 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
119
THE YEAR IS GONE!
Where art thou, O lost Year?
I tread upon the scattered leaves,
The way is drear, my lone heart grieves.
I see thy traces everywhere;
These leaves once decked thy golden hair:
I find thy playthings here;
But oh! thou art not near.
I tread upon the scattered leaves,
The way is drear, my lone heart grieves.
I see thy traces everywhere;
These leaves once decked thy golden hair:
I find thy playthings here;
But oh! thou art not near.
The bright and golden grain—
Men have it all long garnered in.
Here spreads the frosted stubble, thin,
O'er the wide fields whereon it stood,
Where thou didst trip, in playful mood,
Bringing the sun or rain.
I seek for thee in vain.
Men have it all long garnered in.
Here spreads the frosted stubble, thin,
O'er the wide fields whereon it stood,
Where thou didst trip, in playful mood,
Bringing the sun or rain.
I seek for thee in vain.
Is this thy merry brook,
Whose gurgling used to please thine ear?
Oh! my once happy, thoughtless Year!
Beneath its solid, icy roof,
How silent, now, it bides aloof!
Lost is the frolic look
That from thy smile it took.
Whose gurgling used to please thine ear?
Oh! my once happy, thoughtless Year!
120
How silent, now, it bides aloof!
Lost is the frolic look
That from thy smile it took.
Beneath the forest tall
No more I feel thy glowing breath,
Or watch the calm, too bright for death,
When thou at noon didst fall asleep,
And, what thy hands could no more keep,
Blossom or nut, would fall,
Sweet Year! In vain I call.
No more I feel thy glowing breath,
Or watch the calm, too bright for death,
When thou at noon didst fall asleep,
And, what thy hands could no more keep,
Blossom or nut, would fall,
Sweet Year! In vain I call.
Thy pretty birds are mute,
That sang with all their little might
And flashed their bright wings in the light:
And children, fairer still than they,
Gambol no longer at their play:
No more the busy foot
Tramples the soft grass-root.
That sang with all their little might
And flashed their bright wings in the light:
And children, fairer still than they,
Gambol no longer at their play:
No more the busy foot
Tramples the soft grass-root.
Thou wert no more the same
When once that hectic flush of red
Too surely on thy fair cheek spread;
And, by and by, in silent fold,
The white robes closed, all still and cold,
And when I called thy name,
No voice or answer came.
When once that hectic flush of red
Too surely on thy fair cheek spread;
And, by and by, in silent fold,
The white robes closed, all still and cold,
121
No voice or answer came.
And there was deeper bond
Than such as various season weaves,
Of sunny flowers, or buds, or leaves:
I mourn for many a hope and thought
That by thy ministry were brought
Out of the world beyond:
These made my poor heart fond.
Than such as various season weaves,
Of sunny flowers, or buds, or leaves:
I mourn for many a hope and thought
That by thy ministry were brought
Out of the world beyond:
These made my poor heart fond.
And I have wrought with thee,
In pleasant hours, at many a net,
Of hues, as when the sun doth set.
We stretched the strands out very wide,
But each too soon was thrust aside:
New schemes thou broughtest me
Of what could never be.
In pleasant hours, at many a net,
Of hues, as when the sun doth set.
We stretched the strands out very wide,
But each too soon was thrust aside:
New schemes thou broughtest me
Of what could never be.
Thou knewest all I willed;
How many purposes I made:
Into thine ear the whole was said,
How I would rue the ill deeds done,
How guilty temptings I would shun.
Now thy warm life is chilled,
What, of these plans, fulfilled!
How many purposes I made:
Into thine ear the whole was said,
How I would rue the ill deeds done,
How guilty temptings I would shun.
Now thy warm life is chilled,
What, of these plans, fulfilled!
122
O lost Year, be thou past!
Too soon the truant heart and will
All this clear sky of life would fill
With that unprofitable haze,
That makes half nights of working days.
Forward my way is cast;
I rest not till the last.
Too soon the truant heart and will
All this clear sky of life would fill
With that unprofitable haze,
That makes half nights of working days.
Forward my way is cast;
I rest not till the last.
1849.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |