 | Poems |  |
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PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.
Ye whose light fingers wander through the strings,
Seeking high matter for your melodies,
And finding none; oh! leave the withered Past,
And turn ye to the time that liveth now.
Will ye be looking in the fallen leaves
For the green beauty of the parted Spring?
Or will ye seek in last year's naked nest
The speckled eggs it cradled?—Be ye wise!
Gather from all the golden flower-cups
That blossom even now; the winter-tide
Cometh to thee and them, and shall it find
Thy sunshine slighted, and thy summer gone,
And for the after-bees no honey hived?
Seeking high matter for your melodies,
And finding none; oh! leave the withered Past,
And turn ye to the time that liveth now.
Will ye be looking in the fallen leaves
For the green beauty of the parted Spring?
Or will ye seek in last year's naked nest
The speckled eggs it cradled?—Be ye wise!
Gather from all the golden flower-cups
That blossom even now; the winter-tide
Cometh to thee and them, and shall it find
Thy sunshine slighted, and thy summer gone,
And for the after-bees no honey hived?
Time hath three daughters; one with drooping head
Sits in the shadow she herself doth cast
Weaving a winding-sheet, and one hath charge
Of marriage-robes and wedding coronals,
Wherein is heart's-ease and the hemlock-bud;
And one, the last, doth with averted face
And song that shapeth not itself in words,
Spin the small wrapper and the tiny band
To swathe the yet unbreathing:—of the three
One is not for thee, one thou seest not,
And one is all thine own—a willing bride.
Cleave to her like a lover; she will tell
Things that shall sink into thy soul, and come
Out of the harp-string like a voice that lives
And holds the hearer with its solemn tones.
Sits in the shadow she herself doth cast
124
Of marriage-robes and wedding coronals,
Wherein is heart's-ease and the hemlock-bud;
And one, the last, doth with averted face
And song that shapeth not itself in words,
Spin the small wrapper and the tiny band
To swathe the yet unbreathing:—of the three
One is not for thee, one thou seest not,
And one is all thine own—a willing bride.
Cleave to her like a lover; she will tell
Things that shall sink into thy soul, and come
Out of the harp-string like a voice that lives
And holds the hearer with its solemn tones.
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