The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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“I would not live always.”—B. B. Thatcher.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
“I would not live always.”—B. B. Thatcher.
Earth is the spirit's rayless cell;
But then, as a bird soars home to the shade
Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,
In bonds no more to dwell;—
But then, as a bird soars home to the shade
Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,
In bonds no more to dwell;—
So will its weary wing
Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done,
And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun,
And the soft, fresh gales of spring.
Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done,
And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun,
And the soft, fresh gales of spring.
O, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the “hoary head,”
When it enters the eve of years.
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the “hoary head,”
When it enters the eve of years.
Nor dearer, mid the foam
Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,
To him that weeps for home.
Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,
To him that weeps for home.
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Wings, like a dove, to fly!—
The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;—
O, for its home in the upper Life!
When, when will Death draw nigh!
The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;—
O, for its home in the upper Life!
When, when will Death draw nigh!
| The American common-place book of poetry | |