 | The Baroness of New York |  |
147
XI.
And here we leave the lovers. He,
Sad-browed and sorrowful. And she?
No one might guess. Why, you might gaze
And gaze upon her great, proud face,
So sphynx-like fixed for all the days,
And read not any sign or trace
Of love or faith, or hope or hate,
Or aught save fixedness, as fate.
Sad-browed and sorrowful. And she?
No one might guess. Why, you might gaze
And gaze upon her great, proud face,
So sphynx-like fixed for all the days,
And read not any sign or trace
Of love or faith, or hope or hate,
Or aught save fixedness, as fate.
Sometimes the best of any town
Is quite outside the town; the trees,
The park, the wide, wild rim of seas,
The glade, the sloping hill, the down;
Indeed, the dens of brick and clay,
And dirty cobble stones, dismay
A soul untrained through life to these.
Is quite outside the town; the trees,
The park, the wide, wild rim of seas,
The glade, the sloping hill, the down;
Indeed, the dens of brick and clay,
And dirty cobble stones, dismay
A soul untrained through life to these.
And so, ofttime, the brightest side
Of some great house, my gay young friend,
Is its outside. The wounded pride,
The strife, the struggle to the end,
That high-set mention, may be won,
The doubtful triumph, sure defeat,
The slow advance, the swift retreat,
The broken hearts, the souls undone—
Outside! outside, in God's glad sun!
Of some great house, my gay young friend,
Is its outside. The wounded pride,
The strife, the struggle to the end,
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The doubtful triumph, sure defeat,
The slow advance, the swift retreat,
The broken hearts, the souls undone—
Outside! outside, in God's glad sun!
When Sabbath blesses us with rest,
When beauteous woman is most blest,
When church-blessed people crowd and teem,
And tide and flow like some strong stream,
All still as spirits in a dream—
When beauteous woman is most blest,
When church-blessed people crowd and teem,
And tide and flow like some strong stream,
All still as spirits in a dream—
When spring-time sunbeams strike us, bold
And strong as toppled beams of gold;
When spires uplift and point us to
The starry steeps of God, and through
All peril; when we rise and pour
On tranquil Sundays from church door—
And strong as toppled beams of gold;
When spires uplift and point us to
The starry steeps of God, and through
All peril; when we rise and pour
On tranquil Sundays from church door—
When white-winged ships drift dreamily,
Or shoot like shuttles fro and to,
Across great streets that stretch far down
To seas on either side the town;
When skies are bound in spotless blue;
When ships tend seaward ceaselessly,
Sail forth to pure white polar seas,
Bring fruit from farthest Sicilies,
Bring pinky coral from south deeps,
Where everlasting silence sleeps,
To this new Venice of the sea;
O then go forth, proud-souled, and view
This glorious, full, Fifth Avenue!
Or shoot like shuttles fro and to,
Across great streets that stretch far down
To seas on either side the town;
When skies are bound in spotless blue;
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Sail forth to pure white polar seas,
Bring fruit from farthest Sicilies,
Bring pinky coral from south deeps,
Where everlasting silence sleeps,
To this new Venice of the sea;
O then go forth, proud-souled, and view
This glorious, full, Fifth Avenue!
And go exulting, proud, and true,
To this great land that nurtured you;
Yea, go full-hearted, loving, fond,
And loyal to your land! for you
May range all peopled regions through,
May seek all cities, far or near,
Beyond the seas and still beyond,
Yet you shall never find one peer
To this proud scene so near your home.
The crowded carnival of Rome,
That Saturn crowns each vernal year,
Knows nothing in its proudest day
Like this magnificent display
Of men and maidens moving through
This populous, proud Avenue.
Yea, I have tracked the hemispheres,
Have touched on fairest land that lies
This side the gates of Paradise;
Have ranged the universe for years,
Have read the book of beauty through
From title-leaf to colophon,
While pleasure turned the leaves.
Yet on
This island bank your bark should strand,
Your feet should cleave this solid land;
That you may live, alone to view
The glory of this Avenue.
To this great land that nurtured you;
Yea, go full-hearted, loving, fond,
And loyal to your land! for you
May range all peopled regions through,
May seek all cities, far or near,
Beyond the seas and still beyond,
Yet you shall never find one peer
To this proud scene so near your home.
The crowded carnival of Rome,
That Saturn crowns each vernal year,
Knows nothing in its proudest day
Like this magnificent display
Of men and maidens moving through
This populous, proud Avenue.
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Have touched on fairest land that lies
This side the gates of Paradise;
Have ranged the universe for years,
Have read the book of beauty through
From title-leaf to colophon,
While pleasure turned the leaves.
Yet on
This island bank your bark should strand,
Your feet should cleave this solid land;
That you may live, alone to view
The glory of this Avenue.
Go ye, and wander if you will,
For grace in far-off countries. Still,
When every foreign land is trod,
I know ye will return, and you
Will lift your hands, protesting there
Was never yet a scene so fair
This side the golden gates of God.
For grace in far-off countries. Still,
When every foreign land is trod,
I know ye will return, and you
Will lift your hands, protesting there
Was never yet a scene so fair
This side the golden gates of God.
Such women! And such waists! Such arms!
Such full development of charms!
Such matchless, moving loveliness!
Such sweeping grace! Such gorgeous dress!
Such eyes! Such little feet! and such—
Such everything! It is too much!
It drives one wild to sit and write
Of so much beauty, when one might—
But never mind. Go thou and view
The glory of the Avenue!
Such full development of charms!
Such matchless, moving loveliness!
Such sweeping grace! Such gorgeous dress!
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Such everything! It is too much!
It drives one wild to sit and write
Of so much beauty, when one might—
But never mind. Go thou and view
The glory of the Avenue!
How peaceful and how perfect all!
A rustle as of rustling trees
When crisp-curled autumn leaflets fall;
A murmur like the lull of bees
In Californian flower field
On purple afternoons.
You hear
No lifted voice affront the ear,
Or sword-like tongue clang battle-shield.
Columbia's low-voiced women call,
Or answer back to ardent loves,
Like cooing, changeful-throated doves,
On far, faint, wooded waterfall;
And this you hear, and that is all.
A rustle as of rustling trees
When crisp-curled autumn leaflets fall;
A murmur like the lull of bees
In Californian flower field
On purple afternoons.
You hear
No lifted voice affront the ear,
Or sword-like tongue clang battle-shield.
Columbia's low-voiced women call,
Or answer back to ardent loves,
Like cooing, changeful-throated doves,
On far, faint, wooded waterfall;
And this you hear, and that is all.
What long, long, endless, lovely lines
Of moving beauty reaching down
Like benedictions through the town!
What pride! What glory mantles all!
What gorgeous garmenting of tall,
Majestic Junos! Beauty shines
From every speaking paving-stone
As beauty never spake or shone.
Of moving beauty reaching down
Like benedictions through the town!
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What gorgeous garmenting of tall,
Majestic Junos! Beauty shines
From every speaking paving-stone
As beauty never spake or shone.
What rainbow-colors! Lines of clothes!
Not clothes-lines! No! but now suppose,
Sartor Resartus, quaint Carlisle,
Stands looking up this many a mile
Of moving beauty; and suppose
He puts his finger to his nose,
And, smiling, with that cynic smile,
Divests them there of all their clothes?
Not clothes-lines! No! but now suppose,
Sartor Resartus, quaint Carlisle,
Stands looking up this many a mile
Of moving beauty; and suppose
He puts his finger to his nose,
And, smiling, with that cynic smile,
Divests them there of all their clothes?
| The Baroness of New York | |