Days and Hours :: :: University of Virginia Library

At noonday set me under mountain trees,
Where I may quaff the breezes from the seas,
And hear the woodlands surge and sway—and feel
My fainting life renew'd from head to heel,
And see the shadows o'er the champaign stream,
And hear the Ocean murmuring like a dream.

II

And for my pastime I will take the scroll
Of some great Bard—and, if he stir my soul,
I will arise and look across the land
To where the plumed waves craze upon the strand,
And the dark waters throb with silent star
And lightningflash, like Battle seen from far.

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III

Over the valley I will cast mine eyes,
O'er dale, and stream, to where the City lies
In midday splendor, all its length afire
With dizzy beams that dart from dome and spire,
The while its torrent voices upward throng
Thro' the still glory soften'd to a song.

IV

Or when the fervent day begins to drowse
Past noontide, set me under garden boughs,
Before mine eyes a nook of golden flowers,
And the faint spirit of the sunny hours
A-dying at my feet in odorous sighs,
And one sweet child with laughter-lighted eyes.

V

And when the Hours have well nigh dropt asleep,
Let mighty gusts, strong as a cataract, sweep
Into the valleys, tossing on their flood
The blossom locks of orchard, heath, and wood,
And fling live spirit into the faint Day,
Like a glad voice to one who dies away.

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VI

And sometimes let a Cloud's great brows of thunder,
Lifting me from my page with thrill of wonder,
Pour down cool breath; and, frowning into gloom
The slope lawns, fill my nostrils with perfume,
Rapt from the Forest's heart ambrosial,
Where gleam fresh dews that hasten not to fall.

VII

And let me hear from woody aisles aloof
The culver's lovechant underneath a roof
Of woven green; and see thro' opening trees
The golden harvest laughing from the leas;
And let quaint moths, soft-plumed Summerlings,
Shadow my page with their emblazoned wings.

VIII

And sometimes let a ringing hoof go by
Echoing among the upland forestry,
And hills that girdle round my Garden bower;
And let a fountain with its singing shower
Dash o'er my temples its pale dews, and fling
On Summer's flashing eyes the veil of Spring.

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IX

Let whispering poplars, or a warbling bird
Sometimes amid the slumberous hush be heard,
Or silver tongues of children at their play,
Or household tongues in converse; or a lay
Full-voiced trance me deep, while I unroll
Future and Past—Life, Death, and my own Soul.