feel sweet reason winds
Blow o'er its scorched plain.
The flower, the sun, the garnished skies
Their seasons ever keep—
Thus my relentless destinies
Have doomed me still to weep.
Their seasons ever keep—
Thus my relentless destinies
Have doomed me still to weep.
For thou and bliss are still away,
And clouds make life a night—
There comes no hope with its pale ray
To give me thee and light.
And clouds make life a night—
There comes no hope with its pale ray
To give me thee and light.
Dearest! when comes the stilly eve
When stars are quivering high
Let fancy this dear vision weave
That thine own love is nigh.
When stars are quivering high
Let fancy this dear vision weave
That thine own love is nigh.
Let the soft breeze as it sweeps on,
Reveal this truth to thee;
That, though thou art awhile alone,
Alone thou canst not be—
Reveal this truth to thee;
That, though thou art awhile alone,
Alone thou canst not be—
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For the heart that feels, and the tear that steals,
Though now in distance hidden—
In the twilight hour, in love's own bower,
Are with thee though unbidden.
Though now in distance hidden—
In the twilight hour, in love's own bower,
Are with thee though unbidden.
Then blame not him whom fate has riven
From thee a passing while,
But weep that he has lost a heaven
When absent from thy smile.
From thee a passing while,
But weep that he has lost a heaven
When absent from thy smile.
Boston Statesman, June 2, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |